GIFT OF 
 J.B. Peixotto 
 

 s7 
 
 3 
 
 
 17 
 
SELECT 
 
 AMERICAN CLASSICS 
 
 BEING SELECTIONS FROM 
 
 IRVING'S SKETCH BOOK, WEBSTER'S ORATIONS AND EMERSON'S ESSAYS 
 AS PUBLISHED IN THE ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS. 
 
 NEW YORK : CINCINNATI I CHICAGO 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1896, by 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY, 
 
 s. A. c. 
 
 w. P. 3 
 
ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 TEN SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE SKETCH-BOOK 
 
 BY 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 NEW YORK : CINCINNATI : CHICAGO 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1892, by 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
 IRV.'S SK.-BK. 
 w. p. 8 
 
 Published Dy permission of Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, the 
 publishers of the complete and authorized editions of Irving's works. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING, the eighth and youngest son of William 
 and Sarah Irving, was born in a house on William Street, in New 
 York City, April 3, 1783. His father was a descendant of an 
 old Orkney family, and his mother was a native of Falmouth, 
 England. Young Washington began his school days at the age 
 of four. At the age of sixteen his school days were over, and 
 he began the study of law. Though his education was of a 
 rudimentary and incomplete character, consisting of a smatter- 
 ing of Latin, music, and the ordinary English branches, he gave 
 early signs of a natural avidity for reading, and of a power of rap- 
 idly assimilating what he read. Sinbad, Robinson Crusoe, and 
 Gulliver made a deep impression on his young mind. His 
 early fondness for romance showed itself in many ways, and the 
 theater in John Street possessed for him a seductive charm, to 
 which he succumbed as often as he could steal away from home ; 
 for his father, of the stern ways and habits of the Scotch Cove- 
 nanter, looked upon theaters with hearty disfavor. In 1802 he 
 entered the law office of Josiah Ogden Hoffman, and, together 
 with his " Blackstone," he read general literature voraciously. 
 About this time his health began to fail, and he made frequent 
 trips up the Hudson and the Mohawk, to Ogdensburg, Montreal, 
 Albany, Schenectady, and Saratoga. While in Judge Hoffman's 
 
 3 
 
 869045 
 
4 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 office, he offset the tedium of his studies by writing, over the 
 name of " Jonathan Oldstyle," a series of papers for the " Morn- 
 ing Chronicle," a newspaper planned on the style of the " Spec- 
 tator " and " Tatler." His health continuing poor, in May he 
 went to Europe, spent six weeks in Bordeaux, studying the lan- 
 guage, seeing life, and enlarging the scope of his powers of obser- 
 vation. Then he visited the Mediterranean, gathering more ma- 
 terial, seeing new cities, studying the strong characters he met. 
 Sicily, Genoa, Naples, Rome, came beneath his eye, and he saw 
 Nelson's fleet spreading its sails for Trafalgar. At Rome a criti- 
 cal epoch in his life occurred. The atmosphere of music, of 
 which he was passionately fond, of art, and especially painting, 
 all tended to work powerfully on the artistic side of his nature, 
 and appealed strongly to the poetic temperament, that, in spite 
 of his keen sense of humor, was deep within him. At this time, 
 and in this atmosphere, he met Washington Allston, the artist, 
 and was almost persuaded by him to take up art ; but Irving, 
 convinced that his inclination was more the effect of his present 
 surroundings than of a deep latent artistic power within himself, 
 refrained, and continued his journey, seeking new faces and new 
 scenes. Irving was essentially a traveler. He saw at a glance 
 all those peculiarities and oddities of form and character that at- 
 tract and amuse ; and he had a happy way of putting up with in- 
 conveniences, getting the best out of everything that came before 
 his notice, and entering thoroughly into the spirit of his surround- 
 ings. Switzerland, the Netherlands, Paris, London, were in turn 
 visited. In London he saw John Kemble, Cooke, and Mrs. Sid- 
 dons. In February, 1806, he returned to this country, and was 
 admitted to the bar, but he never practiced law. He soon en- 
 gaged, with his brother William and James K. Paulding, in the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 5 
 
 issue (1807) of a humorously satirical semi-monthly periodical 
 called " Salmagundi, or the Whim- Whams and Opinions of Laun- 
 celot Langstaff, Esq., and Others." It was quite successful in its 
 local hits, and in it Irving first awoke to a conception of his 
 power. In 1809 appeared the droll "History of New York by 
 Diedrich Knickerbocker. From the Beginning of the World to 
 the End of the Dutch Dynasty." It won for its author instant 
 fame. The book was cleverly advertised before it appeared, the 
 newspapers containing descriptions of a gentleman named Died- 
 rich Knickerbocker, who was said to have mysteriously disap- 
 peared without paying his board bill, but leaving behind him a 
 curious manuscript which his creditor was about to publish. Just 
 before the book was completed, Irving underwent the great an- 
 guish of his life. The second daughter of Judge Hoffman, Ma- 
 tilda, with whom he was in love, died in her eighteenth year. 
 He remained true to her memory, and never married. The 
 " Knickerbocker History " was highly praised by Scott, who rec- 
 ognized its merit, and detected in it strong resemblances to the 
 style of Swift. The work was begun by Washington and his 
 brother Peter as a travesty on Dr. Samuel Mitchell's " Handbook 
 of New York;" but Peter sailed for Europe when five chapters 
 only were completed, and left Washington to finish the work. 
 The next year (1810) Washington became a silent partner, with 
 a fifth interest, in the commercial house established in New York 
 and Liverpool by his brothers, and (1813-14) was editorially 
 connected with the " Analectic Magazine " of Philadelphia, and 
 contributed a number of biographical sketches of American naval 
 commanders. In 1814 he served four months as aide-de-camp 
 and military secretary to Gov. Tompkins, and in 1815 sailed 
 again for Europe. About this time financial troubles began to 
 
6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 gather over the business house ; and Washington, on arriving in 
 England, found his brother Peter ill, and thus considerable work 
 of a commercial nature devolved upon him. Yet in the midst of 
 business cares he found time for quiet rovings through Warwick- 
 shire and other parts of England, gathering material for " The 
 Sketch-Book," and mingling in society with the literary men of 
 the time. But the business troubles of the house increased, and 
 1816 and 1817 were anxious years. It was in the latter year 
 that he met Scott in his home at Abbotsford, and felt the charm 
 of his family circle. In 1818 the house went into bankruptcy. 
 Irving, declining a clerkship in the Navy Department, and defer- 
 ring an editorship which Scott held out to him, preferred to fol- 
 low his own literary pursuits, and brought out "The Sketch- 
 Book " (1819) in America. It was unqualifiedly successful ; and 
 Irving, who had heretofore been held as the ornamental feature 
 of the family, became its financial stay, graciously returning the 
 kind favors of earlier days. Irving offered " The Sketch-Book " 
 to Murray & Constable for republication ; but they declined it, 
 in spite of Scott's recommendation. Irving then started to pub- 
 lish it himself, but, his publisher failing, its issue was stopped. 
 Scott induced Murray to buy it for two hundred pounds, which 
 was doubled on the success of the book. In 1820 Irving was in 
 Paris, and in 1821 wrote " Bracebridge Hall," bringing it out in 
 
 1822. This year he was in Dresden. He returned to Paris in 
 
 1823, and the next year brought out " Tales of a Traveller." It 
 was severely criticised. The year 1826 found him in Madrid as 
 attache of the legation commissioned by A. H. Everett, United 
 States minister to Spain, to translate various documents relating 
 to Columbus, collected by Navarrete ; and from this work Irving 
 produced (1828) the " History of the Life and Voyages of Chris- 
 
INTRODUCTION. ^ 
 
 topher Columbus." For it he got three thousand guineas, and 
 the fifty-guinea medal offered by George IV. for historical com- 
 position. A pleasant sojourn in the south of Spain gave him 
 further insight into Spanish lore, and in 1829 the " Chronicles of 
 the Conquest of Granada " was given to the public. In the quiet 
 seclusion of the Alhambra, the same year, he wove a portion of 
 that graceful fabric which he gave the world in 1832. While in 
 the Alhambra he received word of his appointment as secretary 
 to the legation at London, and, reluctantly accepting it, returned 
 there. In 1831 appeared his "Companions of Columbus," and 
 the same year he received from Oxford the degree of LL.D. The 
 next year he returned to New York, after a foreign sojourn of 
 seventeen years, and was welcomed with tremendous enthusiasm. 
 He bought Sunnyside, below Tarrytown on the Hudson, and 
 prepared to settle quietly down to literary work ; but the restless 
 spirit of travel he had imbibed abroad induced him to take a fly- 
 ing trip through the West before doing so, and the summer of 
 the same year found him with Commissioner Ellsworth, interested 
 in the removal of the Indian tribes across the Mississippi. The 
 literary outcome of this digression was the " Tour on the Prai- 
 ries," which came out in 1835. With it came also " Abbotsford " 
 and " Newstead Abbey," and the " Legends of the Conquest of 
 Spain," making up the "Crayon Miscellany." In 1836 came 
 "Astoria;" and from 1839 to 1841 he contributed articles for the 
 " Knickerbocker Magazine," which were afterward gathered into 
 "Wolfert's Roost" (1855). From 1842 to 1846 Irving was 
 United States minister to Spain. Returning to his home, he 
 spent the remaining years of his life at Sunnyside, engaged in lit- 
 erary work, chiefly the " Life of Mahomet " and the " Life of 
 Washington." The final volume of this last was completed only 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 three months before he died. He passed away at Sunny side, 
 Nov. 28, 1859. 
 
 Washington Irving was the first American who was admitted 
 by Englishmen on equal terms into the great republic of letters. 
 By him American literature was enriched in form and elegance, 
 and its scope enlarged. He opened the treasure-house of Span- 
 ish history and romance, and gave an impulse to historical and 
 biographical research. As an historian and biographer, his con- 
 clusions were carefully drawn, and just, and have stood the test 
 of time. 
 
 Possessed of a broad and genial nature, a rich poetic tempera- 
 ment, a fancy that was as nimble as it was sprightly, a facile and 
 ornate power of vivid and graphic description, and a pure and 
 graceful style that rivals that of Addison, he was the very prince 
 of story-tellers and the most fascinating of fireside companions. 
 His delicacy of touch was equal to the task of adding beauty to 
 the exquisite tracery of the Alhambra, and his refined imagina- 
 tion revivified the romantic legends of Granada, while his genial 
 humor created a cherished ancestry for his native city. With 
 such inimitable drollery did he place in succession upon his can- 
 vas the Dutch forefathers of New Amsterdam, that Diedrich 
 Knickerbocker, fleeing through the dormer-windowed streets of 
 New York, left behind him the legacy of a name as real and as 
 enduring as that of Peter Stuyvesant. 
 
 Yet it is in " The Sketch-Book," perhaps, more than in any 
 other of his works, that the qualities of style and mind which 
 have so characterized Washington Irving, and endeared him to 
 English-reading people, appear in their freshest, most varied 
 form, covering a wider range of humanity, bubbling over with a 
 humor that seems to have the inexhaustible spontaneity of a 
 
INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 spring. Here drollery, grace, pathos, grandeur, in turn touch the 
 heart and move the fancy. A broad, genial atmosphere per- 
 vades it, fresh and open as the blue sky, in which its characters 
 live, move, and have their being, drawn with a portraiture as real 
 as life, and with a gentle satire that has no trace of bitterness. 
 
 It is " The Sketch-Book " that affords such charming glimpses 
 of the good old English Christmas, and such graceful reflections, 
 under the shadow of the venerable Abbey ; while with its tatter- 
 demalion Rip Van Winkle, and its soft but timid-hearted peda- 
 gogue Ichabod Crane, it is " The Sketch-Book " which has given 
 to our noble Hudson the weird witchery of legend, charming as 
 the blue outline of the Catskills, and fascinating as the shades of 
 Sleepy Hollow. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF . . . .13 
 
 THE VOYAGE 16 
 
 t 
 CHRISTMAS . . . 23 
 
 THE STAGECOACH 30 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE . . .37 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY 50 
 
 CHRISTMAS DINNER , . 66 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY 80 
 
 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 94 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE 130 
 
 ii 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK; 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 
 
 ' ' / am of this mind -with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her 
 shel was turned eftsoones l into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole 
 to sit on ; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short 
 time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his man- 
 sion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would" 
 
 LYLY'S Euphues.a 
 
 I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing 
 strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I 
 began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign 
 parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent 
 alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town-crier. As 
 I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. 
 My holiday afternoons were spent in rambles about the surround- 
 ing country. I made myself familiar with all its places famous 
 in history or fable. I knew every spot where a murder or rob- 
 bery had been committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neigh- 
 boring villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge by 
 noting their habits and customs, and conversing with their sages 
 and great men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the 
 
 1 Speedily ; at once. 
 
 2 John Lyly, Lylie, Lyllie, or Lilly (1553-1609) was an English wit and 
 writer of Shakespeare's time. He wrote several plays, but is best known 
 from his novel Euphues, the style of which was intended to reform and purify 
 that of the English language. This book immediately became the rage in the 
 court circles, and for many years was the court standard 
 
 13 
 
14 IRVING. 
 
 summit of the most distant hill, from whence I stretched my eye 
 over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find 
 how vast a globe I inhabited. 
 
 This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books 
 of voyages and travels became my passion ; and, in devouring 
 their contend, T neglected the regular exercises of the school. 
 How wistfully would I wander about the pier-heads in fine 
 weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to distant climes ! 
 With what longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, 
 and waft myself in imagination to the ends of the earth! 
 
 Further reading and thinking, though they brought this vague 
 inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it 
 more decided. I visited various parts of my own country ; and, 
 had I been merely influenced by a love of fine scenery, I should 
 have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification, for on no 
 country have the charms of Nature been more prodigally lavished. 
 Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver ; her mountains, with 
 their bright aerial tints ; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility ; 
 her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her 
 boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verdure ; her broad, 
 deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean ; her track- 
 less forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence ; her 
 skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious 
 sunshine, no, never need an American look beyond his own 
 country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. 
 
 But Europe held forth all the charms of storied and poetical 
 association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, the re- 
 finements of highly cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of 
 ancient and local custom. My native country was full of youth- 
 ful promise : Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age. 
 Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, and every mold- 
 ering stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes 
 of renowned achievement ; to tread, as it were, in the footsteps 
 of antiquity ; to loiter about the ruined castle ; to meditate on 
 the falling tower; to escape, in short, from the commonplace 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 15 
 
 realities of the present, and lose myself among the shadowy 
 grandeurs of the past. 
 
 I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great men 
 of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in America : not 
 a city but has an ample share of them. I have mingled among 
 them in my time, and been almost withered by the shade into 
 which they cast me ; for there is nothing so baleful to a small 
 man as the shade of a great one, particularly the great man of a 
 city. But I was anxious to see the great men of Europe ; for I 
 had read in the works of various philosophers, that all animals 
 degenerated in America, and man among the number. A great 
 man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as superior to a 
 great man of America as a peak of the Alps to a highland of the 
 Hudson; and in this idea I was confirmed by observing the 
 comparative importance and swelling magnitude of many English 
 travelers among us, who, I was assured, were very little people 
 in their own country. I will visit this land of wonders, thought 
 I, and see the gigantic race from which I am degenerated. 
 
 It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving pas- 
 sion gratified. ^ I have wandered through different countries, and 
 witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that 
 I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher, but rather 
 with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of the pictur- 
 esque stroll from the window of one print-shop to another; 
 caught sometimes by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by 
 the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of 
 landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pen- 
 cil in hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, 
 I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of my 
 friends. When, however, I look over the hints and memoran- 
 dums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost fails 
 me at finding how my idle humor has led me aside from the great 
 objects studied by every regular traveler who would make a 
 book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky 
 landscape painter, who had traveled on the Continent, but, follow- 
 
1 6 IRVING. 
 
 ing the bent of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks 
 and corners and by-places. His sketch-book was accordingly 
 crowded with cottages and landscapes and obscure ruins ; but he 
 had neglected to paint St. Peter's 1 or the Colosseum, 2 the cas- 
 cade of Terni 3 or the Bay of Naples, 4 and had not a single gla- 
 cier or volcano in his whole collection. 
 
 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 "Ships, ships, I will descrie you 
 
 Amidst the main, 
 I will come and try you, 
 What you are protecting, 
 And projecting, 
 
 Whafs your end and aim. 
 One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
 Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
 A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading, 
 Hallo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go?" 
 
 OLD POEM. 
 
 TO an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to 
 make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence 
 of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind pe- 
 culiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The vast 
 space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank 
 
 ' 1 The Church of St. Peter in Rome is built upon the site of the religious 
 edifice erected in the time of Constantine (306), and consecrated as the " Ba- 
 silica of St. Peter." 
 
 2 A vast amphitheater in Rome, begun by the Emperor Vespasian, A. D. 72, 
 and dedicated A.D. 80. For nearly five hundred years it was the popular 
 resort of Rome. In the year 555 the whole of the city was overflowed by the 
 Tiber, and the lower part of the Colosseum was then destroyed. 
 
 3 A town of Italy in the province of Perugia, noted for the Falls of Velino, 
 which, for volume and beauty, take a very high place among European 
 waterfalls. 
 
 x, 4 No other place in the world combines within the same compass so much 
 natural beauty with so many objects of interest to the antiquary, the historian, 
 and the geologist, as the Bay of Naples. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. I^ 
 
 page in existence. There is no gradual transition, by which, as 
 in Europe, the features and population of one country blend 
 almost imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment 
 you lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you 
 step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the 
 bustle and novelties of another world. 
 
 In traveling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a con- 
 nected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the 
 story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separation. 
 We drag, it is true, "a lengthening chain" 1 at each remove of 
 our pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken : we can trace it back 
 link by link ; and we feel that the last of them still grapples us to 
 home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us 
 conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled 
 life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, 
 not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our homes, a 
 gulf subject to tempest and fear and uncertainty, that makes dis- 
 tance palpable, and return precarious. 
 
 Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last 
 blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, 
 it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its con- 
 cerns, and had time for meditation before I opened another. 
 That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all 
 that was most dear to me in life, what Vicissitudes might occur 
 in it, what changes might take place in me, before I should visit 
 it again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he 
 may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence, or when he 
 may return, or whether it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes 
 of his childhood? 
 
 I said that at sea all is vacancy. I should correct the expres- 
 
 1 Goldsmith's Traveller, line 10. Better explained in the first paragraph 
 of his third letter in Citizen of the World; i.e., " The farther I travel I feel 
 the pain of separation with stronger force : those ties that bind me to my na- 
 tive country and you, are still unbroken. By every move I only drag a 
 greater length of chain." 
 2 
 
1 8 IRVING. 
 
 sion. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself 
 in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but 
 then they are the wonders of the deep and of the air, and rather 
 tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to 
 loll over the quarter railing, or climb to the maintop, of a calm 
 day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a sum- 
 mer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering 
 above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people 
 them with a creation of my own ; to watch the gentle, undulat, 
 ing billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those 
 happy shores./ 
 
 There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe 
 with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the mon- 
 sters of the deep at their uncouth gambols, shoals of porpoises, 
 tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus, slowly heaving 
 his huge form above the surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting, 
 like a specter, through the blue waters. My imagination would 
 conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world be- 
 neath me, of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys, 
 of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations 
 of the earth, and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of 
 fishermen and sailors. 
 
 Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, 
 would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting 
 this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of 
 existence ! What a glorious monument of human invention, that 
 has thus triumphed over wind and wave ; has brought the ends 
 of the world into communion ; has established an interchange of 
 blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the lux- 
 uries of the south ; has diffused the light of knowledge and the 
 charities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound together those scat- 
 tered portions of the human race between which Nature seemed 
 to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 
 
 We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a dis- 
 tance. At sea everything that breaks the monotony of the sur- 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 19 
 
 rounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast 
 of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for there 
 were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew 
 had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being 
 washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the 
 name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evi- 
 dently drifted about for many months. Clusters of shell-fish had 
 fastened about it, and long seaweeds flaunted at its sides. But 
 where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been 
 over ; they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest ; 
 their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Si- 
 lence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no 
 one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted 
 after that ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside 
 of home! How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, 
 pored over the daily news to catch some casual intelligence of 
 this rover of the deep! How has expectation darkened into 
 anxiety, anxiety into dread, and dread into despair! Alas! not 
 one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. All that shall 
 ever be known, is that she sailed from her port, " and was never 
 heard of more." 
 
 The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal 
 anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when 
 the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild 
 and threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden 
 storms that will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a sum- 
 mer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp in the 
 cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale 
 of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short 
 one related by the captain. 
 
 "As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine stout ship across 
 the Banks of Newfoundland, 1 one of those heavy fogs that pre- 
 vail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead 
 
 1 The shoals to the southeast of the Island of Newfoundland, a great re- 
 sort for fishermen. 
 
20 IRVING. 
 
 even in the daytime ; but at night the weather was so thick that 
 we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the 
 ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch for- 
 ward to look out for fishing-smacks, which are accustomed to lie 
 at anchor on the Banks. The wind was blowing a smacking 
 breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. 
 Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of 'A sail ahead!' It was 
 scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small 
 schooner, at anchor, with her broadside toward us. The crew 
 were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck 
 her just amidships. The force, the size, and weight of our vessel 
 bore her down below the waves. We passed over her, and were 
 hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking be- 
 neath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches 
 rushing from her cabin. They just started from their beds, to be 
 swallowed, shrieking, by the waves. I heard their drowning cry 
 mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept 
 us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget that cry. It 
 was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under 
 such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to 
 the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for 
 several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and lis- 
 tened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors ; but all was 
 silent. We never saw or heard anything of them more." 
 
 I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine 
 fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was 
 lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen 
 sound of rushing waves and broken surges. Deep called unto 
 deep. At times the black volume of clouds overhead seemed 
 rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quivered along the 
 foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terri- 
 ble. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and 
 were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw 
 the ship staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it 
 seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 21 
 
 her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water. Her bow 
 was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an impend- 
 ing surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a 
 dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. 
 
 When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed me. 
 The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like fune- 
 real wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and 
 groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, 
 were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the side of 
 the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were 
 raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey. The 
 mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him 
 entrance. 
 
 A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, 
 soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to 
 resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at 
 sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail 
 swelled, and careering gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, 
 how gallant, she appears! How she seems to lord it over the 
 deep! I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, 
 for with me it is almost a continual reverie, but it is time to 
 get to shore. 
 
 It was a fine, sunny morning when the thrilling cry of " Land ! " 
 was given from the mast-head. None but those who have expe- 
 rienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations 
 which rush into an American's bosom when he first comes in 
 sight of Europe. There is a volume of associations with the very 
 name. It is the land of promise, teeming with everything of 
 which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years 
 have pondered. 
 
 From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all feverish 
 excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants 
 along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into 
 the Channel; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds, 
 all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mer- 
 
22 IRVING. 
 
 sey, 1 I reconnoitered the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt 
 with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and 
 green grass plots. I saw the moldering ruin of an abbey overrun 
 with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising from the 
 brow of a neighboring hill. All were characteristic of England. 
 
 The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was enabled 
 to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people, 
 some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants of friends or rela- 
 tives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was 
 consigned. I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. 
 His hands were thrust into his pockets. He was whistling 
 thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been 
 accorded him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary im- 
 portance. There were repeated cheerings and salutations inter- 
 changed between the shore and the ship as friends happened to 
 recognize each other. I particularly noticed one young woman 
 of humble dress but interesting demeanor. She was leaning for- 
 ward from among the crowd. Her eye hurried over the ship as 
 it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She 
 seemed disappointed and agitated, when I heard a faint voice 
 call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all 
 the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. 
 When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress 
 for him on deck in the shade ; but of late his illness had so 
 increased, that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed 
 a wish that he might see his wife before he died. He had been 
 helped on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning 
 against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so 
 ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not 
 recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on 
 his features. It read at once a whole volume of sorrow. She 
 clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing 
 them in silent agony. 
 
 1 A river in the county of Lancaster, England, which opens into a fine 
 estuary before reaching the sea at Liverpool. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 23 
 
 All now was hurry and bustle, the meetings of acquaint- 
 ances, the greetings of friends, the consultations of men of busi- 
 ness. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no 
 cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers, 
 but felt that I was a stranger in the land. 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 1 
 
 " But is old, old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair of his 
 good, gray, old head and beard left ? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot 
 have more of him" HUE AND CRY AFTER CHRISTMAS. 
 
 " A man might then behold 
 
 At Christmas, in each hall, 
 Good fires to curb the cold, 
 
 And meat for great and small. 
 The neighbors were friendly bidden, 
 
 And all had welcome true, 
 The poor from the gates were not chidden, 
 When this old cap was new." 
 
 OLD SoNG. a 
 
 THERE is nothing in England that exercises a more delight- 
 ful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of the 
 holiday customs and rural games of former times. They recall 
 the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, 
 when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed 
 it to be all that poets had painted it ; and they bring with them 
 the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps, with 
 equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, 
 social, and joyous than at present. I regret to say that they are 
 daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away 
 
 1 Christ and Mass (Anglo-Saxon Maessa, "a holy day or feast"), the 
 Christian festival of the Nativity. The festival properly begins on the even- 
 ing of Dec. 24, and lasts until Epiphany, Jan. 6, the whole being termed 
 "Christmas-tide." Dec. 2$, however, is the day more specifically observed. 
 
 2 From Guild Hall Giants, by Thomas Hood, a famous English humorist 
 and popular author (born in London, 1798; died, 1845). 
 
24 IRVING. 
 
 by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They re- 
 semble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture which 
 we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapi- 
 dated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and 
 alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherish- 
 ing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which 
 it has derived so many of its themes, as the ivy winds its rich 
 foliage about the Gothic arch and moldering tower, gratefully 
 repaying their support by clasping together their tottering re- 
 mains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. 
 
 Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens 
 the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone 
 of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, 
 and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. 
 The services of the church about this season are extremely tender 
 and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of 
 our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announce- 
 ment. They gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the 
 season of Advent, 1 until they break forth in full jubilee on the 
 morning that brought peace and good will to men. 2 I do not 
 know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to 
 hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas 
 anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with 
 triumphant harmony. 
 
 It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, 
 that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the 
 religion of peace and love, lias been made the season for gather- 
 ing together of family connections, and drawing closer again those 
 
 1 The season of moral and religious preparation, between St. Andrew's 
 Day (Nov. 30) and Christmas. Its observance dates from the fourth cen- 
 tury, and from the sixth century it has been recognized as the beginning of 
 the ecclesiastical year. At one time it was observed as strictly as Lent. 
 Advent fasting is now confined to the week in which Ember Day (Dec. 13) 
 occurs. 
 
 2 No war was declared, and no capital executions were permitted to take 
 place, during this season of good will. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 25 
 
 bands of kindred hearts which the cares and pleasures and sor- 
 rows of the world are continually operating to cast loose; of 
 calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in 
 life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about 
 the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to 
 grow young and loving again among the endearing mementos of 
 childhood. 
 
 There is something in the very season of the year that gives a 
 charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a 
 great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. 
 Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny 
 landscape, and we " live abroad and everywhere." The song of 
 the bird ; the murmur of the stream ; the breathing fragrance of 
 spring ; the soft voluptuousness of summer ; the golden pomp of 
 autumn ; earth, with its mantle of refreshing green ; and heaven, 
 with its deep, delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill 
 us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of 
 mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies 
 despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted 
 snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreari- 
 ness and desolation of the landscape, the short, gloomy days and 
 darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in 
 our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly 
 disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are 
 more concentrated, our friendly sympathies more aroused. We 
 feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are 
 brought more closely together by dependence on each other for 
 enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; and . we draw our pleas- 
 ures from the deep wells of living kindness, which lie in the quiet 
 recesses of our bosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish 
 forth the pure element of domestic felicity. 
 
 The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on enter- 
 ing the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening 
 fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine 
 through the room, and lights up each countenance into a kindlier 
 
26 IRVING. 
 
 welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into 
 a broader and more cordial smile, where is the shy glance of 
 love more sweetly eloquent, than by the winter fireside? and as 
 the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the 
 distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the 
 chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober 
 and sheltered security with which we look round upon the com- 
 fortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity? 
 
 The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits through- 
 out every class of society, have always been fond of those festi- 
 vals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of coun- 
 try life, and they were in former days particularly observant of 
 the religious and social rites of Christmas. 1 It is inspiring to 
 read even the dry details which some antiquaries have given of 
 the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complex aban- 
 donment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this festival 
 was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, and un- 
 lock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, 
 and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and 
 kindness. 2 The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded 
 with the harp and the Christmas carol, 3 and their ample boards 
 groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cot- 
 tage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay 4 
 
 1 Christmas Day, in the primitive Church, was always observed as the 
 sabbath day, and, like that, preceded by an eve or vigil : hence our present 
 Christmas Eve. 
 
 2 In farmhouses in the north of England the servants used to lay a large 
 knotty block for their Christmas fire, and during the time it lasted they 
 were entitled by custom to ale at their meals. 
 
 3 The well-known hymn, " Gloria in Excelsis," sung by the angels to the 
 shepherds at our Lord's nativity, was the earliest Christmas carol. We next 
 hear of one sung in the thirteenth century. It is in the British Museum, and 
 written in Anglo-Norman. 
 
 4 Since the days of the ancient Romans, this tree, a species of laurel, the 
 aromatic leaves of which are often found packed with figs, has at all times 
 been dedicated to all purposes of joyous commemoration ; and its branches 
 have been used as the emblems of peace, victory, and joy. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 27 
 
 and holly. 1 The cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lat- 
 tice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip 
 knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with 
 legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 
 
 One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the 
 havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It 
 has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs 
 of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into 
 a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic 
 surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have 
 entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, 2 are 
 become matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. 
 They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men en- 
 joyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously, times wild and 
 picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materi- 
 als, and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and 
 manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more 
 of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into 
 a broader but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those 
 deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm 
 bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened 
 and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its strong local peculi- 
 arities, its home-bred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The 
 traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospi- 
 talities, and lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baroni- 
 al castles and stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. 
 They comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, 
 and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted for the light, showy 
 saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 3 
 
 1 A plant of the genus Ilex. The common holly grows from twenty to 
 thirty feet in height. It is especially used about Christmas time to decorate 
 the inside of houses and churches, a relic, it is thought, of Druidism. 
 
 2 Second Henry IV., act iv. sc. 3. 
 
 3 In 1589 an order was issued to the gentlemen of Norfolk and Suffolk, 
 commanding them " to depart from London before Christmas, and to repair 
 to their country homes, there to keep hospitality amongst their neighbors." 
 
28 IRVING. 
 
 Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
 Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. 
 It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused 
 which holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The 
 preparations making on every side for the social board that is 
 again to unite friends and kindred ; the presents 1 of good cheer 
 passing and repassing, those tokens uf regard, and quickeners 
 of kind feelings ; the evergreens distributed about houses and 
 churches, emblems of peace and gladness, all these have the 
 most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling 
 benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, 2 rude as 
 may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter 
 night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been 
 awakened by them in that still and solemn hour " when deep sleep 
 falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and, 
 connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have 
 almost fancied them into another celestial choir, 3 announcing 
 peace and good will to mankind. How delightfully the imagina- 
 tion, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns every- 
 thing to melody and beauty! The very crowing of the cock, 
 heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country, " telling 
 the night watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the 
 common people to announce the approach of this sacred festival. 
 
 " Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
 Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
 The bird of dawning singeth all night long : 
 And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad ; 
 The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, 
 No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
 So hallowed and so gracious is the time."* 
 
 1 The practice of giving presents at Christmas was undoubtedly founded on 
 the Pagan custom of New-Year's gifts, with which in these times it is blended. 
 
 2 Or wayte, originally a kind of night-watchman who sounded the hours 
 of his watch, and guarded the streets ; later, a musician who sang out of 
 doors at Christmas time, going from house to house. 
 
 3 Luke ii. 13, 14. 4 Hamlet, act i. sc. I. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 29 
 
 Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, 
 and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom 
 can remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated 
 feeling, the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospi- 
 tality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. 
 The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond 
 the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home, fraught with the 
 fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit, 
 as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the 
 distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. 
 
 Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land, though for me no 
 social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, 
 nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the chreshold, 
 yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into my soul 
 from the happy looks of those around me. Surely happiness is 
 reflective, like the light of heaven ; and every countenance, bright 
 with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror 
 transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining be- 
 nevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from contemplat- 
 ing the felicity of his fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling 
 and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have 
 his moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but 
 he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the 
 charm of a merry Christmas. 
 
30 IRVING. 
 
 THE STAGECOACH. 
 
 " Omne bene 
 
 Sine pcend 
 
 Tempus est ludendi 
 
 Venit hora 
 
 Absque mord 
 
 Libros deponendi." * 
 
 OLD HOLIDAY SCHOOL SONG. 
 
 IN the preceding paper I have made some general observations 
 on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to 
 illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the 
 country ; in perusing which I would most courteously invite my 
 reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that 
 genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only 
 for amusement. .___ 
 
 In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, 2 I rode for a 
 long distance in one of the public coaches on the day preceding 
 Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with 
 passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the 
 mansions of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It 
 was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of 
 delicacies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the 
 coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the impending 
 feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys 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 
 themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the 
 
 1 Free translation : 
 
 " There's a time for hard playing, 
 
 With nothing to fear. 
 Drop books without delaying 
 The hour is here." 
 
 2 A northern county of England, famed for the beauty of its river scenery, 
 in which respect it is scarcely surpassed by Scotland. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 31 
 
 gigantic plans of pleasure of the little rogues, and the impractica- 
 ble feats they were to perform during their six-weeks' emancipation 
 from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They 
 were full of the anticipations of the meeting with the family and 
 household, down to the very cat and dog, and of the joy they 
 were to give their little sisters by the presents with which their 
 pockets were crammed ; but the meeting to which they seemed 
 to look forward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, 
 which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, pos- 
 sessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of Buceph- 
 alus. 1 How he could trot! How he could run ! And then such 
 leaps as he would take! There was not a hedge in the whole 
 country that he could not clear. 
 
 They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, 
 to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a 
 host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in 
 the whole world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than 
 ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore 
 his hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas 
 greens stuck in the buttonhole of his coat. He is always a per- 
 sonage full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so 
 during this season, having so many commissions to execute in 
 consequence of the great interchange of presents. And here, 
 perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untraveled readers to 
 have a sketch that may serve as a general representation of this 
 very numerous and important class of functionaries, who have a 
 dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and 
 prevalent throughout the fraternity ; so that, wherever an English 
 stagecoach-man may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of 
 any other craft or mystery. 
 
 He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with 
 red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every 
 vessel of the skin. He is swelled into jolly dimensions by fre- 
 quent potations of malt liquors ; and his bulk is still further in- 
 
 1 The horse of Alexander the Great. 
 
32 IRVING. 
 
 creased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a 
 cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a 
 broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat ; a huge roll of colored hand- 
 kerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted, and tucked in at the 
 bosom ; and has in summer time a large bouquet of flowers in 
 his buttonhole, 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 halfway up his legs. 
 
 All this costume is maintained with much precision. He has 
 a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials ; and, notwith- 
 standing the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still 
 discernible that neatness and propriety of person which is almost 
 inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and 
 consideration along the road ; has frequent conferences with the 
 village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust 
 and dependence ; and he seems to have a good understanding 
 with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives 
 where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins 
 with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of 
 the hostler, his duty being merely to drive them from one stage 
 to another. When off the box, 1 his hands are thrust in the pock- 
 ets of his great-coat, and he rolls about the inn yard with an air 
 of the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded 
 by an admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and 
 those nameless hangers-on that infest inns and taverns, and run 
 errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of batten- 
 ing 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 car- 
 riage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back, thrusts his 
 hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an em- 
 bryo coachey. 2 
 
 1 The place beneath the driver's seat on a coach : hence the seat itself. 
 
 2 Coachman ; stage-driver. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 33 
 
 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 stagecoach, however, 
 carries animation always with it, and puts the world in motion as 
 it whirls along. The horn, sounded a^,the entrance of a village, 
 produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends ; 
 some, with bundles and bandboxes, to secure places, and, in the 
 hurry of the moment, can hardly take leave of the group that 
 accompanies them. In the mean time the coachman has a world 
 of small commissions to execute : sometimes he delivers a hare 
 or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the 
 door of a public house ; and sometimes, with knowing leer and 
 words of sly import, hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing 
 housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux l from some rustic admirer. 
 As the coach rattles through the village, every one runs to the 
 window, and you have glances on every side of fresh country 
 faces and blooming giggling girls. At the corners are assembled 
 juntos 2 of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations 
 there for the important purpose of seeing company pass ; but the 
 sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing 
 of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, 
 with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by ; 
 the cyclops 3 Around the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and 
 suffer the iron to grow cool ; and the sooty specter, 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. 
 
 1 French, billet (" small letter ") and doux (" sweet ") : hence a love-letter. 
 
 2 Originally private councils ; here merely in the sense of gossiping 
 groups. 
 
 3 The cyclops, according to Greek mythology and story, were a race of 
 stalwart giants with one eye in their foreheads : hence their name (Greek ku- 
 klopes, kuklos, " a circle; " and ops, " eye"), the round-eyed. They forged 
 the thunderbolts of Zeus, the trident of Poseidon, and the helmet of Pluto. 
 The allusion is to their size and strength as gigantic blacksmiths. 
 
34 IRVING. 
 
 Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than 
 usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if every- 
 body was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and 
 other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in the vil- 
 lages. The grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were 
 thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly 
 about, putting their dwellings in* order; and the glossy branches 
 of holly, with their bright-red berries, began to appear at the 
 windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of 
 Christmas preparations : " Now capons 'and hens, besides tur- 
 keys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton must all die 
 for in twelve days a multitude of people will not be fed with a 
 little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among 
 pies and broth. Now or never must music be in tune, for the 
 youth must dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged 
 sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and 
 must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards 1 on Christ- 
 mas Eve. Great is the contention of holly and ivy, whether mas- 
 ter 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." 2 
 
 I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout 
 from my little traveling companions. They had been looking 
 out of the coach windows for the last few miles, recognizing 
 every tree and cottage as they approached home, and now there 
 was a general burst of joy. "There's John, and there's old 
 Carlo, and there's Bantam!" cried the happy little rogues, clap- 
 ping their hands. 
 
 At the end of a lane there was an old, sober-looking servant 
 
 1 Cards furnished one of the great resources at this season of long even- 
 ings and indoor amusements, as they appear also to have formed an express 
 feature of the Christmas entertainments of all ranks of people in old times. 
 We are told that the squire in Queen Anne's time " never played cards but 
 at Christmas, when the family pack was produced from the mantelpiece." 
 
 2 Stevenson, in Twelve Months (1661). 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 35 
 
 in livery, waiting for them. He was accompanied by a superan- 
 nuated 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 wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the 
 great object of interest. All wanted to mount at once ; and it 
 was with some difficulty that John arranged that they should ride 
 by turns, and the eldest should ride first. 
 
 Off they set at last, one on the pony, with the dog bounding 
 and barking before him ; and the others holding John's hands, 
 both talking at once, and overpowering him with questions about 
 home, and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a 
 feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy 
 predominated; for I was reminded of those days when, like 
 them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was 
 the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments af- 
 terwards to water the horses, and, on resuming our route, a turn 
 of the road brought us in sight of a neat country seat. I could 
 just 'distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in the 
 portico ; and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam,' Carlo, and 
 old John, trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out of the 
 coach window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a 
 grove of trees shut it from my sight. 
 
 In the evening we reached a village where I had determined 
 to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the 
 inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming 
 through a window. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth 
 time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad, honest 
 enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious 
 dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly pol- 
 ished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green. 
 Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from the 
 
36 IRVING. 
 
 ceiling; a smoke- jack 1 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. Travelers of 
 inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while 
 others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high- 
 backed oaken settles 2 beside the fire. Trim housemaids were 
 hurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of a fresh 
 bustling landlady, but still seizing an occasional moment to ex- 
 change a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group 
 round the fire. The scene completely realized Poor Robin's 3 
 humble idea of the comforts of mid- winter: 
 
 " Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
 To reverence Winter's silver hair, 
 A handsome hostess, merry host, 
 A pot of ale, and now 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 gentleman stepped out, and by the light of 
 the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought 
 I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye 
 caught mine. I was not mistaken : it was Frank Bracebridge, 
 a sprightly, good-humored young fellow, with whom I had once 
 traveled on the Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, 
 for the countenance of an old fellow-traveler always brings up 
 the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, 
 and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview 
 
 1 A machine, consisting of fly-wheels used to rotate a roasting-spit, and 
 operated by the current of rising air in a chimney. 
 
 2 Benches. 
 
 3 " Poor Robin " was the pseudonym of Robert Herrick, the poet, under 
 which he issued a series of almanacs (begun in 1661). The quotation is from 
 the almanac for 1684. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 37 
 
 at an inn was impossible ; and finding thaj: 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 Christ- 
 mas dinner at an inn," said he, " and I can assure you of a hearty 
 welcome in something of the old-fashioned style." His reason- 
 ing was cogent, and I must confess the preparation I had seen 
 for universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a 
 little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, 
 with his invitation : the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few 
 moments I was on my way to the family mansion of the Brace- 
 bridges. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 " Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
 Blase 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, weazles, rats, and ferrets : 
 From curfew-time 
 To the next prime." 
 
 CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 IT was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold. Our 
 chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground. The post-boy 
 smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses 
 were on a gallop. " He knows where he is going," said my com- 
 panion, laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for some of the 
 merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. 2 My father, you 
 
 1 William Cartwright (1611-43), an English poet and clergyman, was 
 very popular in his time, especially about Oxford, where he was educated, 
 and where he afterwards preached. 
 
 2 The servants had enlarged privileges during this season, not only by 
 custom, but by positive enactment ; and certain games, which at other peri- 
 ods they were prohibited from engaging in, were allowed at Christmas time. 
 
3 8 IRVING. 
 
 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 much of their time in town, and 
 fashion is carried so much into the country, that the strong, rich 
 peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished away. My 
 father, however, from early years, took honest Peacham l for his 
 text-book, instead of Chesterfield. 2 He determined in his own 
 mind that there was no condition more truly honorable and en- 
 viable 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 observances, and is deeply read in the writers, ancient 
 and modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed, his fa- 
 vorite 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 re- 
 grets sometimes that he had not been born a few centuries ear- 
 lier, when England was itself, and had its peculiar manners and 
 customs. As he lives at some distance from the main road, in 
 rather a lonely part of the country, without any rival gentry near 
 him, he has that most enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, 
 an opportunity of indulging the bent of his own humor without 
 molestation. Being representative of the oldest family in the 
 neighborhood, and a great part of the peasantry being his ten- 
 ants, he is much looked up to, and, in general, is known simply 
 by the appellation of ' The Squire,' a title which has been ac- 
 corded to the head of the family since time immemorial. I think 
 it best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, to 
 
 1 Henry Peacham (born in Hertfordshire, England, in the sixteenth cen- 
 tury) was the author of The Complete Gentleman (1622). 
 
 2 Chesterfield (Philip Dormer Stanhope) was an English courtier, orator, 
 and wit, renowned as a model of politeness, and criterion of taste. He was 
 born in London in 1694. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 39 
 
 prepare you for any little 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, mag- 
 nificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into 
 flourishes and flowers. The huge, square columns that supported 
 the gate were surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoining 
 was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir-trees, and almost 
 buried in shrubbery. 
 
 The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
 through the still, frosty air, and was answered by the distant 
 barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garri- 
 soned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As 
 the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a 
 little primitive dame, dressed very much in antique taste, with a 
 neat kerchief and stomacher, 1 and her silver hair peeping from 
 under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came courtesying forth, 
 with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her young master. 
 Her husband, it seemed, was up at the house keeping Christmas 
 Eve in the servants' hall. They could not do without him, as he 
 was the best hand at a song and story in the household. 
 
 My friend proposed that we should alight, and walk through 
 the park to the hall, which was at no great distance, while the 
 chaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble ave- 
 nue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon glit- 
 tered, 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 grad- 
 ually to shroud the landscape. 
 
 My companion looked round him with transport. " How 
 often," said he, "have I scampered up this avenue, on returning 
 
 1 The portion of a dress forming, generally, the lower part of the bodice, 
 extending down in front into the skirt, and usually overlapping it. 
 
40 IRVING. 
 
 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 hav- 
 ing us around him on family festivals. He used to direct and 
 superintend our games with the strictness that some parents do 
 the studies of their children. He was very particular that we 
 should play the old English games according to their original 
 form, and consulted old books for precedent and authority for 
 every ' merrie disport ; ' yet I assure you there never was pedantry 
 so delightful. It was the policy of the good old gentleman to 
 make his children feel that home was the happiest place in the 
 world ; and I value this delicious home feeling as one of the 
 choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 
 
 We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of all 
 sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs 
 of low degree," that, disturbed by the ringing of the porter's 
 bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, open-mouthed, 
 across the lawn. 
 
 " The little dogs and all, 
 Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me." 1 
 
 cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the bark 
 was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was sur- 
 rounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful 
 animals. 
 
 We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, 
 partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold 
 moonshine. It was an irregular building of some magnitude, 
 and seemed to be of the architecture of different periods. One 
 wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow- 
 windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the foli- 
 age of which the small, diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered 
 with the moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French 
 
 1 King Lear, act iii. sc. 6. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 41 
 
 taste of Charles II. 's 1 time, having been repaired and altered, as 
 my friend told me, by one of his ancestors, who returned with 
 that monarch at the Restoration. 2 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 careful 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 family style. The boasted imi- 
 tation of nature in modern gardening had sprung up with modern 
 republican notions, but did not suit a monarchical government : 
 it smacked of the leveling system. I could not help smiling at 
 this introduction of politics into gardening, though I expressed 
 some apprehension that I should find the old gentleman rather 
 intolerant in his creed. Frank assured me, however, that it was 
 almost the only instance in which he had ever heard his father 
 meddle with politics; and he believed 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 at- 
 tacked 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 build- 
 ing. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the servants' 
 hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, and even en- 
 couraged by the Squire, throughout the twelve days 3 of Christ- 
 mas, provided every thing was done conformably to ancient 
 
 1 Charles II. (born, 1630) was proclaimed king by the Scottish Parlia- 
 ment in 1649. He landed in Scotland in 1650, and was crowned the follow- 
 ing year. He marched into England against Cromwell, but was defeated at 
 Worcester in 1651. 
 
 2 In English history, the reestablishing of the monarchy with Charles II. 
 in 1660, and the period of his reign. 
 
 3 Referring to the period between Christmas and Epiphany, or from Dec. 
 2$ to Jan. 6. 
 
42 IRVING. 
 
 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 1 and Christmas candle were 
 regularly burnt ; and the mistletoe, with its white berries, hung 
 up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty house-maids. 2 
 
 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, ac- 
 companied 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 a physiognomist, with the advantage, like 
 myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular mix- 
 ture of whim and benevolence. 
 
 1 IRVING'S NOTE. 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 Christmas candles, but in the cottages the only light 
 was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule clog was to burn 
 all night : if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck. Herrick men- 
 tions it in one of his songs : 
 
 " Come, bring with a noise, 
 
 My merrie, merrie boyes, 
 The Christmas log to the firing ; 
 
 While my good dame, she 
 
 Bids ye all be free, 
 And drink to your hearts desiring." 
 
 The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in England, 
 particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions connected with 
 it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it is 
 burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand 
 remaining from the Yule clog is carefully put away to light the next year's 
 Christmas fire. 
 
 2 IRVING'S NOTE. The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and 
 kitchens at Christmas, and the young men have the privilege of kissing the 
 girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the berries 
 are all plucked., the privilege ceases. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 43 
 
 The family meeting was warm and affectionate. As the even- 
 ing was far advanced, the Squire would not permit us to change 
 our traveling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, 
 which was assembled in a large, old-fashioned hall. It was com- 
 posed of different branches of a numerous family connection, 
 where there were the usual proportions of old uncles and aunts, 
 comfortable married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming 
 country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding- 
 school hoidens. They were variously occupied, some at a 
 round game of cards ; others conversing around the fireplace ; at 
 one end of the hall was a group of the young folks, some nearly 
 grown up, others of a more tender and budding age, fully en- 
 grossed 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 endeavored to restore it to some- 
 thing 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 enormous log, glowing and blazing, and sending forth a 
 
44 IRVING. 
 
 vast volume of light and heat : this I understood was the Yule 
 clog, which the Squire was particular in having brought in and 
 illumined on a Christmas Eve, according to ancient custom. 
 
 It was really delightful to see the old Squire seated in his he- 
 reditary 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 pro- 
 tection. There is an emanation from the heart in genuine hos- 
 pitality 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 cava- 
 lier, before I found myself as much at home as if I had been one 
 of the family. 
 
 Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served 
 up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with 
 wax, and around which were several family portraits decorated 
 with holly and ivy. 1 Beside the accustomed lights, two great 
 wax tapers, called Christmas candles, 2 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, 3 in the retinue 
 
 1 Ivy was used not only as a vintner's sign, but also among the evergreens 
 at funerals. 
 
 2 Christmas was called the " Feast of Lights " in the Western or Latin 
 Church, because they used many lights or candles at the feast ; or, rather, 
 because Christ, the Light of all lights, that true Light, came into the world : 
 hence the Christmas candle. 
 
 3 By some it has been supposed, from the Oriental ingredients which en- 
 ter into its composition, to have a reference to the offerings made by the Wise 
 Men of the East ; and it was anciently the custom to make these pies of an 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 45 
 
 of the feast ; and finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and that 
 I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all 
 the warmth wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel 
 acquaintance. 
 
 The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humors 
 of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge always ad- 
 dressed with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He was a 
 tight, brisk little man, with the air of an arrant old bachelor. 
 His nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot ; his face, slightly 
 pitted with the small-pox, with a dry, perpetual bloom on it, like 
 a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great quickness 
 and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery of expression 
 that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, 
 dealing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, 
 and making infinite merriment by harpings upon old themes; 
 which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the family chronicles did 
 not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight during 
 supper to keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of stifled 
 laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of her mother, 
 who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part 
 of the company, who laughed at everything 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 imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman of his 
 hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket-handker- 
 chief ; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature that the 
 young folks were ready to die with laughing. 
 
 I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He 
 was an old bachelor, of a small, independent income, which, by 
 careful management, was sufficient for all his wants. He re- 
 volved through the family system like a vagrant comet in its 
 orbit ; sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes another 
 quite remote, as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive 
 
 oblong form, thereby representing the manger in which, on that occasion, 
 these sages found the infant Jesus. 
 
46 IRVING. 
 
 connections and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping, 
 buoyant disposition, always enjoying the present moment; and 
 his frequent change of scene and company prevented his acquir- 
 ing those rusty, unaccommodating habits, with which old bache- 
 lors are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete family 
 chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and intermar- 
 riages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a 
 great favorite with the old folks ; f he was a beau of all the elder 
 ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habitu- 
 ally 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 Brace- 
 bridge. Of late years he had resided almost entirely with the 
 Squire, to whom he had become a factotum, and whom he par- 
 ticularly delighted by jumping with his humor in respect to old 
 times, and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occa- 
 sion. We had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, 
 for no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and other 
 beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than Master Simon 
 was called on for a good old Christmas song. He bethought 
 himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a 
 voice that was by no means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally 
 into a falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a 
 quaint old ditty : 
 
 "Now Christmas is come, 
 
 Let us beat up the drum, 
 And call all our neighbors together ; 
 
 And when they appear, 
 
 Let us make such a cheer 
 As will keep out the wind and the weather," etc. 
 
 The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old har- 
 per was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had been 
 strumming all the evening, and to all appearance comforting him- 
 self with some of the Squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of 
 hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and, though ostensi- 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 47 
 
 bly 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. Mas- 
 ter Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connecting link between 
 the old times and the new, and to be withal a little antiquated in 
 the taste of his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his 
 dancing, and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel and toe, 
 rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school ; but he had 
 unluckily assorted himself with a little romping girl from board- 
 ing-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 knave- 
 ries with impunity. He was full of practical jokes, and his de- 
 light was to tease his aunts and cousins ; yet, like all madcap 
 youngsters, he was a universal favorite among the women. The 
 most interesting couple in the dance was the young officer and 
 a ward of the Squire's, a beautiful, blushing girl of seventeen. 
 From several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of 
 the evening, I suspected there was a little kindness growing up 
 between them ; and, indeed, the young soldier was just the 
 hero to captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and 
 handsome, and, like most young British officers of late years, 
 had picked up various small accomplishments on the Conti- 
 nent, he could talk French and Italian, draw landscapes, sing 
 very tolerably, dance divinely, but, above all, he had been 
 wounded at Waterloo. 1 What girl of seventeen, well read in 
 
 1 The French under Napoleon were defeated by the English, June 1 8, 
 1815, at Waterloo, a village in Belgium. 
 
48 IRVING. 
 
 poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and 
 perfection ! 
 
 The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and, 
 lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude which I am 
 half inclined to suspect was studied, began the little French air 
 of the " Troubadour." The Squire, however, exclaimed against 
 having anything on Christmas Eve but good old English ; upon 
 which the young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as 
 if in an effort of memory, struck into another strain, and, with 
 a charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's 1 " 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 or 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'll pour into thee." 
 
 The song might or might not have been intended in compli- 
 ment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called. 
 She, however, was certainly unconscious of any such application, 
 
 1 An English poet and clergyman (1591-1674). As a writer of pastoral 
 lyrics, Herrick takes a high rank in English literature. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 49 
 
 for she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon 
 the floor. Her face was suffused, it is true, with a beautiful 
 blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom ; but all that 
 was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance. Indeed, so 
 great was her indifference, that she was amusing herself with pluck- 
 ing to pieces a choice bouquet of hothouse flowers, and by the time 
 the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 
 
 The party now broke up for the night with the kind-hearted 
 old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall, on 
 my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the Yule clog still 
 sent forth a dusky glow ; and, had it not been the season when 
 "no spirit dare stir abroad," l I should have been half tempted 
 to steal from my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies 
 might not be at their revels about the hearth. 
 
 My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponder- 
 ous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days 
 of the giants. The room was paneled with cornices of heavy 
 carved work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely 
 intermingled ; and a row of black-looking portraits stared mourn- 
 fully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich though faded 
 damask, with a lofty tester, 2 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 3 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, partially lighting up the antiquated 
 apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and 
 
 1 It is an old superstition, that on the eve of Christmas "the bird of 
 dawning singeth all night long " to scare away all evil things from infesting 
 the hallowed hours. 
 
 2 Old French, testiere (" a headpiece") ; Latin, testa (" a shell"). The 
 material stretched over a four-posted bed, forming a canopy over it. 
 
 * See Note 2, p. 28. 
 
50 IRVING. 
 
 aerial, and seemed to accord with quiet and moonlight. I lis- 
 tened and listened. They became more and more tender and 
 remote ; and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon 
 the pillow, and I fell asleep. 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 " Dark and dull night flie hence away, 
 And give the honor to this day 
 That sees December turn'd to May. 
 
 Why does the chilling winter's morne 
 Smile like afield beset with corn ? 
 Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
 Thus on the sudden ? come and see 
 The cause, why things thus fragrant be." 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 WHEN I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the 
 events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and 
 nothing but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced me 
 of their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the 
 sound of little feet pattering outside of the door, and a whispering 
 consultation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth an 
 old Christmas carol, the burden of which was, 
 
 " Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
 On Christmas Day in the morning." 
 
 I rose softly, slipped on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, 
 and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a 
 painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, the 
 eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going 
 the rounds of the house, singing at every chamber door; but 
 my sudden appearance frightened them into mute bashfulness. 
 They remained for a moment playing on their lips with their fin- 
 gers, and now and then stealing a shy glance from under their 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 51 
 
 eyebrows ; until, as if by one impulse, they scampered away, and, 
 as they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them laughing in 
 triumph at their escape. 
 
 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 relief against the 
 clear, cold sky. The house was surrounded with evergreens, ac- 
 cording 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 precipitated 
 by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of grass 
 with its fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning sun 
 had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A robin, 
 perched upon the top of a mountain ash that hung its clusters of 
 red berries just before my window, was basking himself in the 
 sunshine, and piping a few querulous notes ; and a peacock was 
 displaying all the glories of his train, and strutting with the pride 
 and gravity of a Spanish grandee l on the terrace walk below. 
 
 I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to 
 invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small 
 chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found the principal 
 part of the family already assembled in a kind of gallery, fur- 
 nished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer-books : the ser- 
 vants were seated on benches below. The old gentleman read 
 prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon 
 acted as clerk, and made the responses ; and I must do him the 
 justice to say that he acquitted himself with great gravity and 
 decorum. 
 
 The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. 
 
 1 A Spanish nobleman, especially one of the first rank (Spanish, grande). 
 
52 IRVING. 
 
 Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favor- 
 ite author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted to a church mel- 
 ody 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, 
 
 " 'Tis them that crown'st my glittering hearth 
 
 With guiltless mirth, 
 And giv'st me Wassaile bowles to drink 
 
 Spic'd to the brink : 
 Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 
 
 That soiles my land : l 
 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 saint's day throughout the year, either by 
 Mr. Bracebridge or some member of the family. It was once 
 almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and gen- 
 try of England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is 
 falling into neglect ; for the dullest observer must be sensible of 
 the order and serenity prevalent in those households where the 
 occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning 
 gives, as it were, the keynote to every temper for the day, and 
 attunes every spirit to harmony. 
 
 Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire denominated true 
 old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over 
 modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among 
 the causes of modern effeminacy and weak nerves, and the de- 
 cline of old English heartiness ; and, though he admitted them to 
 his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave 
 display of cold meats, wine, and ale on the sideboard. 
 
 After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Brace- 
 
 1 Enriches the soil, and sends a plentiful harvest. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 53 
 
 bridge 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 buttonhole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance 
 an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in his hand. 
 
 The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow 
 sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not but feel the 
 force of the Squire's idea, that the formal terraces, heavily molded 
 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, 1 we ought to ascribe to this bird " both un- 
 derstanding and glory ; for, being praised, he will presently set 
 up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the bet- 
 ter 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." 2 
 
 1 An eminent English lawyer, who wrote, in 1523, The Book of Hus- 
 bandry, the first published work on agriculture in the English language. 
 
 2 The peacock is said to be the vainest of birds. It came originally from 
 India. It was there that Alexander the Great saw it for the first time. He 
 was so impressed with its magnificent plumage, that he forbade all persons, 
 under pain of death, to' kill any. 
 
54 IRVING. 
 
 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 in- 
 formed me that they were great favorites with his father, who 
 was extremely careful to keep up the breed, partly because they 
 belonged to chivalry, and were in great request at the stately 
 banquets of the olden time, 1 and partly because they had a pomp 
 and magnificence about them highly becoming an old family 
 mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of 
 greater state and dignity 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 quota- 
 tions 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 
 and over whenever he had a studious fit, as he sometimes had on 
 a rainy day or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's 
 " Book of Husbandry ; " Markham's " Country Contentments ;" 2 
 the " Tretyse of Hunting," by Sir Thomas Cockayne, 3 Knight ; 
 Izaak Walton's 4 " Angler ; " and two or three more such ancient 
 
 1 Quintus Hortensius, the orator., was the first to have peacocks served 
 at a banquet. After this no banquet was complete without this dish. 
 
 2 See Note 2, p. 55. 
 
 3 Cokaine or Cokayn (written also Cockaine), an English Catholic (born in 
 Derbyshire, 1608 ; died, 1684), was a Royalist in the civil war. He composed 
 some worthless plays and doggerel poems, which are only worthy of notice 
 on account of the anecdotes they furnish of contemporary authors or actors. 
 
 < A celebrated English writer (born at Stafford, 1593; died, 1683). His 
 principal work, The Complete Angler or Contemplative Man's Recreation, 
 was published in 1653. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 55 
 
 worthies of the pen, were his standard authorities; and, like 
 all men who know but a few books, he looked up to them with 
 a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As to his 
 songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the Squire's 
 library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among the choice 
 spirits of the last century. His practical application of scraps of 
 literature, however, had caused him to be looked upon as a prod- 
 igy of book knowledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, and small 
 sportsmen of the neighborhood. 
 
 While we were talking, we heard the distant toll of the vil- 
 lage bell, and I was told that the Squire was a little particular in 
 having his household at church on a Christmas morning, consid- 
 ering it a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing ; for, as old 
 Tusser 1 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 Brace- 
 bridge, " I can promise you a spe'cimen 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 direc- 
 tions of Jervaise Markham 2 in his ' Country Contentments.' For 
 the bass he has sought out all the ' deep, solemn mouths,' and for 
 the tenor the ' loud-ringing mouth,' 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 fe- 
 
 1 Thomas Tusser (1527-80), poet, was born at Essex, England. His 
 poems on husbandry have the charm of simplicity and directness, and during 
 his life they went through a number of editions. 
 
 2 Jervaise (or Gervase) Markham, an English soldier and miscellaneous 
 writer, was born in Nottinghamshire about 1570. He served in the Royalist 
 army in the civil war, and died in 1655. 
 
56 IRVING. 
 
 male singer being exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very 
 liable to accident." 
 
 As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, 
 the most of the family walked to the church, which was a very 
 old building of gray stone, and stood near a village, about half a 
 ^nile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low, snug parson- 
 age, which seemed coeval with the church. The front of it was 
 perfectly matted with a yew-tree that had been trained against 
 its walls, through the dense foliage of which apertures had 
 been formed to admit light into the small antique lattices. As 
 we passed this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth, and pre- 
 ceded us. 
 
 I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, such as 
 is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's 
 table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meager, 
 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 enor- 
 mous buckles. 
 
 I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had 
 been a chum of his father's at Oxford, 1 and had received this 
 living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was a 
 complete black-letter 2 hunter, and would scarcely read a work 
 printed in the Roman character. The editions of Caxton and 
 Wynkin de Worde were his delight ; and he was indefatigable in 
 his researches after such Old English writers as have fallen into 
 oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the 
 notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations 
 
 1 The famous university situated in Oxford, the county town of Oxford- 
 shire. 
 
 2 A type which appeared in England about the year 1480. It was used 
 especially for Bibles, law-books, royal proclamations, etc. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 57 
 
 into the festive rites and holiday customs of former times, and 
 had been as zealous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon com- 
 panion ; but it was merely with that plodding spirit with which 
 men of adust temperament follow up any track of study, merely 
 because it is denominated learning; indifferent to its intrinsic 
 nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom or of the rib- 
 aldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old vol- 
 umes so intensely, that they seemed to have been reflected into 
 his countenance ; which, if the face be indeed an index of the 
 mind, might be compared to a title-page of black-letter. 
 
 On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuking 
 the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the 
 greens with which the church was decorated. It was, he o> 
 served, an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the 
 Druids in their mystic ceremonies ; and though it might be inno- 
 cently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, 
 yet it had been deemed by the fathers of the Church as unhai- 
 lowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was 
 he on this point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down 
 a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, before the parson 
 would consent to enter upon the service of the day. 
 
 The interior of the church was venerable but simple. On fnv, 
 walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges ; and 
 just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on 
 which Jay the effigy of a warrior in armor, with his legs crossed, 
 a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it was one 
 of the family who had signalized himself in the Holy Land, and 
 the same whose picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. 
 
 During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and re- 
 peated the responses very audibly, evincing that kind of ceremo- 
 nious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of the old 
 school, and a man of old family connections. I observed, too, 
 that he turned over the leaves of a folio Prayer Book with some- 
 thing of a flourish ; possibly to show off an enormous seal-ring 
 which enriched one of his fingers, and which had the look of a 
 
58 IRVING. 
 
 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 particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fel- 
 low with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the clari- 
 net, 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 choris- 
 ters had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona l fiddles, 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 tomb- 
 stones. 
 
 The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, 
 the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, 
 and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time 
 by traveling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing 
 more bars than the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But 
 the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and ar- 
 ranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great 
 expectation. Unluckily, there was a blunder at the very outset. 
 The musicians became flurried ; Master Simon was in a fever ; 
 everything went on lamely and irregularly until they came to a 
 chorus beginning, " Now let us sing with one accord," which 
 seemed to be a signal for parting company. All became discord 
 and confusion. Each shifted for himself, and got to the end as 
 
 1 The capital of a province of Lombardy, also named Cremona, formerly 
 celebrated for its violins and other musical instruments. Great prices were 
 paid for violins made in Cremona. The manufacture of these has now de- 
 clined. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 59 
 
 well, or rather as soon, as he could, excepting one old chorister 
 in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long, sono- 
 rous nose, who, happening to stand a little apart, and being 
 wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quivering course, wrig- 
 gling 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 usagep of the Church, 
 and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Caesarea, 1 
 St. Cypt^n, 2 St. Chrysbsfcom, 3 St. Aufcusllne, 4 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 em- 
 broiled in the sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when the 
 Puritans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the 
 Church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the land by 
 proclamation of Parliament. 5 The worthy parson lived but with 
 times past, and knew but little of the present. 
 
 1 Instructor of Justinian, and abbot of St. Alexander at Prisrend in Mace- 
 donia, afterwards Bishop of Sardica in 517. 
 
 2 Bishop of Carthage in the third century, one of the most illustrious men 
 in the early history of the Church, and one of the most notable of its early 
 martyrs. He was ordered to be beheaded Sept. 14, 258, by Emperor 
 Valerian. 
 
 3 The most famous of the Greek fathers (born at Antioch about 347). 
 The festival of St. Chrysostom is observed both in the Greek and in the 
 Latin Church, by the former on Nov. 13, and by the latter on Jan. 27. 
 
 4 The greatest of the four great fathers of the Latin Church (born in 
 Numidia, Nov. 13, A.D. 354). 
 
 5 " 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 ter- 
 
60 IRVING. 
 
 Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his an- 
 tiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as the 
 gazettes of the day, while the era of the Revolution was mere 
 modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed 
 since the fiery persecution of poor mince pie throughout the land, 
 when plum porridge was denounced as " mere popery," and roast- 
 beef as anti-Christian, and that Christmas had been brought in 
 again triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at the 
 Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardor of his con- 
 test, and the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to com- 
 bat. He had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne J and two or 
 three other forgotten champions of the Roundheads, 2 on the sub- 
 ject of Christmas festivity, and concluded by urging his hearers, 
 in the most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the tradi- 
 tional customs of their fathers, and feast and make merry on this 
 joyful anniversary of the Church. 
 
 I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with more 
 immediate effects ; for, on leaving the church, the congregation 
 seemed, one and all, possessed with the gayety of spirit so ear- 
 
 rible remonstrance against Christmas 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, Psalms cxviii. 24, Lev. xxiii. 
 7, II, Mark xv. 8, Psalms Ixxxiv. 10; in which Christmas is called Anti- 
 christ's masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists who observe it, etc. 
 In consequence of which Parliament spent some time in consultation about 
 the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to 
 sit on the following day, which was commonly called Christmas day."- 
 Flying Eagle (a small gazette published Dec. 24, 1652). 
 
 1 William Prynne (1600-69) was a Puritan to the core. He published in 
 1633 a book (Histrio-Mastix) which was an attack upon stage plays. The 
 Queen was very much interested in the drama at this time, and Prynne's 
 offensive words were supposed to apply to her. Prynne was sentenced by the 
 Star Chamber to fine, imprisonment, and to be set in the pillory, where he 
 was to lose both his ears. 
 
 2 Adherents of the Parliamentary or Puritan party, as opposed to the 
 Royalists ; called Roundheads in derisive allusion to their close-cut hair, the 
 Royalists usually wearing theirs long. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 61 
 
 nestly 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 ! " and repeating some uncouth 
 rhymes, 1 which the parson, who had joined us, informed me had 
 been handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed their 
 hats to the Squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the 
 season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were in- 
 vited by him to the hall, to take something to keep out the cold 
 of .the weather ; and I heard blessings uttered by several of the 
 poor, which convinced me, that, in the midst of his enjoyments, 
 the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas vir- 
 tue of charity. 
 
 On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowing with gen- 
 erous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising ground 
 which commanded 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 inexpressi- 
 ble benignity. The beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to 
 inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the morn- 
 ing, the sun, in his cloudless journey, had acquired sufficient power 
 to melt away the thin covering of snow from every southern 
 declivity, and to bring out the living green which adorns an 
 English landscape even in mid-winter. Large tracts of smiling 
 verdure contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded 
 slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank on which the broad 
 rays rested yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glitter- 
 ing through the dripping 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 hospital- 
 
 1 IRVING'S NOTE: 
 
 1 Ule ! Ule ! 
 
 Three puddings in a pule ; 
 Crack nuts and cry ule ! " 
 
62 IRVING. 
 
 ity, breaking through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and 
 thawing every heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to 
 the indications of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the 
 comfortable farmhouses and low thatched cottages. " I love," 
 said he, "to see this day well kept by rich and poor. It is a 
 great thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you are 
 sure of being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it 
 were, the world all thrown open to you ; and I am almost dis- 
 posed to join with Poor Robin, in his malediction on every churl- 
 ish 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 1 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 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. 2 " Our old games and local customs," said he, 
 " had a great effect in making the peasant fond of his home, and 
 the promotion of them by the gentry made him fond of his lord. 
 
 1 Alluding to Jack Ketch, the hangman (1678). Ketch executed Lord 
 Russell and the Duke of Monmouth. The name has become proverbial for 
 hangmen. 
 
 2 " An English gentleman at the opening of the great day, i.e. on Christ- 
 mas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors enter his hall by 
 daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the black jacks went plenti- 
 fully about with toast, sugar, and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The 
 Hackin (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. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 63 
 
 They made the times merrier and kinder and better, and I can 
 truly say, with one of our old poets, 
 
 " ' I like them well the curious preciseness 
 And all-pretended gravity of those 
 That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
 Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' 
 
 "The nation," continued he, "is altered. We have almost 
 lost our simple, true-hearted peasantry. They have broken 
 asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their interests 
 are 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 mitigating public dis- 
 content ; and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine 
 in practice, and a few years before had kept open house during 
 the holidays in the old style. The country people, however, did 
 not understand how to play their parts in the scene of hospitality. 
 Many uncouth circumstances occurred. The manor was overrun 
 by all the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into 
 the neighborhood in one week than the parish officers could get 
 rid of in a year. Since then he had contented himself with in- 
 viting 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, were seen advancing up the 
 avenue, followed by a large number of villagers and peasantry. 
 They stopped before the hall door, where the music struck up a 
 
64 IRVING. 
 
 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 1 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 rough cudgel play, 2 and broken 
 heads in the evening. 
 
 After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained 
 with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The Squire him- 
 self mingled among the rustics, and was received with awkward 
 demonstrations of deference and regard. It is true, I perceived 
 two or three of the younger peasants, as they were raising their 
 tankards to their mouths, when the Squire's back was turned, 
 making something of a grimace, and giving each other the wink ; 
 but, the moment they caught my eye, they pulled grave faces, 
 
 1 This title has been said to have been derived from the box which was 
 kept on board of every vessel that sailed upon a distant voyage, for the re- 
 ception of donations to the priest, who, in return, was expected to offer 
 masses for the safety of the expedition, to the particular saint having charge 
 of the ship, and, above all, of the box. The mass was at that time called 
 " Christ mass," and the boxes kept to pay for it were of course called 
 " Christ-mass boxes." The poor were in the habit of begging from the rich 
 to contribute to the mass boxes, and hence the title which has descended to 
 our day. A relic of these ancient boxes yet exists, in the earthen or wooden 
 box, with a slit in it, which still bears the same name, and is carried by ser- 
 vants and cir'ldren for the purpose of gathering money at Christmas, being 
 broken only when the period of collection is supposed to be over. 
 
 2 A bout with cudgels. Cudgels were thick short sticks, or staves. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 65 
 
 and were exceedingly demure. With Master Simon, however, 
 they all seemed more at their ease. His varied occupations and 
 amusements had made him well known throughout the neigh- 
 borhood. He was a visitor at every farmhouse and cottage ; 
 gossiped with the farmers and their wives ; romped with their 
 daughters ; and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor the humble- 
 bee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country round. 
 
 The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer 
 and affability. There is something genuine and affectionate in 
 the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty 
 and familiarity of those above them. The warm glow of grati- 
 tude enters into their mirth ; and a kind word or a small pleas- 
 antry, frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart of the de- 
 pendant more than oil and wine. When the Squire had retired, 
 the merriment increased ; and there was much joking and laugh- 
 ter, particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, 
 white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village, 
 for I observed all his companions to wait with open mouths for 
 his retorts, and burst into a gratuitous laugh before they could 
 well understand them. 
 
 The whole house, indeed, seemed abandoned to merriment. 
 As I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound 
 of music in a small court, and, looking through a window that 
 commanded it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians, with 
 pandean l pipes and tambourine. A pretty, coquettish house-maid 
 was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several of the 
 other servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport, the 
 girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, coloring 
 up, ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion. 
 
 1 Pan, in Greek mythology, was the god of forests, pastures, and flocks, 
 and was the attributed inventor of the shepherd's flute or pipe, the syrinx, 
 a series of graduated tubes set together (open at one end, and closed at the 
 other), played by blowing across the open ends. 
 
66 IRVING. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 
 
 " Lo, now is come our joy fuV st feast ! 
 
 Let every man be jolly, 
 Each roome with yvie leaves is drest, 
 
 And every post with holly. 
 Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke. 
 
 And Christmas blocks are burning; 
 Their ovens they with batft meats choke, 
 And all their spits are turning. 
 
 Without the door let sorrow lie, 
 And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
 
 Wee 1 1 bury '/ in a Christmas pye, 
 And evermore be merry." 
 
 WITHERS, 1 Juvenilia. 
 
 I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Brace- 
 bridge in the library, when we heard a distant thwacking 
 sound, which he informed me was a signal for the serving-up of 
 the dinner. The Squire kept up old customs in kitchen as well 
 as hall ; and the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser by the cook, 
 summoned the servants to carry in the meats. 
 
 ' ' Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, 
 And all the waiters in a trice, 
 
 His summons did obey ; 
 Each serving man, with dish in hand, 
 Marched boldly up, like our train band, 
 
 Presented, and away." 2 
 
 The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the Squire 
 always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing, crackling fire of 
 logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, and 
 the flame went sparkling and wreathing up the wide-mouthed 
 chimney. The great picture of the crusader and his white horse 
 had been profusely decorated with greens for the occasion ; and 
 
 1 Written also Wither and Wyther. An English poet, satirist, and polit- 
 ical writer (1588-1667). 
 
 2 From Sir John Suckling, an English poet (born in Middlesex about 
 1608, died about 1642), celebrated as a wit at the court of Charles I. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 67 
 
 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 hav- 
 ing 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 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 
 j trophy, on which was a display of plate that might have vied (at 
 \ least in variety) with Belshazzar's l 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 house- 
 keepers. Before these stood the two Yule candles, 2 beaming like 
 two stars of the first magnitude ; other lights were distributed in 
 branches ; and the whole array glittered like a firmament of silver. 
 We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound of 
 minstrelsy ; the old harper being seated on a stool beside the fire- 
 place, and twanging his instrument with a vast deal more power 
 than melody. Never did Christmas board display a more goodly 
 and gracious assemblage of countenances. Those who were not 
 handsome were at least happy, and happiness is a rare improver 
 of your hard-favored visage. I always consider an old English 
 family as well worth studying as a collection of Holbein's 3 por- 
 
 1 Son of Nabunahid, King of Babylon ; conquered by the Persians and 
 Cyrus, 556 B.C. (Compare Daniel v. 2.) 
 
 2 These were large candles lighted and burned at Christmas Eve festivi- 
 ties. It was considered by many bad luck if the candle burned out before 
 the close of the evening : and any portion left was kept to be burned at the 
 corpse watch, or lich wake, of the owner. 
 
 3 Hans Holbein (born at Griinstadt in 1497, died in 1543) was one of the 
 
68 IRVING. 
 
 traits or Albert Diirer's 1 prints. There is much antiquarian lore 
 to be acquired, much knowledge of the physiognomies of former 
 times. Perhaps it may be from having continually before their 
 eyes those rows of old family portraits with which the mansions 
 of this country are stocked : certain it is, that the quaint features 
 of antiquity are often most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient 
 lines; and I have traced an old family nose through a whole 
 picture gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to 
 generation, 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. 2 
 
 C The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar one, 
 such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these unceremo- 
 nious days, but a long, courtly, well-worded one of the ancient 
 school. There was now a pause, as if something was expected, 
 when suddenly the butler entered the hall with some degree of 
 bustle. He was attended by a servant on each side with a large 
 wax-light, and bore a silver dish on which was an enormous pig's 
 
 most celebrated German painters. Henry VIII. gave him abundant employ- 
 ment, and also bestowed upon him a large pension. Holbein was also a 
 skillful architect and wood-engraver. His greatest pictures were, " Dance of 
 Death," the " Adoration of the Shepherds and the Kings," and the " Last 
 Supper." 
 
 1 Albrecht Diirer (born at Nuremberg in 1471 ; died there, April, 1528) 
 nas a name, in the history of art, equal to that of the greatest Italians. A 
 very choice collection of his drawings (a large volume), forming part of Lord 
 Arundel's collection, is in the British Museum. 
 
 2 Henry VIII. (born at Greenwich, England, in 1491 ; died in 1547) 
 ascended the English throne in the year 1509. He was the father of Queen 
 Elizabeth. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 69 
 
 head decorated with rosemary, 1 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 fol- 
 lows : 
 
 " Caput apri defero,2 
 Reddens laudes Domino. 8 
 
 The boar's head in hand bring I, 
 
 With garlands gay and rosemary. 
 
 I pray you all synge merily 
 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 introduced 
 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 custom," said the 
 Squire, " not merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself, but 
 because it was observed at the college at Oxford 5 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 
 
 1 Old English, rosmarine ; Latin, rosmarinus (ros, " dew; " and martnus, 
 " of the sea"). So called because it flourishes best in places near the sea. 
 It is very fragrant, and symbolic of remembrance. Compare Hamlet (act iv. 
 sc. 5): "There's rosemary, that's for remembrance." 
 
 2 " I bring the boar's head." 
 
 3 " Returning praises to the Lord." 
 * " As many as are at the banquet." 
 
 5 The famous university situated in the county of Oxfordshire. 
 
70 IRVING. 
 
 associations, and who was always more taken up with the text 
 than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version of the 
 carol, which he affirmed was different from that sung at 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 under-voice to a fat-headed old 
 gentleman next him, who was silently engaged in the discussion 
 of a huge plateful of turkey. 1 
 
 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," 2 
 
 1 IRVING'S NOTE. The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on 
 Christmas Day is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I 
 was favored by the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung ; and as it 
 may be acceptable to such of my readers as are curious in these grave and 
 learned matters, I give it entire : 
 
 " The boar's head in hand bear I, 
 Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; 
 And I pray you, my masters, be merry, 
 Quot estis in convivio. 
 Caput apri defero, 
 Reddens laudes Domino. 
 
 41 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, 
 Reddens laudes Domino. 
 
 " Our steward hath provided this 
 In honour of the King of Bliss, 
 Which on this day to be served is 
 In Reginensi Atrio. 
 Caput apri defero, 
 Reddens laudes Domino." 
 
 2 James I., on his return from a hunting excursion, so much enjoyed 
 his dinner, consisting of a loin of roast beef, that he laid his sword across 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 71 
 
 as mine host termed it ; being, as he added, " the standard of old 
 English hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of 
 expectation." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and 
 which had evidently something traditional in their embellish- 
 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, magnificently decorated 
 with peacocks' feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, 
 which overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. This, 
 the Squire confessed with some little hesitation, was a pheasant 
 pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most authentical ; but 
 there had been such a mortality among the peacocks this season, 
 that he could not prevail upon himself to have one killed. 1 
 
 It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may 
 not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to 
 which I am a little given, were I to mention the other makeshifts 
 of this worthy old humorist, by which he was endeavoring to 
 follow up, though at humble distance, the quaint customs of an- 
 tiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect shown to his 
 whims by his children and relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily 
 
 it, and dubbed it " Sir Loin." Etymologically, however, the word is from 
 the French surlonge, " a sirloin: " sur (Latin, super), " over; " and longe, 
 "loin." 
 
 1 IRVING'S NOTE. 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, w*hence came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shal- 
 low, " 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 : 
 Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris ; the carcases of three fat wethers 
 bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock I " 
 
72 IRVING. 
 
 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 regula- 
 tions as the established laws of honorable housekeeping. 
 
 When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge 
 silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed 
 before the Squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation, 
 being the wassail bowl, so renowned in Christmas festivity. The 
 contents had been prepared by the Squire himself ; for it was a 
 beverage in the skillful mixture of which he particularly prided 
 himself, alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for the 
 comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, in- 
 deed, that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him, 
 being composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced 
 and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about the surface. 1 
 
 The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene 
 look of indwelling delight as he stirred this mighty bowl. Hav- 
 ing raised it to his lips with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas 
 to all present, he sent it brimming round the board, for every one 
 to follow his example, according to the primitive style, pronoun- 
 
 l IRVING'S NOTE. The wassail bowl was sometimes composed of ale 
 instead of wine, with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs. In 
 this way the nut-brown beverage is still prepared* in some old families, and 
 round the hearth of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called 
 " lamb's wool," and it is celebrated by Herrick in his Twelfth Night: 
 
 " Next crowne the bowle full 
 
 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." 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 73 
 
 cing it " the ancient fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met 
 together." 1 
 
 There was much laughing and i rallying as the honest emblem 
 of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by 
 the ladies ; but when it reached Master Simon, he raised it in both 
 hands, and, with the air of a boon companion, struck up an old 
 wassail chanson : 2 
 
 " 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 canne, 
 As thou dost freely quaff -a, 
 Sing 
 Fling, 
 
 Be as merry as a king, 
 And sound a lusty laugh-a." 3 
 
 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 slowhound, 4 being one of those long- 
 winded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, are un- 
 rivaled for their talents in hunting it down. At every pause 
 in the general conversation, he renewed his bantering in pretty 
 
 1 " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having 
 his cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to 
 cry three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappell (chaplain) wa? 
 to answer with a song." Arcfuzologia. 
 
 2 Song. 3 From Poor Robin's Almanack. 4 Bloodhound. 
 
74 IRVING. 
 
 much the same terms, winking hard at me with both eyes when- 
 ever he gave Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. 
 The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the subject, 
 as old bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform 
 me, in an undertone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously 
 fine woman, and drove her own curricle. 
 
 The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, 
 and, though the old hall may have resounded in its time with 
 many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it 
 ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy 
 it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him ; 
 and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making 
 everything in its vicinity to freshen into smiles! The joyous dis- 
 position 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. 
 
 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 fulfill the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord of Misrule, 1 
 was blinded in the midst of the hall. The little beings were as 
 busy about him as the mock fairies about Falstaff, 2 pinching 
 
 1 " At Christmasse there was in the Kinges house, wheresoever hee was 
 lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, and the like had ye 
 in the house of every nobleman of honor, or good worshippe, were he spirit- 
 uall or temporall." Stew. 
 
 2 Sir John Falstaff, one of Shakespeare's characters in The Merry Wives 
 of Windsor and in the two parts of Henry IV. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 75 
 
 him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with 
 straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen 
 hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock 
 half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was 
 the chief tormentor; and from the slyness with which Master 
 Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little 
 nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump, shrieking, over chairs, 
 I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was 
 convenient. 
 
 When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the company 
 seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was deeply 
 ensconced in a high-backed, oaken chair, the work of some cun- 
 ning artificer of yore, which had been brought from the library 
 for his particular accommodation. From this venerable piece of 
 furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark, weazen face 
 so admirably accorded, he was dealing forth strange accounts of 
 the popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, 
 with which he had become acquainted in the course of his anti- 
 quarian researches. I am half inclined to think that the old gen- 
 tleman was himself somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men 
 are very apt to be who live a recluse and studious life in a se- 
 questered part of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, 
 so often filled with the marvelous and supernatural. He gave 
 us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry 
 concerning the effigy of the crusader, which lay on the tomb by 
 the church altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in 
 that part of the country, it had always been regarded with feel- 
 ings of superstition by the good wives of the village. It was 
 said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of the church- 
 yard in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered ; and one 
 old woman, whose cottage bordered on the churchyard, had seen 
 it through the windows of the church, when the moon shone, 
 slowly 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 
 
76 IRVING. 
 
 restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, 
 over which the specter kept watch ; and there was a story cur- 
 rent 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 churchyard. 
 
 From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader 
 appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories throughout the 
 vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, was thought by 
 the servants to have something supernatural about it ; for they 
 remarked, that, in whatever part of the hall you went, the eyes 
 of the warrior were still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, 
 too, at the lodge, who had been born and brought up in the 
 family, and was a great gossip among the maid-servants, affirmed 
 that in her young days she had often heard say, that on midsum- 
 mer eve, when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and 
 fairies become visible and walk abroad, the crusader used to 
 mount his horse, come down from his picture, ride about the 
 house, down the avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb, 
 on which occasion the church door most civilly swung open of 
 itself ; not that he needed it, for he rode through closed gates 
 and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the dairy- 
 maids to pass between two bars of the great park gate, making 
 himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 
 
 All these superstitions I found had been very much counte- 
 nanced 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 por- 
 ter's wife in high favor on account of her talent for the marvelous. 
 He was himself a great reader of old legends and romances, 
 and often lamented that he could not believe in them ; for a super- 
 stitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairyland. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 77 
 
 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 troop- 
 ing into the room, that might almost have been mistaken for, the 
 breaking-up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit 
 Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as Lord of 
 Misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas mummery or 
 masking ; and having called in to his assistance the Oxonian and 
 the young officer, who were equally ripe for anything that should 
 occasion romping and merriment, they had carried it into instant 
 effect. The old housekeeper had been consulted ; the antique 
 clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged, and made to yield up 
 the relics of finery that had not seen the light for several genera- 
 tions. The younger part of the company had been privately con- 
 vened from parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out 
 into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask. 1 
 
 Master Simon led the van as Ancient Christmas, quaintly ap- 
 pareled 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. 2 From under this, his nose 
 curved boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom that seemed 
 the very trophy of a December blast. He was accompanied by 
 the blue-eyed romp, dished up as Dame Mince Pie, in the ven- 
 erable magnificence of faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked 
 
 1 IRVING'S NOTE. Maskings, or mummeries, were favorite sports at 
 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 Jon- 
 son's Masque of Christmas. 
 
 2 In Scottish history, the name applied to a party embracing the great ma- 
 jority of the people, who, during the seventeenth century, bound themselves 
 to establish and maintain the Presbyterian doctrine as the sole religion of 
 the country. 
 
78 IRVING. 
 
 hat, and high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as 
 Robin Hood, 1 in a sporting dress of Kendal green 2 and a for- 
 aging cap with a gold tassel. 
 
 The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep re- 
 search, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, natural 
 to a young gallant in presence of his mistress. The fair Julia 
 hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as Maid Marian. 3 The 
 rest of the train had been metamorphosed in various ways, the 
 girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles of the Brace- 
 bridge line ; and the striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and 
 gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed 
 wigs, to represent the characters of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, 
 and other worthies celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole 
 was under the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate charac- 
 ter of Misrule ; and I observed that he exercised rather a mis- 
 chievous sway with his wand over the smaller personages of the 
 pageant. 
 
 The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, according 
 to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar and mer- 
 riment. Master Simon covered himself with glory by the state- 
 liness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet 4 
 with the peerless though giggling Dame Mince Pie. It was fol- 
 lowed by a dance from 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 
 
 1 The famous legendary outlaw (born at Locksley, in Notts, in the reign 
 of Henry II., 1160). His real name was Fitzooth, and it is commonly said 
 he was the Earl of Huntingdon. 
 
 2 Woolen cloth of coarse texture, called Kendal from the town of that 
 name in Westmoreland, England, where it was first made. 
 
 3 A name assumed by Matilda, daughter of Robert Lord Fitzwalter, while 
 Robin Hood (her lover) remained in a state of outlawry. 
 
 4 A slow, very graceful dance, performed in or -| time ; originated, it is 
 said, in Poitou, France, about the middle of the seventeenth century. Its 
 name is from the French menuet (Latin, minutus, " small"), the steps taken 
 in the dance being small. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 79 
 
 were figuring at cross hands and right and left : the dark ages 
 were cutting pirouettes 1 and rigadoons; 2 and the days of Queen 
 Bess* jigging merrily down the middle, through a line of succeed- 
 ing generations. 
 
 The worthy Squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and 
 this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of 
 childish delight. He stood chuckling, and rubbing his hands, 
 and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding 
 that the latter was discoursing most authentically on the ancient 
 and stately dance of the pavon, or peacock, from which he con- 
 ceived the minuet to be derived. 3 For my part, I was in a con- 
 tinual excitement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent 
 gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed 
 Frolic and warm-hearted Hospitality breaking out from among 
 the chills and glooms of winter, and Old Age throwing off his 
 apathy, and catching once more the freshness of youthful enjoy- 
 ment. I felt also an interest in the scene, from the 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 were still punctiliously observed. There was a 
 quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a pe- 
 culiar zest : it was suited to the time and place ; and, as the old 
 manor-house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed 
 echoing back the joviality of long-departed years. 
 
 But enough of Christmas and its gambols : it is time for me 
 to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the question asked 
 by my graver readers, " To what purpose is all this? How is the 
 
 1 Whirling on the tip of one foot. 
 
 2 French, rigodon. A dance said to have come from Provence, France. 
 It is gay and brisk in character. 
 
 3 Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called pavon, iram-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. 
 
8o IRVING. 
 
 world to be made wiser by this talk? " Alas! is there not wis- 
 dom enough extant for the instruction of the world? and if not, 
 are there not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improve- 
 ment? 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 deduc- 
 tions may be safe guides for the opinions of others? But in 
 writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my own disappoint- 
 ment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of 
 evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the 
 heavy heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then 
 penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a 
 benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in 
 good humor with his fellow-beings and himself, surely, surely, 
 I shall not then have written entirely in vain. 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 1 
 
 ON one of those sober and rather melancholy days in the 
 latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and 
 evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the de- 
 cline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about West- 
 minster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season 
 in the mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and, as I passed 
 its threshold, it seemed like stepping back into the regions of 
 antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. 
 
 1 The coronation church of the sovereigns of England from the time of 
 Harold (1066). It occupies the site of a chapel built by Siebert in honor of 
 St. Peter, on a slightly elevated spot rising from the marshy ground border- 
 ing the Thames. The Abbey was fifteen years in building, and was the first 
 cruciform church in England. It contains the tombs and monuments of 
 many of the sovereigns of Great Britain, and the memorials of England's 
 greatest men in all walks of life. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 81 
 
 I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, 1 through 
 a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean 
 look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in 
 the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant 
 view of the cloisters, 2 with the figure of an old verger 3 in his 
 black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming 
 like a specter from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach 
 to the Abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares 
 the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloister still retains 
 something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray 
 walls are discolored by damps, and crumbling with age ; a coat 
 of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural 
 monuments, and obscured the death's heads and other funeral 
 emblems ; the sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich 
 tracery of the arches; the roses which adorned the keystones 
 have lost their leafy beauty; everything bears marks of the 
 gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has something touching 
 and pleasing in its very decay. 
 
 The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the 
 square of the cloisters, beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in 
 the center, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with 
 a kind of dusty splendor. From between the arcades the eye 
 glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud, and beheld 
 the sun-gilt pinnacles of the Abbey towering into the azure 
 heaven. 
 
 As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled 
 picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to deci- 
 
 1 This school was in existence in 1540, established by charter of Henry 
 VIII. Under the reign of Mary the whole school was swept away. It was 
 restored by Elizabeth in 1560, who gave to the college the statutes which are 
 more or less observed to this day. 
 
 2 Old French, cloistre; Latin, claustrum. That which shuts off; in 
 monastic buildings, an arched passage, usually running about an interior 
 court, and used as a place of recreation for monks. 
 
 3 Old French, vergier; Latin, virga ("a rod"). A church officer who 
 bore the verge or staff of office for ecclesiastical dignitaries. 
 
 6 
 
82 IRVING. 
 
 pher the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the pave- 
 ment beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, 
 rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of 
 many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early 
 abbots. The epitaphs were entirely effaced. The names alone 
 remained, having, no doubt, been renewed in later times, Vita- 
 lis 1 (Abbas, 1082), and Gislebertus Crispinus 2 (Abbas, 1 114), and 
 Laurentius 3 (Abbas, 1176). I remained some little while, mus- 
 ing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks 
 upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such 
 beings had been and had perished ; teaching no moral but the 
 futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its 
 ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even 
 these faint records will be obliterated, and the monument will 
 cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon 
 these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the Abbey clock, 
 reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the 
 cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed 
 time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, 
 which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. 
 
 I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the in- 
 terior of the Abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the 
 
 1 Vitalis was a Norman. He was an abbot at Bernay in Normandy, and 
 was expressly sent for by the King (William the Conqueror) to govern at 
 Westminster. He had the character of a wise and prudent man. He died 
 June 19, 1082, and was interred in the south cloister. 
 
 2 Gislebertus Crispinus (Gilbert Crispin) was a Norman of noble rank. 
 He was particularly famous as a sound theologist and a ready disputant. 
 After a long life of piety and good deeds, he died Dec. 6, 1114, and was 
 buried at the feet of Vitalis, his predecessor. 
 
 3 Laurentius (or Lawrence) was educated, and resided for many years, at 
 St. Albans. He was chosen for Westminster Abbey about the year 1159, 
 through the influence of Henry II., who thought highly of him. He was a 
 man of talents. He was appointed by the King, the Pope, and the Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury, to decide several disputed causes. He was buried in 
 the south walk of the cloister. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 83 
 
 building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults 
 of the cloisters. The eye gazes with wonder at clustered col- 
 umns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to 
 such an amazing height ; and man wandering about their bases, 
 shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. 
 The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a pro- 
 found and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, 
 as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb ; while 
 every footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters among the 
 sepulchers, making us more sensible of the quiet we have inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon 
 the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We 
 feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the 
 great men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds, 
 and the earth with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a 
 smile at the vanity of human ambition, to see how they are 
 crowded together and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is 
 observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little 
 portion of earth, to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could 
 not satisfy ; and how many shapes and forms and artifices are 
 devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from 
 forgetfulness for a few short years a name which once aspired to 
 occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. 
 
 I passed some time in Poet's Corner, 1 which occupies an end 
 of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the Abbey. The monu- 
 ments are generally simple, for the lives of literary men afford 
 no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare 2 and Addison 3 
 have statues erected, to their memories ; but the greater part have 
 
 1 The poet Chaucer, who died Oct. 25, 1400, was the first to be buried 
 in Poet's Corner, through the royal favor of Henry IV. ; but no monument 
 was placed over him until during the reign of Edward VI., in 1551. 
 
 2 The remains of Shakespeare (1564-1616) were never moved from Strat- 
 ford, but a monument was erected in the Abbey in 1 740. 
 
 8 Addison (1672-1719) is buried in the chapel of Henry VII., in the vault 
 
84 IRVING. 
 
 busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwith- 
 standing the simplicity of these memorials, I have always ob- 
 served that the visitors to the Abbey remain longest about 
 them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold 
 curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splen- 
 did monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about 
 these as about the tombs of friends and companions ; for, indeed, 
 there is something of companionship between the author and the 
 reader. Other men are known to posterity only through* the me- 
 dium of history, which is continually growing faint and obscure ; 
 but the intercourse between the author and his fellowmen is ever 
 new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than 
 for himself ; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut 
 himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more 
 intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well 
 may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been purchased, 
 not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispen- 
 sation of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his mem- 
 ory ; for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and 
 sounding actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of 
 thought, and golden veins of language. 
 
 From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that part of 
 the Abbey which contains the sepulchers of the kings. I wan- 
 dered among what once were chapels, but which are now occu- 
 pied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn 
 I met with some illustrious name, or the cognizance of some 
 powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these 
 dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies, 
 some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others stretched upon 
 the tombs, with hands piously pressed together ; warriors in ar- 
 mor, as if reposing after battle ; prelates with crosiers and miters ; 
 and nobles in robes and coronets, lying, as it were, in state. In 
 
 of the House of Albemarle. A monument of him stands in the Poet's Cor- 
 ner, and was erected in 1808. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 85 
 
 glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every 
 form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading 
 a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been sud- 
 denly transmuted into stone. 
 
 I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a 
 knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm ; 
 the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast ; 
 the face was almost covered by the morion; the legs were 
 crossed, in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the holy 
 war. It was the tomb of a crusader, of one of those military 
 enthusiasts who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and 
 whose exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction, 
 between the history and the fairy tale. There is something ex- 
 tremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, decorated 
 as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. 
 They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are 
 generally found ; and in considering them, the imagination is apt 
 to kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fictions, 
 the chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread 
 over the wars for the sepulcher of Christ. They are the relics of 
 times utterly gone by, of beings passed from recollection, of cus- 
 toms and manners with which ours have no affinity. They are 
 like objects from some strange and distant land, of which we 
 have no certain knowledge, and about which all our conceptions 
 are vague and visionary. There is something extremely solemn 
 and awful in those effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the 
 sleep of death, or in the supplication of the dying hour. They 
 have an effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings than 
 the fanciful attitudes, the overwrought conceits, and allegorical 
 groups, which abound on modern monuments. I have been 
 struck, also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral 
 inscriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of say- 
 ing things simply, and yet saying them proudly ; and I do not 
 know an epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of family 
 worth and honorable lineage than one which affirms, of a noble 
 
86 IRVING. 
 
 house, that " all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters vir- 
 tuous." 1 
 
 In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument 
 which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art, 
 but which to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the 
 tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, 2 by Roubiliac. 3 The bottom of the 
 monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and 
 a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from 
 his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is 
 sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain 
 and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with 
 terrible truth and spirit : we almost fancy we hear the gibbering 
 yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the specter. 
 But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary 
 terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love? 
 The grave should be surrounded by everything that might inspire 
 tenderness and veneration for the dead, or that might win the 
 living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but 
 of sorrow and meditation. 
 
 While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, 
 studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence 
 from without occasionally reaches the ear, the rumbling of the 
 passing equipage, the murmur of the multitude, or perhaps the 
 
 1 A portion of the inscription upon the tomb of " the loyal " Duke of New- 
 castle and the Duchess. This nobleman was one of the firmest supporters 
 of Charles I. 
 
 2 In memory of Joseph Gascoigne Nightingale, Esq., of Minehead, Dev- 
 onshire, who died in 1752 ; and the Lady Elizabeth, his wife, who died soon 
 after marriage. A tradition of the Abbey records that a robber, coming into 
 the Abbey by moonlight, was so startled by the figure as to have fled in dis- 
 may, and left his crowbar on the pavement. 
 
 3 Roubiliac (1695-1762) was an able French sculptor, born at Lyons. He 
 settled in London in 1720, and soon became the most popular sculptor of 
 the time in England. His chief works in the Abbey are the monuments of 
 Handel, Admiral Warren, Marshal Wade, Mrs. Nightingale, and the Duke 
 of Argyll. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 87 
 
 light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the death- 
 like repose around ; and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, 
 thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating 
 against the very walls of the sepulcher. 
 
 I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from 
 chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away ; the 
 distant tread of loiterers about the Abbey grew less and less fre- 
 quent ; the sweet- tongued bell was summoning to evening prayer ; 
 and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, 
 crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the en- 
 trance to Henry VII. 's Chapel. 1 A flight of steps leads up to it, 
 through a deep and gloomy but magnificent arch. Great gates 
 of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their 
 hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mor- 
 tals into this most gorgeous of sepulchers. 
 
 On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architect- 
 ure, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very 
 walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, 
 and scooped into niches crowded with the statues of saints and 
 martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to 
 have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft as 
 if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful 
 minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 
 
 Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights 
 of the Bath 2 richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque dec- 
 
 1 Designed by Henry VII. as a burying place for himself and his success- 
 ors ; and he expressly enjoined in his will that none but those of royal blood 
 should be buried there. The first to be buried there was his wife, Elizabeth 
 of York, who died in 1503. Six years later he died, and was buried by the 
 side of his queen, not in the raised tomb, but in the vault beneath. His effigy 
 was completed within twenty years after his death, by Torrigiano, a Floren- 
 tine sculptor. 
 
 2 This Order of the Knights of the Bath originated, it is said, in 1399, at 
 Henry IV. 's coronation. In the earlier coronations it had been the practice 
 of the sovereigns to create a number of knights before they started on their 
 procession from the Tower. These knights, being made in time of peace, 
 
88 IRVING. 
 
 orations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls 
 are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs 
 and swords ; and above them are suspended their banners, em- 
 blazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of 
 gold and purple and crimson with the cold, gray fretwork of the 
 roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulcher 
 of its founder, 1 his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on 
 a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly 
 wrought brazen railing. 
 
 There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this strange 
 mixture of tombs and trophies, these emblems of living and aspir- 
 ing ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and 
 oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing 
 impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to 
 tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. 
 On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their 
 esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were 
 once borne before them, my imagination conjured up the scene 
 when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land, 
 glittering with the splendor of jeweled rank and military array, 
 alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring 
 multitude. All had passed away : the silence of death had set- 
 tled again upon the place, interrupted only by the casual chirp- 
 ing of birds, which had found their way into the chapel, and built 
 their nests among its friezes and pendants, sure signs of soli- 
 tariness and desertion. 
 
 were not enrolled in any existing order, and for a long period had no special 
 designation ; but inasmuch as one of the most striking and characteristic parts 
 of their admission was the complete ablution of their persons on the eve of 
 their knighthood, as an emblem of the cleanliness and purity of their profes- 
 sion, they were called " Knights of the Bath." The King himself bathed on 
 this occasion with them. The ceremony took place at Westminster; the 
 bath, in the Painted or Prince's Chamber ; and the vigils, either before the 
 Confessor's shrine or in Henry VII. 's Chapel. 
 
 1 Edward the Confessor (1004-66). He acceded to the throne in 1043. 
 He rebuilt the ancient Abbey of Westminster. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 89 
 
 When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were 
 those of men scattered far and wide about the world, some toss- 
 ing upon distant seas, some under arms in distant lands, some 
 mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets, all seeking 
 to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy hon- 
 ors, the melancholy reward of a monument. 
 
 Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touch- 
 ing instance of the equality of the grave, which brings down the 
 oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of 
 the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulcher of the 
 haughty Elizabeth : l in the other is that of her victim, the lovely 
 and unfortunate Mary. 2 Not an hour in the day but some ejacu- 
 lation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with 
 indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulcher 
 continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave 
 of her rival. 
 
 A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies 
 buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by 
 dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the 
 walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble 
 figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an 
 iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem, the 
 thistle. 3 I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself 
 
 1 Elizabeth (born in 1533) reigned as Queen of England from 1558 to 1603, 
 when she died. She was the last of the Tudors, and was called " the lion- 
 hearted Elizabeth." James I. had the body of Queen Elizabeth taken from 
 the Cathedral Church of Peterborough, and a monument erected over her in 
 Westminster Abbey. 
 
 2 Mary Queen of Scots, daughter of James V. of Scotland, was born i) 
 1542. She was charged by Queen Elizabeth with having entered into a con- 
 spiracy against the life of the latter, and ordered to be executed. Queen 
 Elizabeth signed the death warrant on the ist of February, 1587; and on the 
 morning of the 8th of February, Mary Queen of Scots, protesting her inno- 
 cence, was beheaded. 
 
 3 The thistle, which gives name to the Scottish order, is also an heraldic 
 wearing in that country. 
 
90 IRVING. . 
 
 by the monument, revolving in my mind the checkered and disas- 
 trous story of poor Mary. 
 
 The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the Abbey. I 
 could only hear now and then the distant voice of the priest re- 
 peating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir. 
 These paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the 
 desertion and obscurity, that were gradually prevailing around, 
 gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place : 
 
 For in the silent grave no conversation, 
 
 No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
 
 No careful father's counsel, nothing's heard, 
 
 For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
 
 Dust and an endless darkness. 
 
 Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the 
 ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as 
 it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and 
 grandeur accord with this mighty building! With what pomp 
 do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful 
 harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sep- 
 ulcher vocal! And now they rise in triumph and acclamation, 
 heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound 
 on sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir 
 break out into sweet gushes of melody : they soar aloft and war- 
 ble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults 
 like the pure airs of heaven. Again |the pealing organ heaves 
 its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it 
 forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences! What solemn 
 sweeping concords ! It grows more and more dense and power- 
 ful ; it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls ; the ear 
 is stunned ; the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding 
 up in full jubilee. It is rising from the earth to heaven. The 
 very soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling 
 tide of harmony. 
 
 I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain 
 of music is apt sometimes to inspire. The shadows of evening 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 91 
 
 were gradually thickening around me, the monuments began to 
 cast deeper and deeper gloom, and the distant clock again gave 
 token of th slowly waning day,_ 
 
 I rose, and prepared to leave the Abbey. As I descended the 
 flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye 
 was caught by the shrine l of Edward the Confessor ; and I as- 
 cended the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence 
 a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is ele- 
 vated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepul- 
 chers of various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye 
 looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels 
 and chambers below, crowded with tombs, where warriors, prel- 
 ates, courtiers, and statesmen lie moldering in their "beds of 
 darkness." Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, 2 
 rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and 
 Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with the- 
 atrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here 
 was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and 
 power : here it was literally but a step from the throne to the 
 sepulcher. Would not one think that these incongruous memen- 
 tos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness? 
 to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the 
 neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive ; how soon that 
 crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it must lie 
 down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled 
 
 1 Erected by Henry III. on the canonizing of Edward, King of England, 
 by Pope Alexander III., who caused his name to be placed in the catalogue 
 of saints. The shrine was the work of the Italian artist Cavallini. This 
 shrine was 2 constant object of pilgrimages from all parts of England all 
 through the middle ages. 
 
 2 This chair must have been specially constructed for the reception of the 
 famous stone which Edward I. brought from Scotland in 1296. It has been 
 constantly used at coronations ever since. The coronation takes place while 
 the sovereign is seated in the chair. The last time it was brought out from 
 the chapel where it stands was at the Jubilee Thanksgiving service (1888), 
 when the Queen sat in it during the ceremonial. 
 
92 IRVING. 
 
 upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude : for, strange to 
 tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. There is a 
 shocking levity in some natures, which leads them to sport with 
 awful and hallowed things ; and there are base minds, which 
 delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject homage and 
 groveling servility which they pay to the living. The coffin of 
 Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his remains 
 despoiled of their funeral ornaments ; the scepter has been stolen 
 from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth; and the effigy of 
 Henry V. lies headless. 1 Not a royal monument but bears some 
 proof how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some 
 are plundered, some mutilated, some covered with ribaldry and 
 insult, all more or less outraged and dishonored. 
 
 The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the 
 painted windows in the high vaults above me. The lower parts 
 of the Abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. 
 The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of 
 the kings faded into shadows ; the marble figures of the monu- 
 ments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light ; the even- 
 ing breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the 
 grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the 
 Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. 
 I slowly retraced my morning's walk ; and as I, passed out at 
 the portal of the cloisters,, the door, closing with a jarring noise 
 behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. 
 
 I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the 
 objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already 
 falling into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, 
 trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though 
 I had scarcely taken my foot trom off the threshold. What, 
 thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchers, but a treasury of 
 
 1 The effigy is said to have originally been plated with silver, and the head 
 to have been of solid silver. Nothing is now left but the wooden fdrm upon 
 which the gilded plates were fastened. Henry V. was King of England from 
 1413 to 1422. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 93 
 
 humiliation, a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness 
 of renown and the certainty of oblivion? , It is, indeed, the em- 
 pire of Death ; his great, shadowy palace, where he sits in state, 
 mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and 
 forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, 
 after all, is the immortality of a name! Time is ever silently 
 turning over his pages. We are too much engrossed by the story 
 of the present to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave 
 interest to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside to 
 be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of 
 yesterday out of our recollection, and will, jn turn, be supplanted 
 by his successor of to-morrow. " Our fathers," says Sir Thomas 
 Brown, 1 " find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell 
 us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades into 
 fable, fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy, the 
 inscription molders from the tablet, the statue falls from the ped- 
 estal. Columns, arches, pyramids what are they but heaps 
 of sand, and their epitaphs but characters written in the dust? 
 What is the security of the tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalm- 
 ment? The remains of Alexander the Great 2 have been scattered 
 to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity 
 of a museum. "The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses 3 or 
 
 1 A distinguished English writer, born in London in 1605. He graduated 
 at Oxford in 1626; studied medicine and practiced in Oxfordshire, and re- 
 ceived the degree of M.D. at the University of Leyden. He published a 
 work, Religio Medici, which was a success, and he became celebrated as a 
 man of letters. In 1671 he was made a knight by Charles II. 
 
 2 Alexander III. (commonly called "the Great") was born at Pella, 
 356 B.C. He was a great warrior, and successful in all his exploits, conquer- 
 ing all the world then known. He died after a reign of less than thirteen 
 years, and before he had reached the age of thirty-three. 
 
 3 The elder son and successor of Cyrus, who reigned over the Persian 
 Empire for seven years and five months (529-521 B.C.). He made a conquest 
 of Egypf in 525 B.C. He assumed the responsibilities and titles proper to 
 a king of Egypt, taking as his throne name that of " Kambath-Remesot, 
 Lord of Upper and Lower Egypt." 
 
94 IRVING. 
 
 time hath spared, avarice now consumeth. Mizraim 1 cures 
 wounds, and Pharaoh 2 is sold for balsams." 3 
 
 What, then, is to insure this pile which now towers above me 
 from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? The time must 
 come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie 
 in rubbish beneath the feet ; when, instead of the sound of mel- 
 ody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, 
 and the owl hoot from the shattered tower ; when the garish sun- 
 beam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the 
 ivy twine round the fallen column, and the fox-glove hang its 
 blossoms about the nameless urn as if in mockery of the dead. 
 Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from record and rec- 
 ollection ; his history is as a tale that is told ; and his very 
 monument becomes a ruin. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 {Found among the Papers of the Late Diedrich Knickerbocker. ,] 
 
 "A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
 
 Of dreams that wave before the half -shut eye y 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
 Forever flushing round a summer sky." 
 
 CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.* 
 
 IN the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the 
 eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the 
 river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan 
 
 1 Mizraim, or Mizri, is the Hebrew name for Egypt. 
 
 2 The title of Pharaoh was applied to the kings of Egypt, from Menes to 
 Solomon. 
 
 3 From Sir T. Brown. In the sixteenth and part of the seventeenth cen- 
 turies, mummy formed one of the ordinary drugs, and was found in the shops 
 of all the apothecaries. Tombs were searched, and as many mummies as 
 could be obtained were broken into pieces for the purpose of sale.* Physi- 
 cians of all nations commonly prescribed it in cases of bruises and wounds. 
 
 4 James Thomson (1700-48) was the son of a Scotch minister, and author 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 95 
 
 Zee, 1 and where they always prudently shortened sail, and im- 
 plored the protection of St. Nicholas 2 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 " Tarrytown." 3 This name was given it, we 
 are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent 
 country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to lin- 
 ger 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, per- 
 haps about three miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of 
 land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the 
 whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur 
 enough to lull one to repose ; and the 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 noontime, when all na- 
 ture is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own 
 gun, as it broke the sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged 
 and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for 
 a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distrac- 
 
 of The Seasons, which gave him a great reputation. The Castle of Indo- 
 lence, from which the above verse is quoted, was his last work, and was pub- 
 lished the year he died. Till the advent of Scott and Byron, Thomson was 
 the most widely popular poet in our language. 
 
 1 The expansion of the Hudson River between Haverstraw and Piermont, 
 having a length of about twelve miles, and a breadth in the neighborhood ot 
 from four to five miles. 
 
 2 Bishop of Myra in the fourth century. He was also the mariner's 
 saint, and is the present patron of those who lead a seafaring life (as Nep- 
 tune was of old). 
 
 3 Tarrytown is twenty-seven miles from New York. It is famous both 
 historically and from its connection with Washington Irving, whose cottage,, 
 " Sunny side," is in the vicinity. 
 
96 IRVING. 
 
 tions, and dream quietly away the temnant of a troubled life, I 
 know of none more promising than this little valley. 
 
 From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar char- 
 acter 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 wiz- 
 ard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was 
 discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. 1 Certain it is, the 
 place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that 
 holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to 
 walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of mar- 
 velous 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, 2 seems to make it the favor- 
 ite scene of her gambols. 
 
 The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted re- 
 gion, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of 
 the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. 
 It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian 3 trooper, whose 
 
 1 A distinguished English navigator, who made four voyages, attempting 
 to find a shorter passage to China than by the way of the Cape of Good Hope. 
 On the third of these voyages he entered the bay now called New York Bay, 
 and (Sept. u, 1609) sailed up what is now the Hudson River. During his 
 fourth voyage, two years later, he penetrated the straits and discovered the 
 great bay of Canada which now bears his name. Here his mutinous sailors 
 cast him adrift in a small boat, and left him to die. 
 
 2 See King Lear, act iii. sc. 4. 
 
 3 These Hessians came from a province of western Germany called Hesse- 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 97 
 
 head had been carried away by a cannon-ball in some nameless 
 battle during the Revolutionary war, and who is ever and anon 
 seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as 
 if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the 
 valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially 
 to the vicinity of a church that is at no great distance. Indeed, 
 certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have 
 been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concern- 
 ing thte specter, 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 rushing speed 
 with which he sometimes passes along the hollow, like a midnight 
 blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back 
 to the 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 specter is known at all the country 
 firesides by the name of " The Headless Horseman of Sleepy 
 Hollow." 
 
 It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have men- 
 tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but 
 is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a 
 time. However wide-awake they may have been before they 
 entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale 
 the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, 
 to dream dreams, and see apparitions. 
 
 I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud : for it is in 
 such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there em- 
 bosomed 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 
 
 CasseJ. They were brought to America by the British in 1776, having been 
 hired by them to fight against the American troops. 
 
 7 
 
98 IRVING. 
 
 unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water which 
 border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and bubble 
 riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic har- 
 bor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though 
 many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of 
 Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find 
 the same trees and the same families 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 woodmen 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 de- 
 scending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a corn- 
 field. 
 
 His schoolhouse 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 em- 
 barrassment in getting out, an idea most probably borrowed 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 99 
 
 by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel- 
 pot. 1 The schoolhouse 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 of a drowsy summer's day, like the 
 hum of a beehive ; interrupted now and then by the authoritative 
 voice of the master in the tone of menace or command, or, per- 
 adventure, by the appalling sound of the birch as he urged some 
 tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to 
 say, he was a conscientious man, that ever bore in mind the 
 golden maxim, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." 2 Ichabod 
 Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 
 
 I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of 
 those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their 
 subjects : on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimi- 
 nation rather than severity ; taking the burthen off the backs of 
 the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny 
 stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed 
 by with indulgence ; but the claims of justice were satisfied by 
 inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, 
 broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who 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 smart- 
 ing 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 
 
 1 A box or basket for catching eels. The only opening is at the bottom of 
 a funnel-shaped entrance, and is so small and so located, that, having entered 
 it, the eels cannot easily find it again in order to get out. 
 
 8 King Solomon's. 
 
ioo IRVING. 
 
 comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on 
 good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school 
 was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him 
 with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, 
 had the dilating powers of an anaconda; 1 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 
 grievous burthen, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had vari- 
 ous ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He 
 assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their 
 farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to 
 water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter 
 fire. He laid aside, too, all 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 petting the children, particularly the 
 youngest ; and like " the lion bold," which whilom so magnani- 
 mously " the* lamb did hold," 2 he would sit with a child on one 
 knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. 
 
 In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master 
 of the 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 
 
 1 A reptile possessing extraordinary powers of dilation. It kills by con- 
 striction. 
 
 2 The New England Primer, published in Walpole, N.H., in 1814, con- 
 tains an illustrated alphabet. The letter L is illustrated by a lion with one 
 of its paws resting upon a lamb which is lying down, and the following 
 
 lines : 
 
 11 The Lion bold 
 The Lamb doth hold.'' 
 

 THE SKETCH-BOOK. IOI 
 
 church gallery with a band of chosen singers, where, in his own 
 mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. 1 
 Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the 
 congregation ; and there are peculiar quavers, still tQ be heard ift 
 that church, and which may even be heard ha-f-a milejoff, quite 
 to the opposite side of the mill-pond, OP a still Sunday mprpipg, 
 which are said to be legitimately descended from the noso of 
 Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little makeshifts in that ingen- 
 ious way which is commonly denominated "by hook and by 
 crook," 2 the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was 
 thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, 
 to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 
 
 The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the 
 female circle of a rural neighborhood, being considered a kind 
 of idle, gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and ac- 
 complishments to the rough country swains, and. indeed, inferior 
 in learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is 
 apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, 
 and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweet- 
 meats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man 
 of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the 
 country damsels. How he would figure among them in the 
 churchyard, between services on Sundays! gathering grapes for 
 them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees ; re- 
 citing for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; 
 or sauntering with a whole bevy of them along the banks of the 
 adjacent mill-pond ; while the more bashful country bumpkins 
 hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. 
 
 From his half itineiant life, also, he was a kind of traveling 
 
 1 Surpassed the parson in point of excellence. 
 
 2 Formerly the poor of a manor were allowed to go into the forests with a 
 hook and crook to get wood. What they could not reach, they might pull 
 down with their crook. This sort of living was very precarious, but eagerly 
 sought. Boundary stones, beyond which " the hook and crook folk " might 
 not pass, exist still. 
 
102 IRVING. 
 
 gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to 
 house ; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfac- 
 tion. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of 
 , great eruditi9n,,fqr,hc had read several books quite through, and 
 \yas a perfect /r.as.ter r of Cotton Mather's 1 " History of New Eng- 
 land .Witchcraft ;." in. which, by the way, he most firmly and 
 ^potently believed.- - 
 
 He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and sim- 
 ple credulity. His appetite for the marvelous, and his powers 
 of digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; and both had been 
 increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale 
 was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was 
 often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, 
 to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little 
 brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over 
 old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening 
 made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he 
 wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to 
 the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound 
 of Nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination, 
 the moan of the whip-poor-will 2 from the hillside ; the boding 
 cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm ; the dreary hooting 
 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 
 
 1 A celebrated theologian and writer, born in Boston in 1663. He was 
 ordained as a minister in 1684, and preached in Boston. From the first he 
 was eager to bring to trial and punishment those supposed to be guilty of 
 witchcraft ; and, when others began clearly to see the folly and injustice of 
 these cruel persecutions, he earnestly, though vainly, strove to stem the reac- 
 tion in the popular mind. 
 
 2 A whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives its 
 name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 103 
 
 blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give 
 up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's 
 token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown 
 thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; and 
 the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of 
 an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody, 
 " in linked sweetness long drawn out," 1 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 sputtering along 
 the hearth, and listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts and gob- 
 lins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, 
 and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, 
 or " Galloping Hessian of the Hollow," as they sometimes called 
 him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witch- 
 craft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds 
 in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut, 2 
 and would frighten them wofully with speculations 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. 
 
 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 specter 
 dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors 
 of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and 
 shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a 
 snowy night! With what wistful look did he eye every trem- 
 bling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some dis- 
 
 1 From Milton's L'Allegro. 
 
 2 In New England, in 1692, many people believed in witches. Such firm 
 believers were they in witchcraft, that it was very easy to create a suspicion 
 against a person as a witch. Many were thrown into prison, and some were 
 hung, in consequence. 
 
104 IRVING. 
 
 tant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub cov- 
 ered with snow, which, like a sheeted specter, beset his very 
 path! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound 
 of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread 
 to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth 
 being tramping close behind him ! and how often was he thrown 
 into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the 
 trees, in the idea 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 darkness ; and though he had seen 
 many specters in his time, and been more than once beset by 
 Satan in divers shapes in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight 
 put an end to all these evils ; and he would have passed a pleas- 
 ant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path 
 had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to 
 mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches 
 put together, and that was a woman. 
 
 Among the musical disciples who assembled one evening in 
 each week to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina 
 Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch 
 farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; plump as a 
 partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her 
 father's peaches ; and universally famed, not merely for her 
 beauty, but her vast expectations. She was, withal, a little of a 
 coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a 
 mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off 
 her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold which 
 her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam ; l 
 the tempting stomacher of the olden time ; and, withal, a pro- 
 vokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle 
 in the country round. 
 
 1 Zaandam, Zaanredam, or Saardam, is a village of Holland in the prov- 
 ince of North Holland, five miles by rail from Amsterdam. Peter the Great 
 of Russia wrought at Saardam as a ship carpenter in 1697. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 105 
 
 Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex ; 
 and it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon 
 found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her 
 in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect 
 picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He sel- 
 dom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the 
 boundaries of his own farm; but within these everything was 
 snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his 
 wealth, but not proud of it, and piqued himself upon the hearty 
 abundance rather than the style in which he lived. His strong- 
 hold 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 babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by 
 the farmhouse was a vast barn that might have served for a 
 church, every window and crevice of which seemed bursting 
 forth with the treasures of the farm. The flail was busily re- 
 sounding within it from morning to night ; swallows and martins 
 skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons 
 some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather ; some 
 with their heads under their wings or buried in their bosoms ; 
 and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames 
 were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy 
 porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their 
 pens ; from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of suck- 
 ing pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy 
 geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets 
 of ducks. Regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the 
 farmyard, and guinea-fowls fretting about it like ill-tempered 
 housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the 
 barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, 
 a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings 
 
106 IRVING. 
 
 and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart, sometimes 
 tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling 
 his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich 
 morsel which he had discovered. 
 
 The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon this sump- 
 tuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind's 
 eye he pictured to himself every roasting pig running about " with 
 a pudding in its belly " 1 and an apple in its mouth ; the pigeons 
 were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with 
 a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in their own gravy ; 
 and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, 
 with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw 
 carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy, relishing 
 ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its giz- 
 zard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sau- 
 sages ; and even bright chanticleer 2 himself lay sprawling on his 
 back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quar- 
 ter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 
 
 As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled 
 his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of 
 wheat, of rye, of buckwheat and Indian corn, and the orchards 
 burthened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement 
 of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to in- 
 herit 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 
 presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of 
 children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household 
 
 1 From Shakespeare, Henry IV., Part I. act ii. sc. 4. 
 
 2 A cock. Old French, chantecler (from chanter, "to sing;" and cler, 
 " clear"), the name of the cock in the poem Reynard the Fox. The Middle 
 English forms of the word were chauntecleer, chaunteclere, chanteclere. 
 Compare Chaucer, Nun's Priest's Tale, 1. 501 : " This chauntecleer his 
 wynges gan to bete." 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 107 
 
 trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld 
 himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting 
 out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. 
 
 When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was com- 
 plete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged 
 but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the 
 first Dutch settlers ; the low, projecting eaves forming a piazza. 
 along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Un- 
 der 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 wonderful Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the center 
 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 1 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 pep- 
 pers : and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, 
 where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone 
 like mirrors ; and irons, with their accompanying shovel and 
 tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock- 
 oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings 
 of various colored bird's eggs were suspended above it ; a great 
 ostrich egg was hung from the center 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 
 
 1 Coarse cloth, having a linen warp and a woolen woof. 
 
io8 IRVING. 
 
 than generally fell to the lot of a knight- errant 1 of yore, who sel- 
 dom 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 center of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave 
 him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, 
 had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with 
 a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever present- 
 ing new difficulties and impediments ; and he had to encounter a 
 host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous 
 rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart, keeping a 
 watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in 
 the common cause against any new competitor. 
 
 Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roys- 
 tering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch 
 abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, 
 which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was 
 broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short, curly black hair, 
 and a bluff but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air 
 of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great pow- 
 ers of limb, he had received the nickname of " Brom Bones," by 
 which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowl- 
 edge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback 
 as a Tartar. 2 He was foremost at all races and cock-fights, and, 
 with the ascendency which bodily strength always acquires in 
 rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one 
 side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that admitted 
 of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight 
 or a frolic ; had more mischief than ill will in his composition ; 
 and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash 
 
 1 A knight who wandered in search of adventure. 
 
 2 The Tartars were a nomadic tribe of Central Asia, noted for their fine 
 horsemanship. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 109 
 
 of waggish good-humor at bottom. He had three or four boon 
 companions of his own stamp, who regarded him as their model, 
 and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every 
 scene of feud or merriment for miles around. In cold weather 
 he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting 
 fox's tail ; and when the folks at a country gathering descried 
 this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a 
 squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Some- 
 times his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses 
 at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cos- 
 sacks ; l 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 oc- 
 curred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted 
 Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 
 
 This rantipole 2 hero had for some time singled out the bloom- 
 ing 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 advances were 
 signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to 
 cross a lion in his amours ; insomuch, that when his horse was 
 seen tied to Van Tassel's paling on a Sunday night, a sure sign 
 that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking," 
 within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the 
 war into other quarters. 
 
 Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had 
 to contend ; and, considering all things, a stouter man than he 
 would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would 
 
 1 The Russian tribes who settled on the River Don. They are a restless 
 and warlike race. They form a first-rate irregular cavalry, and render excel- 
 lent service as scouts and skirmishers. 
 
 2 Wild. 
 
no IRVING. 
 
 ha^ve despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability 
 and perseverance in his nature. He was in form and spirit like 
 a supple-jack, yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never 
 broke ; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, 
 the moment it was away jerk! he was as erect, and carried his 
 head as high, as ever. 
 
 To have taken the field openly against his rival would have 
 been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his 
 amours, any more than that stormy lover Achilles. 1 Ichabod, 
 therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating 
 manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he 
 made frequent visits at the farmhouse ; not that he had anything 
 to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, 
 which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait 
 Van Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul. He loved his daughter 
 better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an ex- 
 cellent father, let her have her way in everything. His notable 
 little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping 
 and manage the poultry ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and 
 geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can 
 take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled 
 about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the 
 piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the 
 other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, 
 armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the 
 wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time Ichabod 
 would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the 
 spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, 
 that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 
 
 1 A famous Greek warrior of Homer's Iliad. Achilles, in a dispute about 
 his lady-love Briseis, becomes angered against Agamemnon, commander-in- 
 chief of the allied Greeks besieging Troy or Ilion (hence the name " Iliad "), 
 and refuses to fight. The Trojans prevail for a time. Patroclus, Achilles' 
 friend, falls ; and Achilles in wrath flies to battle, kills Hector (chief of the 
 Trojans), and turns the tide of battle against them. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. Ill 
 
 I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. 
 To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. 
 Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access ; 
 while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a 
 thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain 
 the former, but a still_ greater proof of generalship to maintain 
 possession of the latter, for a man must battle for his fortress at 
 every door and window. He who wins a thousand common 
 hearts is therefore entitled to some renown ; but he who keeps 
 undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. 
 Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom 
 Bones ; and, ffom the moment Ichabod Crane made his ad- 
 vances, 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 between 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 settled their pre- 
 tensions to the lady according to the mode of those most concise 
 and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore, by single com- 
 bat ; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his 
 adversary to enter the lists against him. He had overheard the 
 boast of Bones, that he would " double the schoolmaster up and 
 put him on a shelf ;" and he was too wary to give him an oppor- 
 tunity. There was something extremely provoking in this obsti- 
 nately pacific system : it left Brom no alternative but to draw 
 upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play 
 off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the 
 object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough 
 riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains ; smoked out 
 his singing-school by stopping up the chimney ; broke into the 
 schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe 
 and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy : so that 
 the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the coun- 
 try held their meetings there. But, what was still more annoying, 
 
112 IRVING. 
 
 Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in pres- 
 ence 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. 
 
 In this way matters went on for some time, without producing 
 any material effect on the relative situations of the contending 
 powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive 
 mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he usually 
 watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand 
 he swayed a ferule, that scepter 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 sun- 
 dry 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. Apparently there had been some appalling act of 
 justice recently inflicted ; for his scholars were all busily intent 
 upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye 
 kept upon the master, and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned 
 throughout the schoolroom. 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, 1 and 
 mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which 
 he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering 
 up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a 
 merry-making, or "quilting frolic," to be held that evening at 
 Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and having delivered his message with 
 that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro 
 is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over 
 the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of 
 the importance and hurry of his mission. 
 
 All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. 
 The scholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping 
 
 1 The Roman god who presided over barter, trade, and all commercial 
 dealings. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 113 
 
 at trifles. Those who were nimble skipped over half with im- 
 punity ; 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 early emancipation. 
 
 The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at 
 his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best and indeed only suit 
 of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken look- 
 ing-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make 
 his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, 
 he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domi- 
 ciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Rip- 
 per, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight-errant 
 in quest of adventures. But 'it is meet I should, in the true spirit 
 of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments 
 of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken- 
 down plow-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 tangled 
 and knotted with burrs. One eye had lost its pupil, and was 
 glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine 
 devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if 
 we may judge from his name, which was 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 saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he 
 
 carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a scepter ; and, 
 
 8 
 
114 IRVING. 
 
 as the 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 fluttered 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 alto- 
 gether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad 
 daylight. 
 
 It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day. The sky was 
 clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery 
 which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The 
 forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some 
 trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frost into bril- 
 liant 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 hick- 
 ory 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 
 fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, 
 from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very 
 profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock- 
 robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud, 
 querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable 
 clouds; and the golden- winged woodpecker, with his crimson 
 crest, his broad, black gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the 
 cedar bird, with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail, and 
 its little monteiro cap 1 of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy 
 coxcomb, in his gay, light-blue coat and white underclothes, 
 screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, 
 and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the 
 grove. 
 
 1 Montero cap (Spanish, montera), a kind of cap, originally a hunting- 
 cap; from montero (" a huntsman"). It has a spherical crown, and a flap 
 round it that may be drawn down over the ears. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 115 
 
 As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to 
 every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over 
 the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store 
 of apples, some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees, 
 some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market, others 
 heaped up in rich piles for trie cider-press. Farther on he be- 
 held great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping 
 from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes 
 and hasty pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath 
 them, turning up their fair, round bellies to the sun, and giving 
 ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he 
 passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the 
 beehive ; 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 gradually wheeled his broad disk down into 
 the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and 
 glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved, 
 and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few 
 amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move 
 them. The horizon was of a fine, golden tint, changing grad- 
 ually into a pure apple-green, and from that into the deep-blue 
 of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests 
 of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving 
 greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. 
 A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with 
 the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast ; and, as the 
 reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as 
 if the vessel was suspended in the air. 
 
 It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of 
 the Herr Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride 
 
Ii6 IRVING. 
 
 and flower of the adjacent country, old farmers, a spare, leath- 
 ern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, 
 huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles ; their brisk, withered 
 little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted gowns, home- 
 spun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico 
 pockets hanging on the outside ; buxom lasses, almost as anti- 
 quated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine 
 ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city inno- 
 vations ; the sons, in short, square-skirted coats with rows of 
 stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the 
 fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin 
 for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a 
 potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. 
 
 Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come 
 to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, 
 like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but 
 himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring 
 vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider 
 in 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 he'ro, 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 
 sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes 
 of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experi- 
 enced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, 
 the tender oly-koek, 1 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, delectable dishes of preserved plums, and 
 
 1 A kind of Dutch cake, made of dough sweetened, and fried in lard. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 117 
 
 peaches, and pears, and quinces ; not to mention broiled shad 
 and roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk and cream ; 
 all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated 
 them, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor 
 from the midst Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and 
 time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to 
 get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so 
 great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every 
 dainty. 
 
 He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in 
 proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose 
 spirits rose with eating as some men's do with drink. He could 
 not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and 
 chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of 
 all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, 
 he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school- 
 house ; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and 
 every other niggardly patron ; and kick any itinerant pedagogue 
 out of doors that should dare to call him comrade ! 
 
 Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a 
 face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly as 
 the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief but ex- 
 pressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the 
 shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to " fall to, and 
 help themselves." 
 
 And now the sound of the music from the common room, or 
 hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an olo^ gray- 
 headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neigh- 
 borhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as 
 old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he 
 scraped away on two or three strings, accompanying every move- 
 ment 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 
 
Il8 IRVING. 
 
 vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fiber about him, was idle ; and 
 to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering 
 about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus 1 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 win- 
 dow, gazing with delight 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 amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, 
 sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in 
 one corner. 
 
 When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a 
 knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking 
 at one end of the piazza., gossiping over former times, and 
 drawling out long stories about the war. 
 
 This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was 
 one of those highly favored places which abound 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, cowboys, and all kinds of border 
 chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story- 
 teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in 
 the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of 
 every exploit. 
 
 There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large, blue-bearded 
 Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old 
 iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst 
 at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who 
 
 1 The patron saint of dancers and actors, and invoked against the disease 
 known as " St. Vitus's dance." He is the patron of Saxony, Bohemia, and 
 Sicily, and throughout Germany ranks as one of the fourteen " Nothelfer" 
 of the Church. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 119 
 
 shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer 1 to be lightly men- 
 tioned, who in the battle of Whiteplains, 2 being an excellent 
 master of defense, parried a musket-ball with a small sword, in- 
 somuch that he. absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance 
 off at the hilt, in proof of which he was ready at any time to 
 show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several 
 more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom 
 but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing 
 the war to a happy termination. 
 
 But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appari- 
 tions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary 
 treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best 
 in these skeltered, long-settled retreats, but are trampled under 
 foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most 
 of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for 
 ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to 
 finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before 
 their surviving friends have traveled away from the neighborhood ; 
 so that, when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they 
 have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is, perhaps, the 
 reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts, except in our long- 
 established Dutch communities. 
 
 The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernat- 
 ural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of 
 Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew 
 from that haunted region : it breathed forth an atmosphere of 
 dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy 
 Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were 
 doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales 
 
 1 From the Dutch mijn heer, equivalent to the German mein Herr (" my 
 master," "my lord"), our " sir" or " Mr.," a term of respectful address 
 employed by the Dutch ; hence also a Dutchman. 
 
 2 At Whiteplains, twenty-five miles northeast of New York, the Amer- 
 icans were driven back by the British under Gen. Howe, and compelled to 
 withdraw to New Jersey, October, 1776. 
 
120 IRVING. 
 
 were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings, 
 heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major 
 Andr6 1 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 specter 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, 
 surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its 
 decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian 
 purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle 
 slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by 
 high trees, between which peeps may be caught at the blue hills 
 of the 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 
 
 1 John Andre" was born in London in 1751. He became an adjutant- 
 general in the British army of the American Revolution. Benedict Arnold, 
 who commanded the American fortress of West Point, made arrangements to 
 betray that place into the hands of the British general Sir Henry Clinton. 
 Andre" was associated with Arnold in this plot, which was frustrated and de- 
 feated by the capture of Andre", who had been sent by Arnold with letters. 
 Andre" was tried by a court-martial, and condemned to be hung as a spy. He 
 was executed at Tappantown, Oct. 2, 1780. In 1821 his remains were trans- 
 ferred to England, and interred in Westminster Abbey. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 121 
 
 darkness at night. Such 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 Brouwer, a most heretical 
 disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from 
 his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind 
 him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and 
 swamp, until they reached the bridge, when the horseman sud- 
 denly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, 
 and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 
 
 This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvelous 
 adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the Galloping Hes- 
 sian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed, that, on returning one 
 night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been 
 overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that he had offered to race 
 with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it, too (for 
 Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow), but, just as they came 
 to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash 
 of fire. 
 
 All these tales told in that drowsy undertone with which .men 
 talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and 
 then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep 
 in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large 
 extracts from his invaluable author Cotton Mather, and added 
 many marvelous events that had taken place in his native State 
 of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his 
 nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered 
 together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some 
 time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. 
 Some of the damsels mounted on pillions l behind their favorite 
 swains ; and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clat- 
 ter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter 
 and fainter until they gradually died away, and the late scene of 
 
 1 A cushion adjusted to a saddle at the back, serving as a kind of seat for 
 another person riding behind. 
 
122 IRVING. 
 
 noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lin- 
 gered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have 
 a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on 
 the high road to success. What passed at this interview I will 
 not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, how- 
 ever, I fear me, must have gone wrong ; for he certainly sallied 
 forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and 
 chopfallen. Oh these women, these women! Could that girl 
 have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks? Was her 
 encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure 
 her conquest of 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. With- 
 out 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. 
 
 It was the very witching time of night, that Ichabod, heavy 
 hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travel homewards along the 
 sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarrytown, and which 
 he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as 
 dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee spread its 
 dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall 
 mast of a sloop riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the 
 dead hush of midnight he could even hear the barking of the 
 watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson, but it was so 
 vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this 
 faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn 
 crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound . far, far 
 off, from some farmhouse away among the hills ; but it was like 
 a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near 
 him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or 
 perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog from a neighboring 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 123 
 
 marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in 
 his bed. 
 
 All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the 
 afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night 
 grew darker and darker. The stars seemed to sink deeper in the 
 sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. 
 He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, ap- 
 proaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost 
 stories had been laid. In the center of the road stood an enor- 
 mous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other 
 trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its. 
 limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks 
 for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising 
 again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of 
 the unfortunate Andre who had been taken prisoner hard by, and 
 was universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree. The 
 common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and super- 
 stition, 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 concerning it. 
 
 As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle. 
 He thought his whistle was answered : it was but a blast sweep- 
 ing sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little 
 nearer, he thought he saw something white hanging in the midst 
 of the tree. He paused, and ceased whistling, but, on looking 
 more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had 
 been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Sud- 
 denly 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 thii stream. On that aide of the 
 
124 IRVING. 
 
 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 cap- 
 tured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the 
 sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since 
 been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of 
 the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark. 
 v 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 across 
 the bridge ; but, instead of starting forward, the perverse old 
 animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the 
 fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked 
 the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary- 
 foot. It was all in vain. His steed started, it is true, but it was 
 only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of 
 brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed 
 both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, 
 who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand 
 just by the bridge with a suddenness that had nearly sent his 
 rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy 
 tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Icha- 
 bod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the 
 brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black, and tower- 
 ing. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like 
 some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler. 
 
 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 de- 
 manded in stammering accents, " Who are you? " He received 
 no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. 
 Still < there was no answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides of 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 125 
 
 the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with 
 involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy 
 object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a 
 bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the 
 night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might 
 now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horse- 
 man of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of 
 powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, 
 but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind 
 side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and 
 waywardness. 
 
 Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight com- 
 panion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones 
 with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes 
 of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his 
 horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, 
 thinking to lag behind : the other did the same. His heart be- 
 gan to sink within him. He endeavored to resume his psalm 
 tune ; but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, 
 and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the 
 moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that 
 was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted 
 for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of 
 his fellow-traveler 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 ob- 
 serving that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, 
 was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle. His terror 
 rose to desperation. He reined a shower of kicks and blows 
 upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his 
 companion the slip ; but the specter started full jump with him. 
 Away then they dashed, through thick and thin ; stones flying, 
 and sparks flashing, at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments 
 fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long, lank body away over 
 his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 
 
126 IRVING. 
 
 They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
 Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, 
 instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged 
 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 unskillful rider an 
 apparent advantage in the chase ; but, just as he had got halfway 
 through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he 
 felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, 
 and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and had just time 
 to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when 
 the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot 
 by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's 
 wrath passed across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle ; but 
 this was no time for petty fears. The goblin was hard on his 
 haunches ; and (unskillful 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 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's 
 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 brimstone. Just 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 127 
 
 then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act 
 of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the 
 horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a 
 tremendous crash. He was tumbled headlong into the dust; 
 and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by 
 like a whirlwind. L , ^ 
 
 The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, 
 and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at 
 his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at 
 breakfast. Dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys as- 
 sembled at the schoolhouse, 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 investiga- 
 tion they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading 
 to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt. The 
 tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently 
 at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the 
 bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and 
 black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close 
 beside it a shattered pumpkin. 
 
 The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was 
 not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his es- 
 tate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. 
 They consisted of two shirts and a half ; two stocks for the neck ; 
 a pair or two of worsted stockings ; an old pair of corduroy 
 small-clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of psalm tunes, full of dogs' 
 ears; and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and furniture 
 of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting 
 Cotton Mather's "History of Witchcraft," a "New England 
 Almanac," and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which 
 last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted by sev- 
 eral 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, 
 
128 IRVING. 
 
 who from that time forward determined to send his children no 
 more to school, observing that he never knew any good come of 
 this same reading and writing. Whatever money the school- 
 master possessed, and he had received his quarter's pay but a 
 day or two before, he must have had about his person at the 
 time of his disappearance. 
 
 The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church 
 on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were 
 collected in the 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 car- 
 ried 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. 
 
 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 neigh- 
 borhood, partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Rip- 
 per, 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 admitted 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 know- 
 ing 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 SKETCH-BOOK. 129 
 
 The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of 
 these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited 
 away by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story often told 
 about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The 
 bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe ; 
 and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late 
 years, so as to approach the church by the border of the mill- 
 pond. The schoolhouse, being deserted, soon fell to decay, and 
 was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate peda- 
 gogue ; and the plow-boy, loitering homeward of a still summer 
 evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a 
 melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy 
 
 Hollow. 
 
 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 [Found in the handwriting of Mr. Knickerbocker.] 
 
 THE preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in which I heard 
 It related at a corporation meeting of the ancient city of the Manhattoes, 1 
 at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The 
 narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt 
 clothes, with a sadly humorous face ; and one whom I strongly suspected of 
 being poor, he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was 
 concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two 
 or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. 
 There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eye- 
 brows, 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 upon good grounds, when they have reason and the law on 
 their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided and 
 silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, stick- 
 ing 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 re- 
 freshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an 
 
 1 Manhattan, i.e., New York. 
 
130 IRVING. 
 
 air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed 
 that the story was intended most logically to prove, 
 
 " That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleasures, 
 provided we will but take a joke as we find it. 
 
 ' ' That therefore he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to have 
 rough riding of it. 
 
 " Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heir- 
 ess, is a certain step to high preferment in the State." 
 
 The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this ex- 
 planation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism ; while, 
 methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of a 
 triumphant leer. At length he observed that all this was very well, but still 
 he thought the story a little on the extravagant : there were one or two points 
 on which he had his doubts. 
 
 " Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, " as to that matter, I don't believe 
 one half of it myself." 
 
 D. K. 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 [A Posthumous Writing of Dudrich Knickerbocker.] 
 
 1 By Woden, God of Saxons, 
 
 from whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday y 
 
 Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 
 
 Unto thy Ike day in which I creep into 
 
 My supulchre" 
 
 CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must re- 
 member the Catskill Mountains. They are a dismembered 
 branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to 
 the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording 
 it over the surrounding counfry. Every change of season, every 
 change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some 
 change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains ; and 
 they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect 
 barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are 
 clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 131 
 
 clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the land- 
 scape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about 
 their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow 
 and light up like a crown of glory. 
 
 At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager may have 
 descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle- 
 roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the up- 
 land melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It 
 is a little village, of great antiquity, having been founded by some 
 of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the province, just 
 about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuy- 
 vesant ; l (may he rest in peace ! ) and there were some of the 
 houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built 
 of small, yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed 
 windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 
 
 In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, 
 to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), 
 there lived many years since, while the country was yet a prov- 
 ince of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow of the name 
 of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles 
 who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyve- 
 sant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. 2 He 
 inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his an- 
 cestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured 
 man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient, hen- 
 pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be 
 owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal 
 popularity ; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and 
 conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at 
 home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malle- 
 able in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation ; and a curtain 
 
 1 Governor of Manhattan Island in 1647. 
 
 2 Fort Christina, or Christiana, was a Swedish fort, situated five miles 
 north of Fort Cassimir (now Newcastle, Del.), attacked and captured by the 
 Dutch of New Netherlands in 1655. 
 
132 IRVING. 
 
 lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the vir- 
 tues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may there- 
 fore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing ; and, 
 if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 
 
 Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good 
 wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his 
 part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they 
 talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the 
 blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, 
 would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at 
 their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and 
 shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and 
 Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was 
 surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clamber- 
 ing on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with 
 impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aver- 
 sion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the 
 want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a wet 
 rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's 1 lance, and 
 fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be 
 encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece 
 on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and 
 swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or 
 wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even 
 in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics 
 for husking Indian corn or building stone fences. The women 
 of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and 
 to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would 
 not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to any- 
 body's business but his own ; but as to doing family duty, and 
 keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. 
 
 In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm. It 
 
 1 See note, p. 108. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 133 
 
 was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country. 
 Everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite 
 of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces ; his cow 
 would either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds were 
 sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain 
 always made a point of setting in just as he had some outdoor 
 work to do : so that, though his patrimonial estate had dwindled 
 away under his management acre by acre, until there was little 
 more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it 
 was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 
 
 His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged 
 to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, 
 promised to inherit the habits with the old clothes of his father. 
 He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, 
 equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, 1 which he 
 had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her 
 train in bad weather. 
 
 Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of 
 foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white 
 bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or 
 trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a 
 pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in per- 
 fect contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears 
 about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing 
 on his family. 
 
 Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, 
 and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of 
 household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all 
 lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a 
 habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his 
 eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh 
 volley from his wife ; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, 
 and take to the outside of the house, the only side which, in 
 truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 
 
 1 A kind of wide breeches. 
 
134 IRVING. 
 
 Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as 
 much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded 
 them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with 
 an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. 
 True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he 
 was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods ; but 
 what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting ter- 
 rors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house, 
 his crest fell ; his tail drooped to the ground or curled between 
 his legs ; he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a 
 sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle ; and, at the least flourish 
 of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping 
 precipitation. 
 
 Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of 
 matrimony rolled on. A. tart temper never mellows with age, 
 and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with 
 constant use.] For a long while he used to console himself, when 
 driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
 sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, 
 which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated 
 by a rubicund portrait of his Majesty George III. 1 Here they 
 used to sit in the shade of a long, lazy, summer's day, talking 
 listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about 
 nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money 
 to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes took 
 place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands 
 from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to 
 the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school- 
 master, a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted 
 by the most gigantic word in the dictionary! and how sagely 
 they would deliberate upon public events some months after they 
 had taken place! 
 
 The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by 
 
 1 George III. (1738-1820) ascended the English throne in 1760, and 
 reigned sixty years. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 135 
 
 Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the 
 inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till 
 night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the 
 shade of a large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell the hour 
 by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he 
 was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His 
 adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), per- 
 fectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. 
 When anything that was read, or related displeased him, he was 
 observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, 
 frequent, and angry puffs ; but, when pleased, he would inhale 
 the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid 
 clouds, and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and let- 
 ting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod 
 his head in token of perfect approbation. 
 
 From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length 
 routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon 
 the tranquillity of the assemblage, and call the members all to 
 naught ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder him- 
 self, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who 
 charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of 
 idleness. 
 
 Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and his only 
 alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and the clamor 
 of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the 
 woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a 
 tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom 
 he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. " Poor Wolf," 
 he would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but 
 never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never, want a friend 
 to stand by thee ! " Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in 
 his master's face, and, if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he 
 reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 
 
 In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had 
 unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Cats- 
 
136 IRVING. 
 
 kill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel 
 shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and reechoed with 
 the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, 
 late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain 
 herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an open- 
 ing between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for 
 many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly 
 Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic 
 course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lag- 
 ging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at 
 last losing itself in the blue highlands. 
 
 On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, 
 wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from 
 the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of 
 the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene. 
 Evening was gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw 
 their long, blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it would 
 be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a 
 heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame 
 Van Winkle. \ 
 
 As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, 
 hullooing, " Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle! " He looked 
 around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight 
 across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived 
 him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry 
 ring through the still evening air, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van 
 Winkle ! " At the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and, giv- 
 ing a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully 
 down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing 
 over him. He looked anxiously in the same direction, and per- 
 ceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending 
 under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was 
 surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented 
 place, but, supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in 
 need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 13? 
 
 On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singu- 
 larity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built 
 old fellow, with thick, bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His 
 dress was of the antique Dutch fashion, a cloth jerkin 1 strapped 
 round the waist ; several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample 
 volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and 
 bunches -at the knees. He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, that 
 seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and 
 assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of 
 this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and, 
 mutually relieving each other, they clambered up a narrow gully, 
 apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, 
 Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, like distant 
 thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, 
 between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. 
 He paused for an instant, but, supposing it to be the muttering 
 of one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place 
 in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, 
 they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded 
 by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending 
 trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the 
 azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time, 
 Rip and his companion had labored on in silence ; for, though 
 the former marveled greatly what could be the object of carrying 
 a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something 
 strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired 
 awe and checked familiarity. 
 
 On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder presented 
 themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of 
 odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed 
 in a quaint, outlandish fashion. Some wore short doublets; 2 
 others, jerkins, with long knives in their belts ; and most of them 
 
 1 A close jacket much worn in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. 
 
 2 A close-fitting outer garment, covering the body from the neck to below 
 the waist. 
 
138 IRVING. 
 
 had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. 
 Their visages, too, were peculiar. One had a large head, broad 
 face, and small, piggish eyes. The face of another seemed to 
 consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar- 
 loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, 
 of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be 
 the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a -weather- 
 beaten countenance. He wore a laced doublet, broad belt and 
 hanger, 1 high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high- 
 heeled shoes with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip 
 of the figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of Domi- 
 nie Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought 
 over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 
 
 What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that, though these 
 folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the 
 gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the 
 most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Noth- 
 ing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, 
 which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains 
 like rumbling peals of thunder. 
 
 As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly 
 desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed, 
 statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-luster counte- 
 nances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote to- 
 gether. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg 
 into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the com- 
 pany. He obeyed with fear and trembling. They quaffed the 
 liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. 
 
 By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even 
 ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the bever- 
 age, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hol- 
 lands. 2 He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted 
 
 1 A short broadsword worn from the girdle, and slightly curved at the 
 point. 
 
 2 Holland gin. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 139 
 
 to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another ; and he re- 
 iterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses 
 were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually 
 declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 
 
 On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had 
 first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes. It was 
 a bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twitter- 
 ing among the bushes ; and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and 
 breasting the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip, 
 " I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences 
 before he fell asleep, the strange man with a keg of liquor, 
 the mountain ravine, the wild retreat among the rocks, the 
 woe-begone party at ninepins, the flagon. " Oh, that wicked 
 flagon!" thought Rip: "what excuse shall I make to Dame 
 Van Winkle!" 
 
 He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well- 
 oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the 
 barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock 
 worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the 
 mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with 
 liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared ; 
 but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. 
 He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain : 
 the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to 
 be seen. 
 
 He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gam- 
 bol, and, if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and 
 gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and 
 wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not 
 agree with me," thought Rip ; " and, if this frolic should lay me 
 up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with 
 Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the 
 glen. He found the gully up which he and his companion had 
 ascended the preceding evening; but, to his astonishment, a 
 mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to 
 
HO IRVING. 
 
 rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, 
 made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way 
 through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and some^ 
 times tripped up or entangled by the wild grape-vines that twisted 
 their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of 
 network in his path. 
 
 At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through 
 the cliffs to the amphitheater ; but no traces of such opening re- 
 mained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over 
 which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and 
 fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the sur- 
 rounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. 
 He again called and whistled after his dog. He was only an- 
 swered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in 
 air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice, and who, 
 secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the 
 poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? The morning 
 was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his break- 
 fast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun, he dreaded to 
 meet his wife ; but it would not do to starve among the moun- 
 tains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, 
 with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps home- 
 ward. 
 
 As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but 
 none whom he knew ; which somewhat surprised him, for he had 
 thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. 
 Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he 
 was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of 
 surprise, and, whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably 
 stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture in- 
 duced Rip involuntarily to do the same, when, to his astonish- 
 ment, he found his beard had grown a foot long. 
 
 He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of 
 strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing 
 at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recog- 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 141 
 
 nized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The 
 very village was altered : it was larger and more populous. 
 There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and 
 those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. 
 Strange names were over the doors, strange faces at the windows : 
 everything was strange. His mind now misgave him. He be- 
 gan to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not 
 bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left 
 but the day before. There stood the Catskill Mountains ; there 
 ran the silver Hudson at a distance ; there was every hill and 
 dale precisely as it had always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. 
 " That flagon last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head 
 sadly." 
 
 It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own 
 house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every 
 moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found 
 the house gone to decay, the roof fallen in, the windows shat- 
 tered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that 
 looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name ; 
 but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was 
 an unkind cut, indeed. " My very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has 
 forgotten me ! " 
 
 He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van 
 Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, 
 and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his 
 connubial fears. He called loudly for his wife and children : the 
 lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all 
 again was silence. 
 
 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the vil- 
 lage inn ; but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety, wooden build- 
 ing stood in its place, with great, gaping windows, some of them 
 broken and mended with old hats and petticoats ; and over the 
 door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." 
 Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch 
 inn of yore, there now was reared a tall, naked pole, with some- 
 
142 IRVING. 
 
 thing on the top that looked like a red night-cap ; l and from 
 it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of 
 stars and stripes. All this was strange and incomprehensible. 
 He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King 
 George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; 
 but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was 
 changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand 
 instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, 
 and underneath was painted in large characters, " General Wash- 
 ington." 
 
 There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none 
 that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed 
 changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, 
 instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He 
 looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, 
 double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke 
 instead of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, dol- 
 ing forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of 
 these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of 
 handbills, was haranguing vehemently about the rights of citizens, 
 election, members of Congress, liberty, Bunker's Hill, 2 heroes of 
 seventy-six, and other words, that were a perfect Babylonish 
 jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 
 
 The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty 
 fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and 
 children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the atten- 
 tion of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eying 
 
 1 Cap of liberty worn in the Roman states by manumitted slaves. It was 
 made thus according to a coin of Brutus after the death of Caesar, and worn 
 by Brutus and his rebels, as a token of their republican sentiment. Its shape 
 was copied from the Phrygian cap, which had become a symbol or emblem 
 of personal and political freedom. 
 
 2 A celebrated height in Charlestown, Mass, (now a part of Boston), fa- 
 mous as the place where a battle was fought between the British and American 
 forces June 17, 1775. 
 

 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 143 
 
 him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled 
 up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired on which side 
 he voted. Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but 
 busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, 
 inquired in his ear whether he was a Federal or a Democrat. 
 Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question, when a 
 knowing, self-important old gentleman in a sharp cocked hat 
 made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and 
 left with his elbows as he passed, and, planting himself before 
 Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his 
 cane ; his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into 
 his very soul, demanded in an austere tone what brought him 
 to the election with a gun on his shoulder and a mob at his heels, 
 and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village. "Alas! 
 gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor, quiet 
 man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject to the King, God 
 bless him!" 
 
 Here a general shout burst from the bystanders : " A Tory, a 
 Tory! A spy! A refugee! Hustle him! Away with him !" It 
 was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked 
 hat restored order, and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of 
 brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he came 
 there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly 
 assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in 
 search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. 
 
 " Well, who are they? Name them." 
 
 Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's 
 Nicholas Vedder? " 
 
 There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied 
 in a thin, piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder ! Why, he is dead and 
 gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden tombstone in 
 the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten 
 and gone, too." 
 
 "Where's Brom Dutcher? " 
 
 " Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war. 
 
144 IRVING. 
 
 Some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point ; 1 others 
 say he was drowned in the squall at the foot of Anthony's Nose. 2 
 I don't know : he never came back again." 
 
 " Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster? " 
 
 " He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, and 
 is now in Congress." 
 
 Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his 
 home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. 
 Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous 
 lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand, 
 war, Congress, Stony Point. He had no courage to ask after 
 any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here 
 know Rip Van Winkle? " 
 
 "Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three. "Oh, to 
 be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the 
 tree." 
 
 Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he 
 went up the mountain, apparently as lazy, and certainly as rag- 
 ged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He 
 doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another 
 man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked 
 hat demanded who he was, and what was his name. 
 
 " God knows! " exclaimed he, at his wits' end. " I'm not my- 
 self : I'm somebody else. That's me yonder. No, that's some- 
 body else got into my shoes. I was myself last night : but I fell 
 asleep on the mountain ; and they've changed my gun ; and 
 everything's changed ; and I'm changed ; and I can't tell what's 
 my name, or who I am! " 4 
 
 The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink 
 
 1 The well-known promontory on the Hudson River, forty-two miles 
 north of New York, where, July 16, 1779, Gen. " Mad Anthony" Wayne 
 took by storm the fort upon its rocky heights. 
 
 2 Anthony's or St. Anthony's Nose is a headland fifty-seven miles from 
 New York, on the east side of the Hudson, in Putnam County. Jt juts from 
 the south side of Breakneck Hill at the north entrance of the Highlands. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 145 
 
 significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There 
 was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old 
 fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the 
 self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipita- 
 tion. At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed 
 through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She 
 had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, 
 began to cry. " Hush, Rip ! " cried she. " Hush, you little fool ! 
 The old man won't hurt you." 
 
 The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her 
 voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. " What 
 is your name, my good woman? " asked he. 
 
 "Judith Gardenier." 
 
 "And your father's name? " 
 
 ''Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle. It's twenty 
 years since he went away from home with his gun, and never 
 has been heard of since. His dog came home without him ; but 
 whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, no- 
 body can tell. I was then but a little girl." 
 
 Rip had but one question more to ask, but he put it with a 
 faltering voice : 
 
 " Where's your mother? " 
 
 Oh, she too had died but a short time since. She broke a 
 blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler. 
 
 There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The 
 honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his 
 daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father! " cried 
 he, "young Rip Van Winkle once, old Rip Van Winkle now! 
 Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle? " 
 
 All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
 among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and, peering under 
 it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough ! It is Rip 
 Van Winkle! It is himself! Welcome home again, old neigh- 
 bor! Why, where have you been these twenty long years? " 
 
 Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been 
 
146 IRVING. 
 
 to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard 
 it. Some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues 
 in their cheeks ; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, 
 who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed 
 down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head, upon which 
 there was a general shaking of the head throughout the 'assem- 
 blage. 
 
 It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter 
 Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He 
 was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one 
 of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most an- 
 cient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonder- 
 ful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected 
 Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory 
 manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed 
 down from his ancestor the historian, that the Catskill Mountains 
 had always been haunted by strange beings ; that it was affirmed 
 that the great Hendrick Hudson, 1 the first discoverer of the river 
 and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his 
 crew of the Half-moon, 2 being permitted in this way to revisit the 
 scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, 
 and the great city called by his name ; that his father had once 
 seen them in their old Dutch dresses, playing at ninepins in the hol- 
 low of the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, one summer 
 afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 
 
 To make a long story short, the company broke up, and re- 
 turned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's 
 daughter took him home to live with her. She had a snug, well- 
 furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom 
 Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his 
 back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, 
 seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the 
 farm, but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything 
 else but his business. 
 
 1 See Note i, p. 96. 2 Hendrick Hudson's ship. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 147 
 
 Rip now resumed his old walks and habits. He soon found 
 many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the 
 wear and tear of time, and preferred making friends among the 
 rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. 
 
 Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that 
 happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his 
 place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was rever- 
 enced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of 
 the old times " before the war." It was some time before he 
 could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to 
 comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his 
 torpor, how that there had been a revolutionary war ; that the 
 country had thrown off the yoke of old England, and that, in- 
 stead of being a subject of his Majesty George III., he was now 
 a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politi- 
 cian, the changes of states and empires made but little impres- 
 sion on him, but there was one species of despotism under 
 which he had long groaned, and that was, petticoat govern- 
 ment. Happily, that was at an end. He had got his neck out 
 of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever 
 he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. 
 Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, 
 shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; which might pass 
 either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his 
 deliverance. 
 
 He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. 
 Doolittle's hotel. He was observed at first to vary on some 
 points every time he told it, which was doubtless owing to his 
 having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to 
 the tale I have related ; and not a man, woman, or child in the 
 neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to 
 doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his 
 head, and that this was one point on which he always remained 
 flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally 
 gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder- 
 
148 IRVING. 
 
 storm of a summer afternoon about the Catskill, but they say 
 Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins ; 
 and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neigh- 
 borhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might 
 have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 THE foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knicker- 
 bocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Roth- 
 bart and the Kyphauser Mountain ; the subjoined note, however, which he 
 had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his 
 usual fidelity. 
 
 "The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many; but nev- 
 ertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch 
 settlements to have been very subject to marvelous events and appearances. 
 Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along 
 the Hudson, all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. 
 I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, 
 was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on 
 every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take 
 this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken be- 
 fore a country justice and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwrit- 
 ing. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt." 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 The following are traveling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr. 
 Knickerbocker : 
 
 " The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region full 
 of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influenced 
 the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and sending 
 good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said 
 to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had 
 charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper 
 hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into 
 stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light 
 summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from the 
 crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in 
 the air; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 149 
 
 showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow 
 an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as 
 ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of 
 its web ; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys ! 
 
 " In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Monitou, or 
 Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains, and 
 took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexations upon 
 the redmen. Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or 
 a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and 
 among ragged rocks, and then spring off with a loud ' ho, ho!' leaving him 
 aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging torrent." 
 
ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 THE ORATIONS ON 
 
 BUNKER HILL MONUMENT 
 THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON 
 AND THE LANDING AT PLYMOUTH 
 
 BY 
 
 DANIEL WEBSTER 
 
 NEW YORK I CINCINNATI I - CHICAGO 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 7894, by 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY. 
 
 WEBSTER'S ORATIONS EC. ENG. CLAS. 
 
 Printed by permission of MESSRS. LITTLE, BROWN, & Co., 
 the authorized publishers of Webster's works. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 IT is a fact worthy of notice that, among all the masters of elo- 
 quence known to history, only four have produced works which 
 have been generally recognized as contributions to the perma- 
 nent literature of the world. These were Demosthenes in an- 
 cient Athens, Cicero in old Rome, Edmund Burke in Great 
 Britain, and Daniel Webstei in America. A comparison of the 
 public discourses of these four great orators reveals, of course, 
 many differences resulting from the diversity of race, time, cir- 
 cumstance, and the character of the audiences to whom they 
 were addressed. A closer examination, however, will disclose 
 numerous similarities in their fundamental construction, going 
 far to show that the principles of true eloquence are always and 
 everywhere the same, and that the art which swayed the minds 
 of multitudes of men twenty centuries ago remains in essential 
 points as unchanged as human thought itself. Between the ora- 
 tions of Demosthenes, so distinctively ancient and Grecian, and 
 those of Webster, so distinctively modern and American, one 
 may detect a striking resemblance. Both are characterized by 
 the same sustained appeal to the understanding and by the 
 same clear-cut, vigorous, and perfectly intelligible course of rea- 
 soning. In their unadorned simplicity each is the work of a 
 sculptor rather than painter. " To test Webster's oratory, which 
 
 5 
 
6 INTROD UC TION. 
 
 has ever been very attractive to me," said the late Dr. Francis 
 Lieber, " I read a portion of my favorite speeches of Demos- 
 thenes, and then read, always aloud, parts of Webster ; then re- 
 turned to the Athenian : and Webster stood the test." This re- 
 semblance was not the result of any study of ancient models on 
 Mr. Webster's part, nor of any conscious or unconscious effort 
 to imitate the masterpieces of Athenian eloquence. It was due 
 rather to a similarity of intellectual powers wholly independent 
 of time, or race, or other environment. 
 
 The quality of Webster's imagination, which was of an histori- 
 cal rather than poetic cast, had much to do with the power and 
 peculiar charm of his oratory. But it was his simplicity of dic- 
 tion, and his perfect mastery of pure, idiomatic English, which 
 gave to his discourses their distinctive classic elegance, and made 
 them worthy of a permanent place in our literature. As speci- 
 mens, therefore, of a correct, clear, and vigorous style of com- 
 position, full of warmth and vitality, these orations are worthy 
 of the most careful attention of every one who would perfect him- 
 self in the use of the English tongue ; as notable examples of 
 persuasive discourse, logical, forcible, and convincing, they es- 
 pecially commend themselves to those who aspire to distinction 
 as public speakers ; as containing lessons of the purest and most 
 disinterested patriotism, they appeal to Americans everywhere, 
 and should be read and studied by every American youth. 
 
 Daniel Webster was born in Salisbury (now Franklin), N.H., 
 Jan. 18, 1782. His father, who was a farmer, had served as 
 a soldier in both the French and Indian and the Revolution- 
 ary Wars, and later became a member of the State Legis- 
 lature, and judge of the county court. Being brought up in 
 poverty, in a region at that time the very outskirts of civiliza- 
 
INTRODUCTION. ^ 
 
 tion, the boy had none of the opportunities which are now sup- 
 posed to be indispensable to the making of a great man. His 
 mother taught him to read, and as the schools which he attended 
 during his childhood were extremely inefficient, it is probable 
 that the best part of his early education was acquired at home. 
 Being a delicate child, he was generally exempt from the hard 
 tasks required of other boys in his condition of life, and, while 
 much of his time was devoted to play, he developed a passionate 
 eagerness for books. " I read what I could get to read," he 
 says, " went to school when I could, and when not at school was 
 a farmer's youngest boy, not good for much, for want of health 
 and strength, but expected to do something. In those boyish 
 days there were two things which I did dearly love, reading and 
 playing, passions which did not cease to struggle when boyhood 
 was over, (have they yet altogether ?) and in regard to which 
 neither cita mors nor the victoria laeta could be said of either." 
 
 When fourteen years of age, he was sent to the Phillips Exeter 
 Academy. There he made his first acquaintance with the world, 
 suffering much from the ridicule of his schoolmates, to whom his 
 rustic clothes and uncouth manners were a source of great mer- 
 riment. Although he made rapid progress in his studies, his lack 
 of self-confidence was such, that he found it impossible to stand 
 up and " speak a piece " before the school. At the end of nine 
 months it was thought best that he should return home ; and his 
 father made arrangements whereby he should continue his studies 
 under the tuition of a clergyman, the Rev. Samuel Wood, at 
 Boscawen. This change was made in order that the lad might 
 the more quickly complete his preparation for college ; for, not- 
 withstanding the poverty of the family, his father had decided 
 to give him as thorough an education as was then available. He 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 remained with Dr. Wood only six months, and in August, 1797, 
 contrived to enter Dartmouth College, from which he was duly 
 graduated in 1801. The college was at that time scarcely equal 
 in efficiency to any well-equipped high school of the present day ; 
 and Webster's scholarship was neither extensive nor profound. 
 He read everything that came to hand, and whatever was worthy 
 of remembrance he never forgot. He acquired a fair knowledge 
 of Latin literature, and gained a smattering of Greek and mathe- 
 matics. He was not only considered the best general scholar in 
 the college, but he was looked upon by both the faculty and the 
 students as a remarkable man with an extraordinary career before 
 him. He soon overcame the boyish timidity which had been so 
 much in his way at Exeter, and developed an especial inclination 
 for public speaking. Indeed, the fame of his eloquence extended 
 beyond the college walls ; and in 1800 he was invited by the towns- 
 people of Hanover to deliver the Fourth-of-July oration in their 
 village. He had not then completed his eighteenth year ; yet in 
 that youthful speech, his first public utterance on questions of na- 
 tional import, there was a distinct foreshadowing of the enduring 
 work which he was afterwards to perform for his countrymen and 
 the world. It was, of course, crude and imitative, as would be ex- 
 pected of a boy ; its language was florid in the extreme, and its 
 general style was that of the " spread eagle," full of bombast and 
 figures of rhetoric ; but in its thought and leading purpose there 
 breathed the same manly, patriotic spirit that runs through all 
 his maturer utterances, and distinguishes them from the com- 
 monplace oratory of political demagogues. 
 
 Immediately after leaving college, Mr. Webster began the 
 study of law in the office of Thomas W. Thompson of Salis- 
 bury ; but, wishing to earn money to help his elder brother 
 
INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 Ezekiel to go through college, he soon afterwards went to Frye- 
 burg, Me., and took charge of a small academy there. In the 
 following year he returned to Salisbury, and remained with Mr. 
 Thompson until 1 804 ; then, desiring better opportunities for 
 extending his legal knowledge, he went to Boston, where he en- 
 tered the office of Christopher Gore, and where, in 1805, he was 
 admitted to the bar. He began practicing in Boscawen ; and in 
 1807, having built up a fairly good business there, he turned it 
 over to his brother Ezekiel, and removed to Portsmouth, then 
 the capital of the State. Being now fairly established in his pro- 
 fession, he was married in 1808 to Grace Fletcher of Hopkin- 
 ton. He soon distinguished himself as the foremost lawyer in 
 the State, and attracted much attention by his eloquent utter- 
 ances in opposing the declaration of war against Great Britain. 
 In 1812 he was elected to Congress by the Federalists, and on 
 taking his seat was placed on the Committee on Foreign Affairs. 
 The first public act which brought him into prominence as a 
 member of Congress was his introduction of a series of resolu- 
 tions calling for an inquiry concerning the announcement to the 
 United States of the revocation of Napoleon's decrees against 
 American shipping. This was followed a few months later by 
 his first great speech in the House, a speech in opposition 
 to a bill for the encouragement of enlistments. In 1814 he 
 was reelected to Congress; and in 1816, at the expiration of his 
 second term, he removed to Boston, where for seven years he 
 devoted himself exclusively to the practice of his profession. In 
 1818, by his management of the celebrated Dartmouth College 
 case, he achieved a success which not only placed him at the 
 head of the American bar, but gave him great prominence as an 
 able exponent and uncompromising defender of the Federal Con- 
 
I o INTR OD UC 7^1 ON. 
 
 stitution. The Legislature of New Hampshire had passed an act 
 virtually abrogating the original charter of the college, and pro- 
 viding for the appointment of a new board of trustees. The old 
 board contested the legality of this act ; and a suit against the 
 new board, in action of trover for the college seal, was carried 
 to the Superior Court of the State, where it was decided in favor 
 of the defendants. Thereupon the case was carried to the Su- 
 preme Court of the United States, where, through Mr. Webster's 
 management, the judgment of the State court was reversed, and 
 the act of the State Legislature was declared to be a violation of 
 that clause of the Federal Constitution which prohibits the States 
 from passing laws in impairment of contracts. The decision 
 was of national importance, since it " went further, perhaps, than 
 any other in our history towards limiting State sovereignty, and 
 extending the jurisdiction of the Federal Supreme Court." 
 
 On Dec. 22, 1820, the two hundredth anniversary of the 
 landing of the Pilgrims, Mr. Webster delivered his famous dis- 
 course on the " First Settlement of New England," the first of 
 those great efforts which placed him among the foremost orators 
 of the world. In 1822 he was again elected a representative to 
 Congress, this time from Boston; and in 1824 and 1826 he was 
 reflected. In 1827 he resigned his membership in the House to 
 accept a seat in the Senate, where he remained, by successive 
 reelections, until 1841. His oration on the laying of the corner 
 stone of Bunker Hill Monument, in 1825, and that on Adams 
 and Jefferson (1826), are among the noblest historical addresses 
 ever delivered. "The spirit of these orations is that of the 
 broadest patriotism enlightened by a clear perception of the 
 fundamental importance of the Federal union between the States, 
 and an ever-present consciousness of the mighty future of our 
 
INTRODUCTION. II 
 
 country, and its moral significance in the history of the world." 
 In the Bunker Hill oration he appeared at his best. His style 
 had been perfected, and he " touched his highest point in the 
 difficult task of commemorative oratory." Eighteen years later, 
 upon the completion of the monument, he was called upon to 
 deliver a second address at the same place and upon the same 
 theme. This later effort, although it failed to attain to the mas- 
 sive dignity and grandeur of the first, must always be regarded as 
 one of the finest examples of patriotic oratory to which Americans 
 have ever listened. 
 
 From the beginning of his career in the United States Senate, 
 Mr. Webster was naturally recognized as one of the most influ- 
 ential men in the nation, and, had he been more distinctively a 
 partisan, it is not improbable that he would eventually have 
 occupied the President's chair. But his patriotism was superior 
 to personal ambition ; and his powers as a statesman and orator, 
 instead of being directed to the aggrandizement of the party with 
 which he was affiliated, were devoted to the defense of the Con- 
 stitution and the preservation of the Union. In 1830 he de- 
 livered his celebrated second speech on Foote's resolution, gen- 
 erally known as the " Reply to Hayne," in which he reached the 
 culmination of his career as an orator. It was delivered in refu- 
 tation of a speech by Mr. Hayne accusing the New-England 
 States of attempting to aggrandize themselves at the expense of 
 all the rest of the Union, and defending South Carolina in her 
 proposed policy of nullification. Although Mr. Webster's fame 
 extended in the years which followed, and he made many other 
 speeches, he never again attained to so high a point as in that 
 remarkable and memorable discourse. It was a speech for 
 which, as he himself said, his whole life had been in a certain 
 
12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 sense a preparation. Of all the speeches ever made in Congress 
 there has probably never been another that has been so widely 
 read, or has had so great influence in the shaping of men's 
 thoughts. In 1841 Mr. Webster was appointed Secretary of 
 State by President Harrison, and upon the death of the latter he 
 was continued in office by President Tyler until after the com- 
 pletion of the famous Ashburton Treaty with Great Britain, in 
 1842. He then returned to the practice of law in Boston ; but in 
 1844 he was again appointed to the Senate, where he distin- 
 guished himself by opposing the admission of Texas as a slave 
 State, and strenuously combating the prosecution of the Mexican 
 War. In 1848 and again in 1852 he was a candidate before the 
 national convention of Whigs for the nomination to the Presi- 
 dency, but was defeated in the first case by General Taylor and 
 in the second by General Scott. In 1850, led by a zealous desire 
 to promote peace between the opposing political factions, he was 
 induced to give his adhesion to Clay's " compromise measures," 
 and on the yth of March delivered his last great speech, a 
 speech in which he favored the enforcement of the Fugitive Slave 
 Law, and opposed the Wilmot Proviso for the exclusion of slav- 
 ery from the new Territories thereafter acquired by the United 
 States. This speech was a great disappointment to his friends, 
 and lost him the support and confidence of the Whig party. In 
 the latter part of the same year, however, he was appointed Sec- 
 retary of State by President Fillmore. This position he held un- 
 til May, 1852, when he resigned on account of ill health, and 
 retired to his home at Marshfield, Mass., where he died on the 
 24th of October in the same year. 
 
 In the great influence which Mr. Webster, as a public speaker, 
 wielded over the minds of his hearers, he was aided by his re- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 markable physical attributes. He possessed in a wonderful de- 
 gree an indefinable personal magnetism which impressed every 
 one with a sense of his greatness. His face, his eyes, his voice, 
 were such that whoever looked upon him and heard him speak, 
 felt intuitively that he was a man of most extraordinary powers. 
 Sydney Smith, when he saw him, exclaimed, " Good heavens! he 
 is a small cathedral by himself ; " and Carlyle, writing of him, 
 said, "He is a magnificent specimen. As a logic fencer or 
 parliamentary Hercules, one would incline to back him at first 
 sight against all the extant world. The tanned complexion ; the 
 amorphous crag-like face ; the dull black eyes under the precipice 
 of brows, like dull anthracite furnaces needing only to be blown ; 
 the mastiff mouth accurately closed, I have not traced so much 
 of silent Berserker rage that I remember of in any man." 
 
 Of the quality of Webster's oratory, the Hon. Rufus Choate 
 says, " His multiform eloquence became at once so much acces- 
 sion to permanent literature, in the strictest sense solid, attractive, 
 and rich. Recall what pervaded all these forms of display, and 
 every effort in every form : that union of naked intellect, in its 
 largest measure, which penetrates to the exact truth of the matter 
 in hand by intuition or by inference, and discerns everything 
 which may make it intelligible, probable, and credible to an- 
 other, with an emotional and moral nature profound, passionate, 
 and ready to kindle, and with imagination enough to supply a 
 hundredfold more of illustration and aggrandizement than his 
 taste suffered him to accept ; that union of greatness of soul with 
 depth of heart which made his speaking almost more an exhibi- 
 tion of character than of mere genius ; the style not merely pure, 
 clear Saxon, but so constructed, so numerous as far as becomes 
 prose, so forcible, so abounding in unlabored felicities, the words 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 so choice, the epithet so pictured, the matter absolute truth, or 
 the most exact and spacious resemblance the human wit can de- 
 vise ; the treatment of the subject, if you have regard to the kind 
 of truth he had to handle, political, ethical, legal, as deep 
 as Paley's, or Locke's, or Butler's, . . . yet that depth and 
 that completeness of sense made transparent as crystal waters, 
 raised on winged language, vivified, fused, and poured along in 
 a tide of emotion fervid, and incapable to be withstood." 
 
 The history of Bunker Hill Monument and of the circum- 
 stances attending the delivery of Webster's famous orations 
 the one at the laying of its corner stone, the other at its comple- 
 tion may be briefly narrated. 
 
 Gen. Joseph Warren, the hero of the battle of Bunker Hill, 
 and the first prominent martyr of the Revolutionary War, was 
 buried upon the hill on the day following the action, June 18, 
 1775. Early in the following year the Massachusetts Lodge of 
 Masons, of which he had been the presiding officer, applied to 
 the Provisional Government of the Colony for permission to take 
 up his remains, and inter them with the usual ceremonies and 
 solemnities of the order. The request was granted, on condition 
 that nothing should be done that would prevent the government 
 from erecting at some future time a monument to his memory. 
 This may be regarded as the first movement made towards com- 
 memorating in any way the historic struggle on Bunker Hill ; and 
 yet, although a funeral procession was formed, and a fitting eulogy 
 on Gen. Warren was delivered, no measures were taken towards 
 the building of a monument. 
 
 On the 8th of April, 1777, however, a resolution was adopted 
 by the Continental Congress, directing that monuments should 
 be erected to Gen. Warren in Boston and to Gen. Mercer at Fred- 
 
IN TROD UC TION. 1 5 
 
 ericksburg ; but no steps were ever taken towards the carrying 
 out of this resolution. 
 
 In 1794 the lodge of Masons at Charlestown decided to 
 erect a monument to Gen. Warren at their own expense. Land 
 for that purpose was donated to the lodge by the Hon. James 
 Russell of Charlestown, and the monument was dedicated with 
 appropriate ceremonies on the 2d of December of the same 
 year. This monument was a wooden pillar, eighteen feet in 
 height, raised on a pedestal eight feet square, at an elevation of 
 ten feet from the ground. On the summit of the pillar was a 
 gilt urn, and on the south side of the pedestal an appropriate 
 inscription was engraved. 
 
 It was not until still thirty years later that any decisive steps 
 were taken towards the building of a monument which should 
 commemorate in a general way the battle of Bunker Hill, and 
 should stand as the nation's expression of honor and gratitude to 
 those who fell there in the defense of American liberty. In 1824 
 an association was formed, under the leadership of William Tudor, 
 Esq., to whose enthusiasm and perseverance the final success of 
 the undertaking was largely due. After various private confer- 
 ences among those who were most deeply interested in the proj- 
 ect, it was decided to lay the corner stone of the monument on 
 the iyth of June, 1825, the fiftieth anniversary of the battle ; and, 
 in order to excite enthusiasm in favor of the work, Gen. La- 
 fayette, at that time the nation's guest, was invited to be present, 
 and participate in the ceremonies. Free transportation was of- 
 fered to all surviving soldiers of the Revolution, and every effort 
 was made to enlist a national interest in the patriotic occasion. 
 
 "The celebration," says Mr. Frothingham, "was unequaled 
 in magnificence by anything of the kind that had been seen in 
 
1 6 INTROD UCTION. 
 
 New England. The morning proved propitious. The air was 
 cool, the sky was clear, and timely showers the previous day had 
 brightened the vesture of Nature into its loveliest hue. Delighted 
 thousands flocked into Boston to bear a part in the proceedings, 
 or to witness the spectacle. At about ten o'clock a procession 
 moved from the State House towards Bunker Hill. The military, 
 in their fine uniforms, formed the van. About two hundred vet- 
 erans of the Revolution, of whom forty were survivors of the 
 battle, rode in barouches next to the escort. These venerable 
 men, the relics of a past generation, with emaciated frames, tot- 
 tering limbs, and trembling voices, constituted a touching spec- 
 tacle. Some wore, as honorable decorations, their old fighting 
 equipments ; and some bore the scars of still more honorable 
 wounds. Glistening eyes constituted their answer to the enthu- 
 siastic cheers of the grateful multitudes who lined their pathway, 
 and cheered their progress. To this patriot band succeeded the 
 Bunker Hill Monument Association ; then the Masonic frater- 
 nity, in their splendid regalia, thousands in number; then La- 
 fayette, continually welcomed by tokens of love and gratitude, 
 and the invited guests ; then a long array of societies, with 
 their various badges and banners. It was a splendid procession, 
 and of such length that the front nearly reached Charlestown 
 Bridge ere the rear had left Boston Common. It proceeded to 
 Breed's Hill, where the Grand Master of the Freemasons, the 
 President of the Monument Association, and Gen. Lafayette per- 
 formed the ceremony of laying the corner stone in the presence 
 of a vast concourse of people." The procession then moved 
 to the northern declivity of the hill, where Mr. Webster delivered 
 his oration to a large and appreciative audience. 
 
 When the corner stone of the Bunker Hill Monument was thus 
 
INTRODUCTION. 17 
 
 laid in 1825, no definite plan for its construction had been de- 
 cided upon. Among other designs for the proposed monument, 
 one submitted by Solomon Willard, an architect of Boston, was 
 finally adopted; and in 1827 the foundation was laid and the 
 work of construction begun. The funds on hand, amounting 
 to about $55,000, were soon exhausted, however, and in the fol- 
 lowing year the work was temporarily abandoned. In 1834 a 
 renewed effort was made, a considerable amount of money was 
 raised by subscription, and the building of the great stone shaft 
 was renewed. But the committee having the affair in charge 
 soon found itself without further available means, and prog- 
 ress was again suspended. In 1840 the ladies of Boston and 
 the vicinity took hold of the enterprise. A fair was held in 
 Faneuil Hall, to which every woman in the United States had 
 been invited to contribute, and every effort was made to increase 
 the list of subscriptions. The result was, that a contract was 
 soon afterwards entered into with Mr. Savage of Boston, to fin- 
 ish the monument for $43,000. The work was pushed forward 
 with all reasonable dispatch, and the last stone was raised to the 
 apex at six o'clock in the morning of July 23, 1842. 
 
 The monument, which is in the form of an obelisk, is built of 
 Quincy granite, is thirty feet in diameter at the base, and about 
 fifteen feet at the top of the truncated part. It consists of ninety 
 courses of stone, six of them below the ground, and eighty-four 
 above. It was intended that it should be two hundred and 
 twenty feet high ; but the precise height is two hundred and 
 twenty-one feet. The observatory at the top is seventeen feet 
 high, and eleven feet in diameter. The cap stone, or apex, is 
 a single stone four feet square at the base, and three feet six 
 inches in height, weighing two tons and a half. 
 
1 8 IN TROD UCTION. 
 
 It was arranged by the directors that the completion of the 
 work should be celebrated on the iyth of the following June, the 
 sixty-eighth anniversary of the battle ; and Mr. Webster was 
 invited to deliver the oration. " Many circumstances," says 
 Edward Everett, " conspired to increase the interest of the occa- 
 sion. . . . The President of the United States and his Cabinet 
 had accepted invitations to be present ; delegations of the de- 
 scendants of New England were present from the remotest parts 
 of the Union ; one hundred and eight surviving veterans of the 
 Revolution, among whom were some who were in the battle of 
 Bunker Hill, imparted a touching interest to the scene. . . . Mr. 
 Webster was stationed upon an elevated platform in front of 
 the audience and of the monument towering in the background. 
 According to Mr. Frothingham's estimate, a hundred thousand 
 persons were gathered about the spot, and nearly half that num- 
 ber are supposed to have been within the reach of the orator's 
 voice. The ground rises slightly between the platform and the 
 Monument Square, so that the whole of this immense concourse 
 compactly crowded together, breathless with attention, swayed 
 by one sentiment of admiration and delight was within the full 
 view of the speaker. The position and the occasion were the 
 height of the moral sublime." 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 
 
 AN ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNER 
 STONE OF THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT AT 
 CHARLESTOWN, MASS., ON THE 
 OF JUNE, 1825. 
 
 THIS uncounted multitude before me and around me proves 
 the feeling which the occasion has excited. These thou- 
 sands of human faces, glowing with sympathy and joy, and from 
 the impulses of a common gratitude turned reverently to heaven 
 in this spacious temple of the firmament, proclaim that the day, 
 the place, and the purpose of our assembling, have made a deep 
 impression on our hearts. 
 
 If, indeed, there be anything in local association fit to affect 
 the mind of man, we need not strive to repress the emotions 
 which agitate us here. We are among the sepulchers of our 
 fathers. We are on ground distinguished by their valor, their 
 constancy, and the shedding of their blood. We are here, not 
 to fix an uncertain date in our annals, nor to draw into notice an 
 obscure and unknown spot. If our humble purpose had never 
 been conceived, if we ourselves had never been born, the iyth 
 of June, 1775, would have been a day on which all subsequent 
 history would have poured its light, and the eminence where we 
 stand, a point of attraction to the eyes of successive generations. 
 But we are Americans. We live in what may be called the " early 
 age " of this great continent ; and we know that our posterity, 
 through all time, are here to enjoy and suffer the allotments of 
 
20 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 humanity. We see before us a probable train of great events ; 
 we know that our own fortunes have been happily cast ; and it 
 is natural, therefore, that we should be moved by the contempla- 
 tion of occurrences which have guided our destiny before many 
 of us were born, and settled the condition in which we should 
 pass that portion of our existence which God allows to men on 
 earth. 
 
 We do not read even of the discovery of this continent with- 
 out feeling something of a personal interest in the event, without 
 being reminded how much it has affected our own fortunes and 
 our own existence. It would be still more unnatural for us, there- 
 fore, than for others, to contemplate with unaffected minds that 
 interesting, I may say that most touching and pathetic scene, 
 when the great discoverer of America stood on the deck of his 
 shattered bark, the shades of night falling on the sea, yet no man 
 sleeping; tossed on the billows of an unknown ocean, yet the 
 stronger billows of alternate hope and despair tossing his own 
 troubled thoughts ; extending forward his harassed frame, strain- 
 ing westward his anxious and eager eyes, till Heaven at last 
 granted him a moment of rapture and ecstasy, in blessing his 
 vision with the sight of the unknown world. 
 
 Nearer to our times, more closely connected with our fates, 
 and therefore still more interesting to our feelings and affections, 
 is the settlement of our own country by colonists from England. 
 We cherish every memorial of these worthy ancestors ; we cele- 
 brate their patience and fortitude ; we admire their daring enter- 
 prise ; we teach our children to venerate their piety ; and we are 
 justly proud of being descended from men who have set the 
 world an example of founding civil institutions on the great and 
 united principles of human freedom and human knowledge. To 
 us their children, the story of their labors and sufferings can 
 never be without its interest. We shall not stand unmoved on 
 the shores of Plymouth while the sea continues to wash it ; nor 
 will our brethren in another early and ancient Colony forget the 
 place of its first establishment till their river shall cease to flow 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 21 
 
 by it. 1 No vigor of youth, no maturity of manhood, will lead 
 the nation to forget the spots where its infancy was cradled and 
 defended. 
 
 But the great event in the history of the continent, which we 
 are now met here to commemorate, that prodigy of modern 
 times, at once the wonder and the blessing of the world, is the 
 American Revolution. In a day of extraordinary prosperity and 
 happiness, of high national honor, distinction, and power, we are 
 brought together in this place by our love of country, by our 
 admiration of exalted character, by our gratitude for signal ser- 
 vices and patriotic devotion. 
 
 The Society whose organ I am 2 was formed for the purpose 
 of rearing some honorable and durable monument to the memory 
 of the early friends of American independence. They have 
 thought that for this object no time could be more propitious 
 than the present prosperous and peaceful period, that no place 
 could claim preference over this memorable spot, and that no 
 day could be more auspicious to the undertaking than the anni- 
 versary of the battle which was here fought. The foundation of 
 that monument we have now laid. With solemnities 3 suited to 
 the occasion, with prayers to Almighty God for his blessing, and 
 in the midst of this cloud of witnesses, we have begun the work. 
 
 1 As nearly every one of the Colonies was founded on the bank of a river, 
 it is not clear which is alluded to here. Edward Everett, whose edition of 
 the orations appeared while Webster was still living, mentions the settlement 
 of the Maryland Colony on the St. Mary's River. "The 'Ark' and the 
 ' Dove,' " he says, " are remembered with scarcely less interest by the de- 
 scendants of the sister Colony than is the ' Mayflower ' in New England, 
 which thirteen years earlier, at the same season of the year, bore thither the 
 Pilgrim Fathers." 
 
 2 Mr. Webster was at that time president of the Bunker Hill Monument 
 Association, having been appointed to that position as the successor of Gov. 
 John Brooks, the first president. 
 
 3 Besides the laying of the corner stone with Masonic ceremonies, there 
 was prayer by the Rev. Joseph Thaxter, and an ode was read by the Rev. 
 John Pierpont of Boston. 
 
22 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 We trust it will be prosecuted, and that, springing from a broad 
 foundation, rising high in massive solidity and unadorned 
 grandeur, it may remain as long as Heaven permits the works 
 of man to last, a fit emblem, both of the events in memory of 
 which it is raised, and of the gratitude of those who have reared it. 
 We know, indeed, that the record of illustrious actions is most 
 safely deposited in the universal remembrance of mankind. We 
 know that if we could cause this structure to ascend, not only 
 till it reached the skies, but till it pierced them, its broad surfaces 
 could still contain but part of that which, in an age of knowl- 
 edge, hath already been spread over the earth, and which history 
 charges itself with making known to all future times. We know 
 that no inscription on entablatures less broad than the earth it- 
 self can carry information of the events we commemorate where 
 it has not already gone ; and that no structure which shall not 
 outlive the duration of letters and knowledge among men can 
 prolong the memorial. But our object is, by this edifice, to show 
 our own deep sense of the value and importance of the achieve- 
 ments of our ancestors, and, by presenting this work of gratitude 
 to the eye, to keep alive similar sentiments, and to foster a con- 
 stant regard for the principles of the Revolution. Human be- 
 ings are composed not of reason only, but of imagination also, 
 and sentiment ; and that is neither wasted nor misapplied which 
 is appropriated to the purpose of giving right direction to senti- 
 ments, and opening proper springs of feeling in the heart. Let 
 it not be supposed that our object is to perpetuate national hos- 
 tility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit. It is higher, 
 purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to the spirit of national 
 independence, and we wish that the light of peace may rest 
 upon it forever. We rear a memorial of our conviction of 
 that unmeasured benefit which has been conferred on our own 
 land, and of the happy influences which have been produced, by 
 the same events, on the general interests of mankind. We come, 
 as Americans, to mark a spot which must forever be dear to us 
 and our posterity. We wish that whosoever, in all coming time, 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 23 
 
 shall turn his eye hither may behold that the place is not undis- 
 tinguished where the first great battle of the Revolution was 
 fought. We wish that this structure may proclaim the magni- 
 tude and importance of that event to every class and every age. 
 We wish that infancy may learn the purpose of its erection from 
 maternal lips, and that weary and withered age may behold it, 
 and be solaced by the recollections which it suggests. We wish 
 that labor may look up here, and be proud in the midst of its 
 toil. We wish that in those days of disaster, which, as they 
 come upon all nations, must be expected to come upon us also, 
 desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hitherward, and be as- 
 sured that the foundations of our national power are still strong. 
 We wish that this column, rising towards heaven among the 
 pointed spires of so many temples dedicated to God, may contrib- 
 ute also to produce in all minds a pious feeling of dependence 
 and gratitude. We wish, finally, that the last object to the sight 
 of him who leaves his native shore, and the first to gladden his 
 who revisits it, may be something which shall remind him of the 
 liberty and the glory of his country. Let it rise! let it rise till 
 it meet the sun in his coming ; let the earliest light of the morn- 
 ing gild it, and parting day linger and play on its summit. 
 
 ^ 
 
 We live in a most extraordinary age. Events so various and 
 
 so important that they might crowd and distinguish centuries, 
 are in our times compressed within the compass of a single life. 
 When has it happened that history has had so much to record, 
 in the same term of years, as since the iyth of June, 1775 ? 
 Our own Revolution, which, under other circumstances, might 
 itself have been expected to occasion a war of half a century, 
 has been achieved, twenty-four sovereign and independent States 
 erected, and a general government established over them, so safe, 
 so wise, so free, so practical, that we might well wonder its estab- 
 lishment should have been accomplished so soon, were it not far 
 the greater wonder that it should have been established at all. 
 Two or three millions of people have been augmented to twelve, 
 
24 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 the great forests of the West prostrated beneath the arm of suc- 
 cessful industry, and the dwellers on the banks of the Ohio and 
 the Mississippi become the fellow citizens and neighbors of those 
 who cultivate the hills of New England. 1 We have a commerce 
 that leaves no sea unexplored, navies which take no law from 
 superior force, revenues adequate to all the exigencies of gov- 
 ernment, almost without taxation, and peace with all nations, 
 founded on equal rights and mutual respect. 
 
 Europe, within the same period, has been agitated by a mighty 
 revolution 2 which, while it has been felt in the individual condi- 
 tion and happiness of almost every man, has shaken to the cen- 
 ter her political fabric, and dashed against one another thrones 
 which had stood tranquil for ages. On this our continent, our 
 own example has been followed, and colonies have sprung up to 
 be nations. Unaccustomed sounds of liberty and free govern- 
 ment have reached us from beyond the track of the sun ; 3 and at 
 this moment the dominion of European power in this continent, 4 
 from the place where we stand to the south pole, is annihilated 
 forever. 
 
 In the mean time, both in Europe and America, such has been 
 the general progress of knowledge, such the improvement in leg- 
 islation, in commerce, in the arts, in letters, and, above all, in 
 liberal ideas and the general spirit of the age, that the whole 
 world seems changed. 
 
 1 This has been more than realized by the introduction of railroads, mak- 
 ing the people even of the Pacific coast neighbors of the people of New Eng- 
 land. Edward Everett mentions as an interesting circumstance, the fact that 
 the first railroad on the Western continent was built for the purpose of aiding 
 in the erection of this monument. It was a horse railroad from Quincy to 
 Boston, and was used for transporting the blocks of granite from the quarries. 
 
 2 The French Revolution and the wars resulting from it. 
 
 3 The allusion is to the then recent establishment of republican govern- 
 ments in South America. 
 
 4 The Monroe Doctrine, enunciated by President Monroe in his message 
 to Congress in 1823, was virtually a declaration that no European power 
 should be permitted to secure further dominion on the American continent. 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 25 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding that this is but a faint abstract of the 
 things which have happened since the day of the battle of 
 Bunker Hill, we are but fifty years removed from it ; and we 
 now stand here to enjoy all the blessings of our own condition, 
 and to look abroad on the brightened prospects of the world, 
 while we still have among us some of those who were active 
 agents in the scenes of 1775, and who are now here, from every 
 quarter of New England, 1 to visit once more, and under circum- 
 stances so affecting, I had almost said so overwhelming, this 
 renowned theater of their courage and patriotism. 
 
 VENERABLE MEN, you have come down to us from a former 
 generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives, 
 that you might behold this joyous day. You are now where you 
 stood fifty years ago this very hour, with your brothers and your 
 neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in the strife for your country. 
 Behold, how altered! The same heavens are indeed over your 
 heads; the same ocean rolls at your feet: but all else how 
 changed ! You hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no 
 mixed volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning Charles- 
 town. The ground strewed with the dead and the dying ; the 
 impetuous charge ; the steady and successful repulse ; the loud 
 call to repeated assault ; the summoning of all that is manly to 
 repeated resistance ; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared 
 in an instant to whatever of terror there may be in war and death, 
 all these you have witnessed, but you witness them no more. All 
 is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, 2 its towers and roofs, 
 which you then saw filled with wives and children and country- 
 men in distress and terror, and looking with unutterable emotions 
 for the issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with the 
 sight of its whole happy population come out to welcome and 
 greet you with a universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a 
 
 1 There were nearly two hundred of them, forty of whom had been in the 
 battle of Bmnker Hill. 
 
 2 Boston. 
 
26 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 felicity of position appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, 1 
 and seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means of annoy- 
 ance to you, but your country's own means of distinction and 
 defense. All is peace ; and God has granted you this sight of 
 your country's happiness ere you slumber in the grave. He has 
 allowed you to behold and to partake the reward of your pa- 
 triotic toils ; and he nas allowed us, your sons and countrymen, 
 to meet you here, and in the name of the present generation, in 
 the name of your country, in the name of liberty, to thank you. 
 
 But, alas ! you are not all here. Time and the sword have 
 thinned your ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Read, 
 Pomeroy, Bridge, our eyes seek for you in vain amid this broken 
 band. You are gathered to your fathers, and live only to your 
 country in her grateful remembrance and your own bright exam- 
 ple. But let us not too much grieve that you have met the 
 common fate of men. You lived at least long enough to know 
 that your work had been nobly and successfully accomplished. 
 You lived to see your country's independence established, and 
 to sheathe your swords from war. On the light of Liberty you 
 saw arise the light of Peace, like 
 
 "Another morn, 
 Risen on mid noon ; " 2 
 
 and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless. 
 
 But ah ! him, the first great martyr 3 in this great cause ; 
 him, the premature victim of his own self-devoting heart ; 
 him, the head of our civil councils and the destined leader of 
 our military bands, whom nothing brought hither but the un- 
 quenchable fire of his own spirit ; him, cut off by Providence 
 
 1 The United States Navy Yard at Charlestown is situated at the base of 
 Bunker Hill. 
 
 2 Paradise Lost, v. 310. 
 
 3 Gen. Joseph Warren, born in I74 1 } was a man of fine culture and 
 unusual promise. He had been elected president of the Provincial Congress, 
 and was one of the most ardent patriots of the time. 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 27 
 
 in the hour of overwhelming anxiety and thick gloom, falling 
 ere he saw the star of his country rise, pouring out his generous 
 blood like water before he knew whether it would fertilize a land 
 of freedom or of bondage, how shall I struggle with the emo- 
 tions that stifle the utterance of thy name ! Our poor work 
 may perish ; but thine shall endure. This monument may 
 molder away ; the solid ground it rests upon may sink down to 
 a level with the sea : but thy memory shall not fail. Whereso- 
 ever among men a heart shall be found that beats to the trans- 
 ports of patriotism and liberty, its aspirations shall be to claim 
 kindred with thy spirit. 
 
 But the scene amidst which we stand does not permit us to 
 confine our thoughts or our sympathies to those fearless spirits 
 who hazarded or lost their lives on this consecrated spot. We 
 have the happiness to rejoice here in the presence of a most 
 worthy representation of the survivors of the whole Revolutionary 
 army. 
 
 VETERANS, you are the remnant of many a well-fought field. 
 You bring with you marks of honor from Trenton and Monmouth, 
 from Yorktown, Camden, Bennington, and Saratoga. VETERANS 
 OF HALF A CENTURY, when in your youthful days you put every- 
 thing at hazard in your country's cause, good as that cause was, 
 and sanguine as youth is, still your fondest hopes did not stretch 
 onward to an hour like this. At a period to which you could 
 not reasonably have expected to arrive, at a moment of national 
 prosperity such as you could never have foreseen, you are now 
 met here to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers, and to receive 
 the overflowings of a universal gratitude. 
 
 But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts in- 
 form me that even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive that 
 a tumult of contending feelings rushes upon you. The images 
 of the dead, as well as the persons of the living, present them- 
 selves before you. The scene overwhelms you, and I turn from 
 it. May the Father of all mercies smile upon your declining 
 years, and bless them ! And when you shall here have ex- 
 
28 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 changed your embraces, when you shall once more have pressed 
 the hands which have been so often extended to give succor in 
 adversity, or grasped in the exultation of victory, then look abroad 
 upon this lovely land which your young valor defended, and 
 mark the happiness with which it is filled ; yea, look abroad upon 
 the whole earth, and see what a name you have contributed to 
 give to your country, and what a praise you have added to free- 
 dom, and then rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude which beam 
 upon your last days from the improved condition of mankind ! 
 
 The occasion does not require of me any particular account of 
 the battle of the iyth of June, 1775, nor any detailed narrative 
 of the events which immediately preceded it. These are famil- 
 iarly known to all. In the progress of the great and interesting 
 controversy, Massachusetts and the town of Boston had become 
 early and marked objects of the displeasure of the British Parlia- 
 ment. This had been manifested in the act for altering the gov- 
 ernment of the Province, and in that for shutting up the port of 
 Boston. 1 Nothing sheds more honor on our early history, and 
 nothing better shows how little the feelings and sentiments of the 
 Colonies were known or regarded in England, than the impres- 
 sion which these measures everywhere produced in America. It 
 had been anticipated that, while the Colonies in general would 
 be terrified by the severity of the punishment inflicted on Mas- 
 sachusetts, the other seaports would be governed by a mere spirit 
 of gain ; and that, as Boston was now cut off from all commerce, 
 the unexpected advantage which this blow on her was calculated 
 to confer on other towns would be greedily enjoyed. How mis- 
 erably such reasoners deceived themselves ! How little they 
 knew of the depth and the strength and the intenseness of that 
 feeling of resistance to illegal acts of power which possessed the 
 whole American people ! Everywhere the unworthy boon was 
 
 1 The Boston Port Bill, passed by the British Parliament in 1774, declared 
 that port to be closed, and transferred the seat of colonial government to 
 Salem. 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 29 
 
 rejected with scorn. The fortunate occasion was seized every- 
 where, to show to the whole world that the Colonies were swayed 
 by no local interest, no partial interest, no selfish interest. The 
 temptation to profit by the punishment of Boston was strongest 
 to our neighbors of Salem. Yet Salem was precisely the place 
 where this miserable proffer was spurned in a tone of the most 
 lofty self-respect and the most indignant patriotism. " We are 
 deeply affected," said its inhabitants, " with the sense of our pub- 
 lic calamities ; but the miseries that are now rapidly hastening 
 on our brethren in the capital of the Province greatly excite our 
 commiseration. By shutting up the port of Boston, some imagine 
 that the course of trade might be turned hither and to our bene- 
 fit ; but we must be dead to every idea of justice, lost to all feel- 
 ings of humanity, could we indulge a thought to seize on wealth, 
 and raise our fortunes, on the ruin of our suffering neighbors." 
 These noble sentiments were not confined to our immediate vi- 
 cinity. In that day of general affection and brotherhood, the 
 blow given to Boston smote on every patriotic heart from one 
 end of the country to the other. Virginia and the Carolinas, as 
 well as Connecticut and New Hampshire, felt and proclaimed 
 the cause to be their own. The Continental Congress, then 
 holding its first session in Philadelphia, expressed its sympathy 
 for the suffering inhabitants of Boston; and addresses were 
 received from all quarters assuring them that the cause was a 
 common one, and should be met by common efforts and com- 
 mon sacrifices. The Congress of Massachusetts responded to 
 these assurances ; and in an address to the Congress at Philadel- 
 phia, bearing the official signature (perhaps among the last) of 
 the immortal Warren, notwithstanding the severity of its suffer- 
 ing and the magnitude of the dangers which threatened it, it was 
 declared that this Colony " is ready at all times to spend and to 
 be spent in the cause of America." 
 
 But the hour drew nigh which was to put professions to the 
 proof, and to determine whether the authors of these mutual 
 pledges were ready to seal them in blood. The tidings of Lex- 
 
30 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 ington and Concord had no sooner spread than it was univer- 
 sally felt that the time was at last come for action. A spirit per- 
 vaded all ranks, not transient, not boisterous, but deep, solemn, 
 determined, 
 
 " Totamque infusa per artus 
 Mens agitat molem, et magno se corpora miscet." 1 
 
 War on their own soil and at their own doors was, indeed, a 
 strange work to the yeomanry of New England ; but their con- 
 sciences were convinced of its necessity, their country called them 
 to it, and they did not withhold themselves from the perilous trial. 
 The ordinary occupations of life were abandoned ; the plow was 
 stayed in the unfinished furrow ; wives gave up their husbands, 
 and mothers gave up their sons, to the battles of a civil war. 
 Death might come, in honor, on the field ; it might come, in 
 disgrace, on the scaffold : for either and for both they were pre- 
 pared. The sentiment of Quincy 2 was full in their hearts. 
 " Blandishments," said that distinguished son of genius and pa- 
 triotism, " will not fascinate us, nor will threats of a halter intim- 
 idate ; for, under God, we are determined that wheresoever, 
 whensoever,' or howsoever we shall be called to make our exit, 
 we will die free men." 
 
 The iyth of June saw the four New-England Colonies 3 stand- 
 ing here side by side to triumph or to fall together; and there 
 was with them, from that moment to the end of the war, what I 
 hope will remain with them forever, one cause, one country, one 
 heart. 
 
 The battle of Bunker Hill was attended with the most impor- 
 
 1 ^Eneid, Lib. VI. 725, William Morris's translation: 
 
 " One soul is shed through all, 
 That quickeneth all the mass, and with the mighty thing is blent." 
 
 2 Josiah Quincy, Jr. (born in 1744; died at sea, 1775), was one of the 
 most energetic opponents of British usurpation, and with Warren and James 
 Otis exerted an early and very great influence in favor of the freedom of the 
 American Colonies. 
 
 3 Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, Connecticut. 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 31 
 
 tant effects beyond its immediate results as a military engage- 
 ment. It created at once a state of open, public war. There 
 could now be no longer a question of proceeding against indi- 
 viduals as guilty of treason or rebellion. That fearful crisis was 
 past. The appeal lay to the sword ; and the only question was, 
 whether the spirit and the resources of the people would hold 
 out till the object should be accomplished. Nor were its gen- 
 eral consequences confined to our own country. The previous 
 proceedings of the Colonies, their appeals, resolutions, and ad- 
 dresses, had made their cause known to Europe. Without boast- 
 ing, we may say that in no age or country has the public cause 
 been maintained with more force of argument, more power of 
 illustration, or more of that persuasion which excited feeling and 
 elevated principle can alone bestow, than the Revolutionary state 
 papers exhibit. These papers will forever deserve to be studied, 
 not only for the spirit which they breathe, but for the ability with 
 which they were written. 
 
 To this able vindication of their cause, the Colonies had now 
 added a practical and severe proof of their own true devotion to 
 it, and given evidence also of the power which they could bring 
 to its support. All now saw that, if America fell, she would not 
 fall without a struggle. Men felt sympathy and regard, as well 
 as surprise, when they beheld these infant states, remote, un- 
 known, unaided, encounter the power of England, and, in the 
 first considerable battle, leave more of their enemies dead on the 
 field, in proportion to the number of combatants, 1 than had been 
 recently known to fall in the wars of Europe. 
 
 Information of these events, circulating throughout the world, 
 at length reached the ears of one who now hears me. 2 He has 
 
 1 There were engaged in the battle about 1 , 500 Americans and 2, 500 British. 
 The losses of the Americans were 115 killed, 305 wounded, 30 captured : total 
 450. The British lost 206 killed, 828 wounded: total 1,054. 
 
 2 " Among the earliest of the arrangements for the celebration of the I7th 
 of June, 1825, was the invitation to Gen. Lafayette to be present; and he 
 had so timed his progress through the other States as to return to Massachu- 
 setts in season for the great occasion." EVERETT. 
 
32 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 not forgotten the emotion which the fame of Bunker Hill and 
 the name of Warren excited in his youthful breast. 
 
 SIR, we are assembled to commemorate the establishment of 
 great public principles of liberty, and to do honor to the distin- 
 guished dead. The occasion is too severe for eulogy of the liv- 
 ing. But, sir, your interesting relation to this country, the pecul- 
 iar circumstances which surround you and surround us, call on 
 me to express the happiness which we derive from your presence 
 and aid in this solemn commemoration. 
 
 Fortunate, fortunate man ! with what measure of devotion 
 will you not thank God for the circumstances of your extra*ordi- 
 nary life ! You are connected with both hemispheres and with 
 two generations. Heaven saw fit to ordain that the electric 
 spark of liberty should be conducted, through you, from the 
 New World to the Old ; and we who are now here to perform 
 this duty of patriotism have all of us long ago received it in 
 charge from our fathers to cherish your name and your virtues. 
 You will account it an instance of your good fortune, sir, that 
 you crossed the seas to visit us at a time which enables you to be 
 present at this solemnity. 1 You now behold the field the renown 
 of which reached you in the heart of France, and caused a thrill 
 in your ardent bosom. You see the lines of the little redoubt 
 thrown up by the incredible diligence of Prescott, defended to 
 the last extremity by his lion-hearted valor, and within which 
 the corner stone of our monument has now taken its position. 
 You see where Warren fell, and where Parker, Gardner, Mc- 
 Cleary, Moore, and other early patriots fell with him. Those 
 who survived that day, and whose lives have been prolonged to 
 the present hour, are now around you. Some of them you have 
 known in the trying scenes of the war. Behold ! they now 
 
 1 Gen. Lafayette made a tour of the United States as the " nation's 
 guest " in 1824-25. His name stood at the head of the subscriptions for 
 the Bunker Hill Monument; and he wrote, " In all my travels through the 
 country, I have made Bunker Hill my polestar." 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 33 
 
 stretch forth their feeble arms to embrace you. Behold ! they 
 raise their trembling voices to invoke the blessing of God on you 
 and yours forever. 
 
 Sir, you have assisted us in laying the foundation of this struc- 
 ture. You have heard us rehearse, with our feeble commenda- 
 tion, the names of departed patriots. Monuments and eulogy 
 belong to the dead. 1 We give them this day to Warren and his 
 associates. On other occasions they have been given to your 
 more immediate companions in arms, to Washington, to Greene, 
 to Gates, to Sullivan, and to Lincoln. We have become reluc- 
 tant to grant these, our highest and last honors, further. We 
 would gladly hold them yet back from the little remnant of that 
 immortal band. Serus in ccelum reflects? Illustrious as are your 
 merits, yet far, oh, very far distant be the day 3 when any inscrip- 
 tion shall bear your name,. or any tongue pronounce its eulogy ! 
 
 The leading reflection to which this occasion seems to invite 
 us respects the great changes which have happened in the fifty 
 years since the battle of Bunker Hill was fought. And it pecul- 
 iarly marks the character of the present age, that, in looking at 
 these changes and in estimating their effect on our condition, we 
 are obliged to consider, not what has been done in our own country 
 only, but in others also. In these interesting times, while nations 
 are making separate and individual advances in improvement, 
 they make, too, a common progress, like vessels on a common 
 tide, propelled by the gales at different rates, according to their 
 several structure and management, but all moved forward by one 
 mighty current, strong enough to bear onward whatever does not 
 sink beneath it. 
 
 1 " The thrilling eloquence of the address to the old soldiers of Bunker 
 Hill, and of the apostrophe to Warren, and the superb reservation of eulogy 
 with which he spoke of and to Gen. Lafayette, were perhaps unequaled, 
 surely never surpassed, by Webster on any other occasion." ' 
 
 Life of Webster, ii. p. 252. 
 
 2 " Late into heaven may you return." HORACE, I. ii. 45- 
 
 3 Lafayette died May 20, 1834. 
 
34 DANIEL ll'EBSTER. 
 
 A chief distinction of the present day is a community of opin- 
 ions and knowledge amongst men in different nations, existing in 
 a degree heretofore unknown. Knowledge has in our time 
 triumphed, and is triumphing, over distance, over difference of 
 languages, over diversity of habits, over prejudice, and over 
 bigotry. The civilized and Christian world is fast learning the 
 great lesson, that difference of nation does not imply necessary 
 hostility, and that all contact need not be war. The whole world 
 is becoming a common field for intellect to act in. Energy of 
 mind, genius, power, wheresoever it exists ay speak out in 
 any tongue, and the world will hear it. A great chord of senti- 
 ment and feeling runs through two continents, and vibrates over 
 both. Every breeze wafts intelligence from country to country ; 
 every wave rolls it ; all give it forth, and all in turn receive it. 
 There is a vast commerce of ideas; there are marts and ex- 
 changes for intellectual discoveries, and a wonderful fellowship 
 of those individual intelligences which make up the mind and 
 opinion of the age. Mind is the great lever of all things ; hu- 
 man thought is the process by which human ends are ultimately 
 answered ; and the diffusion of knowledge, so astonishing in the 
 last half century, has rendered innumerable minds, variously 
 gifted by nature, competent to be competitors or fellow workers 
 on the theater of intellectual operation. 
 
 From these causes, important improvements have taken place 
 in the personal condition of individuals. Generally speaking, 
 mankind are not only better fed and better clothed, but they are 
 able also to enjoy more leisure ; they possess more refinement 
 and more self-respect. A superior tone of education, manners, 
 and habits, prevails. This remark, most true in its application to 
 our own country, is also partly true when applied elsewhere. It 
 is proved by the vastly augmented consumption of those articles 
 of manufacture and of commerce which contribute to the com- 
 forts and the decencies of life, an augmentation which has far 
 outrun the progress of population. And while the unexampled 
 and almost incredible use of machinery would seem to supply the 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 35 
 
 place of labor, labor still finds its occupation and its reward, so 
 wisely has Providence adjusted men's wants and desires to their 
 condition and their capacity. 
 
 Any adequate survey, however, of the progress made during 
 the last half century in the polite and the mechanic arts, in ma- 
 chinery and manufactures, in commerce and agriculture, in letters 
 and in science, would require volumes. I must abstain wholly 
 from these subjects, and turn for a moment to the contemplation 
 of what has been done on the great question of politics and gov- 
 ernment. This is the master topic of the age, and during the 
 whole fifty years it has intensely occupied the thoughts of men. 
 The nature of civil government, its ends and uses, have been 
 canvassed and investigated, ancient opinions attacked and de- 
 fended, new ideas recommended and resisted, by whatever power 
 the mind of man could bring to the controversy. From the closet 
 and the public halls, the debate has been transferred to the field ; 
 and the world has been shaken by wars of unexampled magni- 
 tude and the greatest variety of fortune. A day of peace has 
 at length succeeded ; and, now that the strife has subsided and 
 the smoke cleared away, we may begin to see what has actually 
 been done permanently changing the state and condition of hu- 
 man society. And, without dwelling on particular circumstances, 
 it is most apparent, that, from the before-mentioned causes of 
 augmented knowledge and improved individual condition, a real, 
 substantial, and important change has taken place, and is taking 
 place, highly favorable, on the whole, to human liberty and 
 human happiness. 
 
 The great wheel of political revolution began to move in Ameri- 
 ca. Here its rotation was guarded, regular, and safe. Transferred 
 to the other continent, from unfortunate but natural causes, it 
 received an irregular and violent impulse ; it whirled along with a 
 fearful celerity, till at length, like the chariot wheels in the races 
 of antiquity, it took fire from the rapidity of its own motion, and 
 blazed onward, spreading conflagration and terror around. 1 
 
 1 Alluding to the French Revolution (1793) and the Reign of Terror. 
 
36 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 We learn from the result of this experiment how fortunate was 
 our own condition, and how admirably the character of our 
 people was calculated for setting the great example of popular 
 governments. The possession of power did not turn the heads 
 of the American people, for they had long been in the habit of 
 exercising a great degree of self-control. Although the para- 
 mount authority of the parent state existed over them, yet a large 
 field of legislation had always been open to our colonial assemblies. 
 They were accustomed to representative bodies and the forms of 
 free government ; they understood the doctrine of the division of 
 power among different branches, and the necessity of checks on 
 each. The character of our countrymen, moreover, was sober, 
 moral, and religious, and there was little in the change to shock 
 their feelings of justice and humanity, or even to disturb an hon- 
 est prejudice. We had no domestic throne to overturn, no privi- 
 leged orders to cast down, no violent changes of property to en- 
 counter. In the American Revolution, no man sought or wished 
 for more than to defend and enjoy his own. None hoped for 
 plunder or for spoil. Rapacity was unknown to it ; the ax was 
 not among the instruments of its accomplishment ; and we all 
 know that it could not have lived a single day under any well- 
 founded imputation of possessing a tendency adverse to the 
 Christian religion. 
 
 It need not surprise us, that, under circumstances less auspi 
 cious, political revolutions elsewhere, even when well intended, 
 have terminated differently. It is, indeed, a great achievement, 
 it is the master work of the world, to establish governments en- 
 tirely popular on lasting foundations ; nor is it easy, indeed, to 
 introduce the popular principle at all into governments to which 
 it has been altogether a stranger. It cannot be doubted, how- 
 ever, that Europe has come out of the contest, in which she has 
 been so long engaged, with greatly superior knowledge, and, in 
 many respects, in a highly improved condition. Whatever bene- 
 fit has been acquired is likely to be retained, for it consists mainly 
 in the acquisition of more enlightened ideas. And although king- 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 37 
 
 doms and provinces may be wrested from the hands that hold 
 them, in the same manner they were obtained ; although ordi- 
 nary and vulgar power may, in human affairs, be lost as it has 
 been won ; yet it is the glorious prerogative of the empire of 
 knowledge, that what it gains it never loses. On the contrary, 
 it increases by the multiple of its own power ; all its ends become 
 means ; all its attainments, helps to new conquests. Its whole 
 abundant harvest is but so much seed wheat, and nothing has 
 limited, and nothing can limit, the amount of ultimate product. 
 
 Under the influence of this rapidly increasing knowledge, the 
 people have begun, in all forms of government, to think and to 
 reason on affairs of state. Regarding government as an institu- 
 tion for the public good, they demand a knowledge of its opera- 
 tions and a participation in its exercise. A call for the repre- 
 sentative system wherever it is not enjoyed, and where there is 
 already intelligence enough to estimate its value, is perseveringly 
 made. Where men may speak out, they demand it ; where the 
 bayonet is at their throats, they pray for it. 
 
 When Louis XIV. 1 said, " I am the state," he expressed 
 the essence of the doctrine of unlimited power. By the rules 
 of that system, the people are disconnected from the state : 
 they are its subjects ; it is their lord. These ideas, founded in 
 the love of power, and long supported by the excess and the 
 abuse of it, are yielding, in our age, to other opinions ; and the 
 civilized world seems at last to be proceeding to the conviction 
 of that fundamental and manifest truth, that the powers of gov- 
 ernment are but a trust, and that they cannot be lawfully exer- 
 cised but for the good of the community. As knowledge is 
 more and more extended, this conviction becomes more and 
 more general. Knowledge, in truth, is the great sun in the fir- 
 mament. Life and power are scattered with all its beams. The 
 prayer of the Grecian champion when enveloped in unnatural 
 clouds and darkness is the appropriate political supplication for 
 the people of every country not yet blessed with free institutions : 
 
 1 Louis XIV., King of France, 1643-1715. 
 
38 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 " Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore, 
 Give me TO SEE, and Ajax asks no more." 1 
 
 We may hope that the growing influence of enlightened senti- 
 ment will promote the permanent peace of the world. Wars to 
 maintain family alliances, to uphold or to cast down dynasties, 
 ind to regulate successions to thrones, which have occupied so 
 much room in the history of modern times, if not less likely to 
 happen at all, will be less likely to become general and involve 
 many nations, as the great principle shall be more and more 
 established, that the interest of the world is peace, and its first 
 great statute, that every nation possesses the power of establish- 
 ing a government for itself. But public opinion has attained, 
 also, an influence over governments which do not admit the popu- 
 lar principle into their organization. A necessary respect for th<?. 
 judgment of the world operates, in some measure, as a control 
 over the most unlimited forms of authority. It is owing, per- 
 haps, to this truth, thaf the interesting struggle of the Greeks 2 
 has been suffered to go on so long without a direct interference, 
 either to wrest that country from its present masters, or to execute 
 the system of pacification by force, and with united strength lay 
 the neck of Christian and civilized Greek at the foot of the bar- 
 barian Turk. Let us thank God that we live in an age when 
 something has influence besides the bayonet, and when the stern- 
 est authority does not venture to encounter the scorching power 
 of public reproach. Any attempt of the kind I have mentioned 
 should be met by one universal burst of indignation ; the air of 
 the civilized world ought to be made too warm to be comfortably 
 breathed by any one who would hazard it. 
 
 It is, indeed, a touching reflection, that while, in the fullness of 
 our country's happiness, we rear this monument to her honor, we 
 
 1 Iliad, XVII. 729, Pope's translation. 
 
 2 The Greek Revolution, against Turkish oppression and for the freedom 
 of Greece, was then in progress. It had begun in 1820, and was terminated, 
 with the success of the patriots, in 1829. 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 39 
 
 look for instruction in our undertaking to a country which is now 
 in fearful contest, not for works of art or memorials of glory, but 
 for her own existence. Let her be assured that she is not for- 
 gotten in the world, that her efforts are applauded, and that 
 constant prayers ascend for her success. And let us cherish a 
 confident hope for her final triumph. If the true spark of reli- 
 gious and civil liberty be kindled, it will burn. Human agency 
 cannot extinguish it. Like the earth's central fire, it may be 
 smothered for a time ; the ocean may overwhelm it ; mountains 
 may press it down ; but its inherent and unconquerable force will 
 heave both the ocean and the land, and at some time or other, in 
 some place or other, the volcano will break out, and flame up to 
 heaven. 
 
 Among the great events of the half century we must reckon, 
 certainly, the revolution of South America ; l and we are not 
 likely to overrate the importance of that revolution, either to the 
 people of the country itself or to the rest of the world. The late 
 Spanish colonies, now independent states, under circumstances 
 less favorable, doubtless, than attended our own Revolution, have 
 yet successfully commenced their national existence. They have 
 accomplished the great object of establishing their independence ; 
 they are known and acknowledged in the world : and although in 
 regard to their systems of government, their sentiments on reli- 
 gious toleration, and their provisions for public instruction, they 
 may have yet much to learn, it must be admitted that they have 
 risen to the condition of settled and established states more rap- 
 idly than could have been reasonably anticipated. They already 
 furnish an exhilarating example of the difference between free 
 governments and despotic misrule. Their commerce, at this 
 moment, creates a new activity in all the great marts of the 
 world. They show themselves able, by an exchange of com- 
 modities, to bear a useful part in the intercourse of nations. 
 
 1 The revolution of the South American colonies was at that time an event 
 of but recent occurrence. It began in 1810, and ended in 1824, when Bolivia, 
 the last of the Spanish colonies, was acknowledged independent. 
 
40 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 A new spirit of enterprise and industry begins to prevail ; all 
 the great interests of society receive a salutary impulse ; and the 
 progress of information not only testifies to an improved condi- 
 tion, but itself constitutes the highest and most essential improve- 
 ment. 
 
 When the battle of Bunker Hill was fought, the existence of 
 South America was scarcely felt in the civilized world. The 
 thirteen little Colonies of North America habitually called them- 
 selves the " Continent." Borne down by colonial subjugation, 
 monopoly, and bigotry, these vast regions of the South were 
 hardly visible above the horizon. But in our day there has 
 been, as it were, a new creation. The southern hemisphere 
 emerges from the sea. Its lofty mountains begin to lift them- 
 selves into the light of heaven ; it's broad and fertile plains stretch 
 out in beauty to the eye of civilized man ; and at the mighty 
 bidding of the voice of political liberty the waters of darkness 
 retire. 
 
 And now let us indulge an honest exultation in the conviction 
 of the benefit which the example of our country has produced, 
 and is likely to produce, on human freedom and human happi- 
 ness. Let us endeavor to comprehend in all its magnitude, and 
 to feel in all its importance, the part assigned to us in the great 
 drama of human affairs. We are placed at the head of the sys- 
 tem of representative and popular governments. Thus far our 
 example shows that such governments are compatible, not only 
 with respectability and power, but with repose, with peace, with 
 security of personal rights, with good laws, and a just adminis- 
 tration. 
 
 We are not propagandists. Wherever other systems are pre- 
 ferred, either as being thought better in themselves, or as better 
 suited to existing condition, we leave the preference to be en- 
 joyed. Our history hitherto proves, however, that the popular 
 form is practicable, and that with wisdom and knowledge men 
 may govern themselves ; and the duty incumbent on us is to 
 
THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 41 
 
 preserve the consistency of this cheering example, and take care 
 that nothing may weaken its authority with the world. If, in 
 our case, the representative system ultimately fail, popular gov- 
 ernments must be pronounced impossible. No combination of 
 circumstances more favorable to the experiment can ever be 
 expected to occur. The last hopes of mankind, therefore, rest 
 with us ; and if it should be proclaimed that our example had 
 become an argument against the experiment, the knell of popular 
 liberty would be sounded throughout the earth. 
 
 These are excitements to duty, but they are not suggestions 
 of doubt. Our history and our condition, all that is gone before 
 us, and all that surrounds us, authorize the belief that popular 
 governments, though subject to occasional variations, in form 
 perhaps not always for the better, may yet, in their general 
 character, be as durable and permanent as other systems. We 
 know, indeed, that in our country any other is impossible. The 
 
 adheres to the American soil. It 
 
 is bejlded in it, immovable as its mountains. 
 
 And let the sacred obligations which have devolved on this 
 generation and on us sink deep into our hearts. Those who 
 established our liberty and our government are daily dropping 
 from among us. The great trust now descends to new hands. 
 Let us apply ourselves to that which is presented to us as our 
 appropriate object. We can win no laurels in a war for inde- 
 pendence. Earlier and worthier hands have gathered them all. 
 Nor are there places for us by the side of Solon l and Alfred 2 
 and other founders of states. Our fathers have filled them. 
 But there remains to us a great duty of defense and preserva- 
 tion ; and there is opened to us, also, a noble pursuit to which 
 the spirit of the times strongly invites us. Our proper business 
 
 1 Solon, the most famous of the lawgivers of ancient Greece (born about 
 638 B.C.), established a new code of laws for Athens. 
 
 2 King Alfred the Great, of England (849-901), reduced the Anglo-Saxon 
 laws to a system, and made- great improvements in the administration of jus- 
 tice. He is sometimes regarded as the founder of the English monarchy. 
 
42 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 is improvement. Let our age be the age of improvement. In 
 a day of peace, let us advance the arts of peace and the works 
 of peace. Let us develop the resources of our land, call forth its 
 powers, build up its institutions, promote all its great interests, 
 and see whether we also, in our day and generation, may not per- 
 form something worthy to be remembered. Let us cultivate a 
 true spirit of union and harmony. In pursuing the great objects 
 which our condition points out to us, let us act under a settled 
 conviction and an habitual feeling, that these twenty-four States 
 are oe country. Let our conceptions be enlarged to the circle 
 of our duties. Let us extend our ideas over the whole of the 
 vast field in which we are called to act. Let our object be, OUR 
 
 COUNTRY, OUR WHOLE COUNTRY, AND NOTHING BUT OUR COUN- 
 TRY. And, by the blessing of God, may that country itself 
 become a vast and splendid monument, not of oppression and 
 terror, but of Wisdom, of Peace, and of Liberty, upon which 
 the world may gaze with admiration forever ! 
 
THE COMPLETION OF THE BUNKER 
 HILL MONUMENT. 
 
 AN ADDRESS DELIVERED ON BUNKER HILL, ON THE I'JTH. OF 
 
 JUNE, 1843, ON THE OCCASION OF THE COMPLETION 
 
 OF THE MONUMENT. 
 
 A DUTY has been performed. A work of gratitude and patri- 
 otism is completed. This structure, having its foundations 
 in soil which drank deep of early Revolutionary blood, has at 
 length reached its destined height, and now lifts its summit to the 
 skies. 
 
 We have assembled to celebrate the accomplishment of this 
 undertaking, and to indulge afresh in the recollection of the great 
 event which it is designed to commemorate. Eighteen years, 
 more than half the ordinary duration of a generation of man- 
 kind, have elapsed since the corner stone of this monument was 
 laid. The hopes of its projectors rested on voluntary contribu- 
 tions, private munificence, and the general favor of the public. 
 These hopes have not been disappointed. Donations have been 
 made by individuals, in some cases of large amount ; and smaller 
 sums have been contributed by thousands. All who regard the 
 object itself as important, and its accomplishment, therefore, as 
 a good attained, will entertain sincere respect and gratitude for 
 the unwearied efforts of the successive presidents, boards of 
 directors, and committees of the Association which has had the 
 general control of the work. The architect, equally entitled to 
 
 43 
 
44 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 our thanks and commendation, will find other reward, also, for 
 his labor and skill, in the beauty and elegance of the obelisk 
 itself, and the distinction which, as a work of art, it confers upon 
 him. 
 
 At a period when the prospects of further progress in the 
 undertaking were gloomy and discouraging, the Mechanic Asso- 
 ciation, by a most praiseworthy and vigorous effort, raised new 
 funds for carrying it forward, and saw them applied with fidelity, 
 economy, and skill. It is a grateful duty to make public acknowl- 
 edgments of such timely and efficient aid. 
 
 The last effort and the last contribution were from a different 
 source. Garlands of grace and elegance were destined to crown 
 a work which had its commencement in manly patriotism. The 
 winning power of the sex addressed itself- -to the public, and all 
 that was needed to carry the monument to its proposed height, 
 and to give to it its finish, was promptly supplied. The mothers 
 and the daughters of the land contributed thus, most successfully, 
 to whatever there is of beauty in the monument itself, or what- 
 ever of utility and public benefit and gratification there is in its 
 completion. 
 
 Of those with whom the plan originated, of erecting on this 
 spot a monument worthy of the event to be commemorated, 
 many are now present ; but others, alas ! have themselves be- 
 come subjects of monumental inscription. William Tudor an 
 accomplished scholar, a distinguished writer, a most amiable 
 man, allied both by birth and sentiment to the patriots of the 
 Revolution died while on public service abroad, and now lies 
 buried in a foreign land. 1 William Sullivan a name fragrant of 
 Revolutionary merit and of public service and public virtue, who 
 himself partook in a high degree of the respect and confidence 
 of the community, and yet was always most loved where best 
 known has also been gathered to his fathers. And last, George 
 Blake a lawyer of learning and eloquence, a man of wit and of 
 
 1 William Tudor died at Rio de Janeiro, while Charge d* Affaires of the 
 United States, in 1830. See Introduction. 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 45 
 
 talent, of social qualities the most agreeable and fascinating, and 
 of gifts which enabled him to exercise large sway over public 
 assemblies has closed his human career. 1 I know that in the 
 crowds before me there are those from whose eyes tears will 
 flow at the mention of these names. But such mention is due 
 to their general character, their public and private virtues, and 
 especially, on this occasion, to the spirit and zeal with which 
 they entered into the undertaking which is now completed. 
 
 I have spoken only of those who are no longer numbered with 
 the living. But a long life, now drawing towards its close, al- 
 ways distinguished by acts of public spirit, humanity, and charity, 
 forming a character which has already become historical, and 
 sanctified by public regard and the affection of friends, may 
 confer even on the living the proper immunity of the dead, and 
 be the fit subject of honorable mention and warm commendation. 
 Of the early projectors of the design of this monument, one of 
 the most prominent, the most zealous, and the most efficient, is 
 Thomas H. Perkins. 2 It was beneath his ever hospitable roof 
 that those whom I have mentioned, and others yet living and 
 now present, having assembled for the purpose, adopted the first 
 step towards erecting a monument on Bunker Hill. Long may 
 he remain, with unimpaired faculties, in the wide field of his 
 usefulness ! His charities have distilled like the dews of heaven ; 
 he has fed the hungry, and clothed the naked; he has given 
 sight to the blind : and for such virtues there is a reward on 
 high of which all human memorials, all language of brass and 
 stone, are but humble types and attempted imitations. 
 
 Time and nature have had their course in diminishing the 
 number of those whom we met here on the ryth of June, 1825. 
 Most of the Revolutionary characters then present have since 
 
 1 William Sullivan died in Boston in 1839, George Blake, in 1841 ; both 
 gentlemen of great political and legal eminence. 
 
 2 Thomas Handasyd Perkins, a distinguished merchant and philanthropist 
 of Boston, founder of the Perkins Institution and Massachusetts School for 
 the Blind. He died Jan. II, 1854. 
 
46 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 deceased ; and Lafayette sleeps in his native land. Yet the name 
 and blood of Warren are with us ; the kindred of Putnam are 
 also here ; and near me, universally beloved for his character 
 and his virtues, and now venerable for his years, sits the son 
 of the noble- hearted and daring Prescott. 1 Gideon Foster of 
 Danvers, Enos Reynolds of Boxford, Phineas Johnson, Robert 
 Andrews, Elijah Dresser, Josiah Cleaveland, Jesse Smith, Philip 
 Bagley, Needham Maynard, Roger Plaisted, Joseph Stephens, 
 Nehemiah Porter, and James Harvey, who bore arms for their 
 country, either at Concord and Lexington on the iQth of April, 
 or on Bunker Hill, all now far advanced in age, have come here 
 to-day to look once more on the field where their valor was 
 proved, and to receive a hearty outpouring of our respect. 
 
 They have long outlived the troubles and dangers of the Revo- 
 lution ; they have outlived the evils arising from the want of a 
 united and efficient government ; they have outlived the menace 
 of imminent dangers to the public liberty ; they have outlived 
 nearly all their contemporaries : but they have not outlived, they 
 cannot outlive, the affectionate gratitude of their country. Heav- 
 en has not allotted to this generation an opportunity of rendering 
 high services, and manifesting strong personal devotion, such as 
 they rendered and manifested, and in such a cause as that which 
 roused the patriotic fires of their youthful breasts, and nerved the 
 strength of their arms. But we may praise what we cannot equal, 
 and celebrate actions which we were not born to perform. Pul- 
 chrum est benefacere reipublicce, etiam benedicere hand absurdum est. 
 
 The Bunker Hill Monument is finished. Here it stands. For- 
 tunate in the high natural eminence on which it is placed, higher, 
 infinitely higher, in its objects and purpose, it rises over the land 
 and over the sea ; and, visible at their homes to three hundred 
 thousand of the people of Massachusetts, it stands a memorial 
 of the last, and a monitor to the present, and to all succeeding 
 
 1 " William Prescott (since deceased, in 1844), son of Col. William Pres- 
 cott, who commanded on the iyth of June, 1775, and father of William H. 
 Prescott, the historian." EVERETT. 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 47 
 
 generations. I have spoken of the loftiness of its purpose. If 
 it had been without any other design than the creation of a work 
 of art, the granite of which it is composed would have slept in 
 its native bed. It has a purpose, and that purpose gives it its 
 character. That purpose enrobes it with dignity and moral 
 grandeur. That well-known purpose it is which causes us to 
 look up to it with a feeling of awe. It is itself the orator of this 
 occasion. It is not from my lips, it could not be from any hu- 
 man lips, that that strain of eloquence is this day to flow most 
 competent to move and excite the vast multitudes around me. 
 The powerful speaker stands motionless before us. 1 It is a plain 
 shaft. It bears no inscriptions, fronting to the rising sun, from 
 which the future antiquary shall wipe the dust. Nor does the 
 rising sun cause tones of music to issue from its summit. But 
 at the rising of the sun and at the setting of the sun, in the 
 blaze of noonday, and beneath the milder effulgence of lunar 
 light, it looks, it speaks, it acts, to the full comprehension of 
 every American mind, and the awakening of glowing enthusiasm 
 in every American heart. Its silent but awful utterance ; its 
 deep pathos as it brings to our contemplation the i yth of June, 
 1775, and the consequences which have resulted to us, to our 
 country, and to the world, from the events of that day, and which 
 we know must continue to rain influence on the destinies of man- 
 kind to the end of time ; the elevation with which it raises us high 
 above the ordinary feelings of life, surpass all that the study of 
 the closet, or even the inspiration of genius, can produce. To-day 
 it speaks to us : its future auditories will be the successive gen- 
 erations of men as they rise up before it and gather around it. 
 Its speech will be of patriotism and courage, of civil and religious 
 liberty, of free government, of the moral improvement and eleva- 
 tion of mankind, and of the immortal memory of those who, with 
 heroic devotion, have sacrificed their lives for their country. 
 
 1 It is related that at this point in his speech the orator was interrupted by 
 a spontaneous burst of applause from his hearers, and that such was their 
 enthusiasm, that it was several moments before he could proceed. 
 
48 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 In the older world, numerous fabrics still exist, reared by hu- 
 man hands, but whose object has been lost in the darkness of 
 ages. They are now monuments of nothing but the labor and 
 skill which constructed them. 
 
 The mighty Pyramid itself, half buried in the sands of Africa, has 
 nothing to bring down and report to us but the power of kings 
 and the servitude of the people. If it had any purpose beyond 
 that of a mausoleum, such purpose has perished from history and 
 from tradition. If asked for its moral object, its admonition, its 
 sentiment, its instruction to mankind, or any high end in its erec- 
 tion, it is silent, silent as the millions which lie in the dust at its 
 base, and in the catacombs which surround it. Without a just 
 moral object, therefore, made known to man, though raised 
 against the skies, it excites only conviction of power mixed with 
 strange wonder. But if the civilization of the present race of 
 men founded as it is in solid science, the true knowledge of 
 nature, and vast discoveries in art, and which is elevated and 
 purified by moral sentiment and by the truths of Christianity be 
 not destined to destruction before the final termination of human 
 existence on earth, the object and purpose of this edifice will be 
 known till that hour shall come. And even if civilization should 
 be subverted, and the truths of the Christian religion obscured 
 by a new deluge of barbarism, the memory of Bunker Hill and 
 the American Revolution will still be elements and parts of the 
 knowledge which shall be possessed by the last man to whom 
 the light of civilization and Christianity shall be extended. 
 
 This celebration is honored by the presence of the chief execu^ 
 tive magistrate of the Union. An occasion so national in its 
 object and character, and so much connected with that Revolu- 
 tion from which the government sprang at the head of which he 
 is placed, may well receive from him this mark of attention and 
 respect. Well acquainted with Yorktown, 1 the scene of the last 
 
 1 President Tyler was a native of Virginia, and his birthplace was within 
 less than forty miles of Yorktown. The surrender of the British army under 
 Cornwallis, at Yorktown, occurred Oct. 19, 1781. 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 49 
 
 great military struggle of the Revolution, his eye now surveys 
 the field of Bunker Hill, the theater of the first of those impor- 
 tant conflicts. He sees where Warren fell, where Putnam and 
 Prescott and Stark and Knowlton and Brooks fought. He 
 beholds the spot where a thousand trained soldiers of England 
 were smitten to the earth, in the first effort of revolutionary war, 
 by the arm of a bold and determined yeomanry contending for 
 liberty and their country. And while all assembled here enter- 
 tain towards him sincere personal good wishes and the high re- 
 spect due to his elevated office and station, it is not to be doubted 
 that he enters with true American feeling into the patriotic en- 
 thusiasm kindled by the occasion which animates the multitudes 
 that surround him. 
 
 His Excellency the Governor of the Commonwealth, the Gov- 
 ernor of Rhode Island, and the other distinguished public men 
 whom we have the honor to receive as visitors and guests to-day, 
 will cordially unite in a celebration connected with the great event 
 of the Revolutionary War. 
 
 No name in the history of 1775 and 1776 is more distinguished 
 than that borne by an ex-president of the United States, 1 whom 
 we expected to see here, but whose ill health prevents his attend- 
 ance. Whenever popular rights were to be asserted, an Adams 
 was present ; and when the time came for the formal Declaration 
 of Independence, it was the voice of an Adams that shook the 
 halls of Congress. We wish we could have welcomed to us this 
 day the inheritor of Revolutionary blood, and the just and worthy 
 representative of high Revolutionary names, merit, and services. 
 
 Banners and badges, processions and flags, announce to us 
 that amidst this uncounted throng are thousands of natives of 
 New England now residents in other States. Welcome, ye kin- 
 dred names, with kindred blood ! From the broad savannas 2 
 of the South, from the newer regions of the West, from amidst 
 
 1 John Quincy Adams (1767-1848), the sixth President of the United States 
 (1825-29). 
 
 2 Plains, or meadows. 
 
50 . . DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 the hundreds of thousands of men of Eastern origin who culti- 
 vate the rich valley of the Genesee, or live along the chain of 
 the Lakes, from the mountains of Pennsylvania, and from the 
 thronged cities of the coast, welcome, welcome ! Wherever else 
 you may be strangers, here you are all at home. You assemble 
 at this shrine of liberty, near the family altars at which your ear- 
 liest devotions were paid to Heaven, near to the temples of 
 worship first entered by you, and near to the schools and colleges 
 in. which your education was received. You come hither with a 
 glorious ancestry of liberty. You bring names which are on the 
 rolls of Lexington, Concord, and Bunker Hill. You come, some 
 of you, once more to be embraced by an aged Revolutionary 
 father, or to receive another, perhaps a last, blessing, bestowed in 
 love and tears, by a mother, yet surviving to witness and to 
 enjoy your prosperity and happiness. 
 
 But if family associations and the recollections of the past 
 bring you hither with greater alacrity, and mingle with your 
 greeting much of local attachment and private affection, greeting 
 also be given, free and hearty greeting, to every American citizen 
 who treads this sacred soil with patriotic feeling, and respires with 
 pleasure in an atmosphere perfumed with the recollections of 
 1775 ! This occasion is respectable, 1 nay, it is grand, it is sub- 
 lime, by the nationality of its sentiment. Among the seventeen 
 millions of happy people who form the American community, 
 there is not one who has not an interest in this monument, as 
 there is not one that has not a deep and abiding interest in that 
 which it commemorates. 
 
 Woe betide the man who brings to this day's worship feeling 
 less than wholly American ! Woe betide the man who can stand 
 here with the fires of local resentments burning, or the purpose 
 of fomenting local jealousies and the strifes of local interests fes- 
 tering and rankling in his heart ! Union, established in justice, 
 in patriotism, and the most plain and obvious common interest; 
 
 1 This is a favorite word with Webster, and he often gives to it an unusual 
 significance. 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 51 
 
 union, founded on the same love of liberty, cemented by blood 
 shed in the same common cause, union has been the source of 
 all our glory and greatness thus far, and is the ground of all our 
 highest hopes. This column stands on union. I know not that 
 it might not keep its position if the American Union, in the mad 
 conflict of human passions, and in the strife of parties and fac- 
 tions, should be broken up and destroyed. I know not that it 
 would totter and fall to the earth, and mingle its fragments with 
 the fragments of Liberty and the Constitution, when State should 
 be separated from State, and faction and dismemberment obliter- 
 ate forever all the hopes of the founders of our Republic and the 
 great inheritance of their children. It might stand. But who, 
 from beneath the weight of mortification and shame that would 
 oppress him, could look up to behold it ? Whose eyeballs would 
 not be seared by such a spectacle ? For my part, should I live 
 to such a time, I shall avert my eyes from it forever. 
 
 It is not as a mere military encounter of hostile armies that 
 the battle of Bunker Hill presents its principal claim to attention. 
 Yet, even as a mere battle, there were circumstances attending 
 it extraordinary in character, and entitling it to peculiar distinc- 
 tion. It was fought on this eminence, in the neighborhood of 
 yonder city, in the presence of many more spectators than there 
 were combatants in the conflict. Men, women, and children, 
 from every commanding position, were gazing at the battle, and 
 looking for its results with all the eagerness natural to those who 
 knew that the issue was fraught with the deepest consequences 
 to themselves personally, as well as to their country. Yet on the 
 1 6th of June, 1775, there was nothing around this hill but ver- 
 dure and culture. There was, indeed, the note of awful prepara- 
 tion in Boston. There was the Provincial army at Cambridge, 
 with its right flank resting on Dorchester, and its left on Chelsea. 
 But here all was peace. Tranquillity reigned around. On the 
 1 7th, everything was changed. On this eminence had arisen, in 
 the night, a redoubt, built by Prescott, and in which he held 
 command. Perceived by the enemy at dawn, it was immediately 
 
52 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 cannonaded from the floating batteries in the river, and from the 
 opposite shore. And then ensued the hurried movement in Bos- 
 ton, and soon the troops of Britain embarked in the attempt to 
 dislodge the colonists. In an hour everything indicated an im- 
 mediate and bloody conflict. Love of liberty on one side, proud 
 defiance of rebellion on the other, hopes and fears, and courage 
 and daring, on both sides, animated the hearts of the combatants 
 as they hung on the edge of battle. 
 
 I suppose it would be difficult, in a military point of view, to 
 ascribe to the leaders on either side any just motive for the en- 
 gagement which followed. On the one hand, it could not have 
 been very important to the Americans to attempt to hem the 
 British within the town, by advancing one single post a quarter 
 of a mile ; while, on the other hand, if the British found it essen- 
 tial to dislodge the American troops, they had it in their power 
 at no expense of life. By moving up their ships and batteries, 
 they could have completely cut off all communication with the 
 mainland over the Neck, and the forces in the redoubt would 
 have been reduced to a state of famine in forty-eight hours. 
 
 But that was not the day for any such consideration on either 
 side. Both parties were anxious to try the strength of their 
 arms. The pride of England would not permit the "rebels," as 
 she termed them, to defy her to the teeth ; and, without for a 
 moment calculating the cost, the British general determined to 
 destroy the fort immediately. On the other side, Prescott and 
 his gallant followers longed and thirsted for a decisive trial of 
 strength and of courage. They wished a battle, and wished it 
 at once. And this is the true secret of the movements on this hill. 
 
 I will not attempt to describe that battle. The cannonading, 
 the landing of the British, their advance, the coolness with 
 which the charge was met, the repulse, the second attack, the 
 second repulse, the burning of Charlestown, and finally the 
 closing assault and the slow retreat of the Americans, the his- 
 tory of all these is familiar. 
 
 But the consequences of the battle of Bunker Hill were greater 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 53 
 
 than those of any ordinary conflict, although between armies of 
 far greater force, and terminating with more immediate advan- 
 tage on the one side or the other. It was the first great battle 
 of the Revolution, and not only the first blow, but the blow 
 which determined the contest. It did not, indeed, put an end 
 to the war ; but, in the then existing hostile state of feeling, the 
 difficulties could only be referred to the arbitration of the sword. 
 And one thing is certain, that, after the New-England troops 
 had shown themselves able to face and repulse the regulars, it 
 was decided that peace never could be established but upon the 
 basis of the independence of the Colonies. When the sun of 
 that day went down, the event of independence was no longer 
 doubtful. In a few days Washington heard of the battle, and 
 he inquired if the militia had stood the fire of the regulars. When 
 told that they had not only stood that fire, but reserved their 
 own till the enemy was within eight rods, and then poured it in 
 with tremendous effect, " Then," exclaimed he, " the liberties of 
 the country are safe ! " 
 
 The consequences of this battle were just of the same impor- 
 tance as the Revolution itself. 
 
 If there was nothing of value in the principles of the American 
 Revolution, then there is nothing valuable in the battle of Bunker 
 Hill and its consequences. But if the Revolution was an era in 
 the history of man favorable to human happiness, if it was an 
 event which marked the progress of man all over the world from 
 despotism to liberty, then this monument is not raised without 
 cause. Then the battle of Bunker Hill is not an event unde- 
 serving celebrations, commemorations, and rejoicings, now and 
 in all coming times. 
 
 What, then, is the true and peculiar principle of the American 
 Revolution, and of the systems of government which it has con- 
 firmed and established ? The truth is, that the American Revo- 
 lution was not caused by the instantaneous discovery of principles 
 of government before unheard of, or the practical adoption of 
 political ideas such as had never before entered into the minds 
 
54 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 of men. It was but the full development of principles of gov- 
 ernment, forms of society, and political sentiments, the origin of 
 all which lay back two centuries in English and American history. 
 The discovery of America, its colonization by the nations of 
 Europe, the history and progress of the Colonies, from their 
 establishment to the time when the principal of them threw off 
 their allegiance to the respective states by which they had been 
 planted, and founded governments of their own, constitute one 
 of the most interesting portions of the annals of man. These 
 events occupied three hundred years, during which period civil- 
 ization and knowledge made steady progress in the Old World ; 
 so that Europe, at the commencement of the nineteenth century, 
 had become greatly changed from that Europe which began the 
 colonization of America at the close of the fifteenth or the com- 
 mencement of the sixteenth. And what is most material to my 
 present purpose is, that in the progress of the first of these cen- 
 turies, that is to say, from the discovery of America to the settle- 
 ments of Virginia and Massachusetts, political and religious 
 events took place which most materially affected the state of 
 society and the sentiments of mankind, especially in England 
 and in parts of Continental Europe. After a few feeble and 
 unsuccessful efforts by England, under Henry VII., 1 to plant 
 colonies in America, no designs of that kind were prosecuted for 
 a long period, either by the English Government or any of its 
 subjects. Without inquiring into the causes of this delay, its 
 consequences are sufficiently clear and striking. England, in 
 this lapse of a century, unknown to herself, but under the provi- 
 dence of God and the influence of events, was fitting herself for 
 the work of colonizing North America, on such " principles, and 
 by such men, as should spread the English name and English 
 blood, in time, over a great portion of the Western hemisphere. 
 
 1 It was during the reign of Henry VII. that John Cabot, under a royal 
 commission, discovered the coast of North America, a discovery upon which 
 the subsequent claims of the English to jurisdiction on this continent were 
 based. 
 
SECOND -BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 55 
 
 The commercial spirit was greatly fostered by several laws 
 passed in the reign of Henry VII. ; and in the same reign en- 
 couragement was given to arts and manufactures in the eastern 
 counties, and some not unimportant modifications of the feudal 
 system took place by allowing the breaking of entails. 1 These 
 and other measures, and other occurrences, were making way for 
 a new class of society to emerge and show itself in a military 
 and feudal age ; a middle class, between the barons or great 
 landholders and the retainers of the Crown on the one side, and 
 the tenants of the Crown and barons, and agricultural and other 
 laborers, on the other side. With the rise and growth of this 
 new class of society, not only did commerce and the arts in- 
 crease, but better education, a greater degree of knowledge, 
 juster notions of the true ends of government, and sentiments 
 favorable to civil liberty, began to spread abroad, and become 
 more and more common. But the plants springing from these 
 seeds were of slow growth. The character of English society 
 had indeed begun to undergo a change ; but changes of national 
 character are ordinarily the work of time. Operative causes 
 were, however, evidently in existence, and sure to produce, 
 ultimately, their proper effect. From the accession of Henry 
 VII. to the breaking out of the civil wars, 2 England enjoyed 
 much greater exemption from war, foreign and domestic, than 
 for a long period before, and during the controversy between the 
 houses of York and Lancaster. 3 These years of peace were fa- 
 vorable to commerce and the arts. Commerce and the arts aug- 
 mented general and individual knowledge ; and knowledge is the 
 only fountain, both of the love and the principles of human liberty. 
 
 1 Laws forbidding the owner of an estate to transfer it to any person ex- 
 cept the legal heir. 
 
 2 That is, from 1485 to about 1640. 
 
 3 This conflict between the two great families of England, each claiming 
 the right to the royal succession, is known in history as the War of the 
 Roses. It began in 1455, and continued until the death of Richard III. in 
 1485. 
 
56 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 Other powerful causes soon came into active play. The Ref- 
 ormation of Luther 1 broke out, kindling up the minds of men 
 afresh, leading to new habits of thought, and awakening in indi- 
 viduals energies before unknown even to themselves. The reli- 
 gious controversies of this period changed society as well as re- 
 ligion : indeed, it would be easy to prove, if this occasion were 
 proper for it, that they changed society to a considerable extent, 
 where they did not change the religion of the state. They 
 changed man himself, in his modes of thought, his consciousness 
 of his own powers, and his desire of intellectual attainment. The 
 spirit of commercial and foreign adventure, therefore, on the one 
 hand, which had gained so much strength and influence since the 
 time of the discovery of America ; and, on the other, the assertion 
 and maintenance of religious liberty, having their source indeed 
 in the Reformation, but continued, diversified, and constantly 
 strengthened by the subsequent divisions of sentiment and opin- 
 ion among the Reformers themselves ; and this love of religious 
 liberty, drawing after it, or bringing along with it, as it always 
 does, an ardent devotion to the principle of civil liberty also, 
 were the powerful influences under which character was formed, 
 and men trained, for the great work of introducing English civil- 
 ization, English law, and, what is more than all, Anglo-Saxon 
 blood, into the wilderness of North America. Raleigh 2 and his 
 companions may be considered as the creatures, principally, of 
 the first of these causes. High-spirited, full of the love of per- 
 sonal adventure, excited, too, in some degree, by the hopes of 
 sudden riches from the discovery of mines of the precious metals, 
 and not unwilling to diversify the labors of settling a colony with 
 occasional cruising against the Spaniards in the West Indian seas, 
 
 1 This great religious and political movement, which engaged the attention 
 of a large portion of Europe during the sixteenth century, is so called from 
 Martin Luther, its most distinguished promoter. The Reformation was 
 begun in Switzerland by Zwingli in 1516; in Germany, by Luther in 1517* 
 and in England, by Henry VIII. in 1534. 
 
 2 Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618). 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 57 
 
 they crossed and recrossed the ocean with a frequency which 
 surprises us when we consider the state of navigation, and which 
 evinces a most daring spirit. 
 
 The other cause peopled New England. The " Mayflower " 
 sought our shores under no high-wrought spirit of commercial 
 adventure, no love of gold, no mixture of purpose warlike or 
 hostile to any human being. Like the dove from the ark, she 
 had put forth only to find rest. Solemn supplications on the 
 shore of the sea in Holland had invoked for her, at her depar- 
 ture, the blessings of Providence. The stars which guided her 
 were the unobscured constellations of civil and religious liberty. 
 Her deck was the altar of the living God. Fervent prayers on 
 bended knees mingled, morning and evening, with the voices 
 of ocean and the sighing of the wind in her shrouds. Every 
 prosperous breeze which, gently swelling her sails, helped the 
 Pilgrims onward in their course, awoke new anthems of praise ; 
 and when the elements were wrought into fury, neither the tem- 
 pest, tossing their fragile bark like a feather, nor the darkness and 
 howling of the midnight storm, ever disturbed in man or woman 
 the firm and settled purpose of their souls, to undergo all and to do 
 all that the meekest patience, the boldest resolution, and the highest 
 trust in God, could enable human beings to suffer or to perform. 
 
 Some differences may, doubtless, be traced at this day between 
 the descendants of the early colonists of Virginia and those of 
 New England, owing to the different influences and different cir- 
 cumstances under which the respective settlements were made, 
 but only enough to create a pleasing variety in the midst of a 
 general family resemblance. 
 
 " Facies non omnibus una, 
 Nee diversa tamen; qualis decet sororum." 1 
 
 But the habits, sentiments, and objects of both soon became 
 modified by locaJ Causes, growing out of their condition in the 
 
 1 " The features are not the same in all, nor yet very different : they are 
 such as those of sisters ought to be." QVID. 
 
58 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 New World ; and as this condition was essentially alike in both, 
 and as both at once adopted the same general rules and prin- 
 ciples of English jurisprudence, and became accustomed to the 
 authority of representative bodies, these differences gradually 
 diminished. They disappeared by the progress of time and the 
 influence of intercourse. The necessity of some degree of union 
 and cooperation to defend themselves against the savage tribes, 
 tended to excite in them mutual respect and regard. They 
 fought together in the wars against France. 1 The great and 
 common cause of the Revolution bound them to one another by 
 new links of brotherhood ; and at length the present constitution 
 of government united them, happily and gloriously, to form the 
 great republic of the world, and bound up their interests and for- 
 tunes, till the whole earth sees that there is now for them, in pres- 
 ent possession as well as in future hope, but " One Country, One 
 Constitution, and One Destiny." 
 
 The colonization of the tropical region, and the whole of the 
 southern parts of the continent, by Spain and Portugal, was con- 
 ducted on other principles, under the influence of other motives, 
 and followed by far different consequences. From the time of 
 its discovery, the Spanish Government pushed forward its settle- 
 ments in America, not only with vigor, but with eagerness ; so 
 that, long before the first permanent English settlement had been 
 accomplished in what is now the United States, Spain had con- 
 quered Mexico, Peru, and Chile, and stretched her power over 
 nearly all the territory she ever acquired on this continent. The 
 rapidity of these conquests is to be ascribed, in a great degree, to 
 the eagerness, not to say the rapacity, of those numerous bands 
 of adventurers who were stimulated by individual interests and 
 private hopes to subdue immense regions, and take possession of 
 them in the name of the Crown of Spain. The mines of gold 
 and silver were the incitements to these efforts; and accordingly 
 
 1 Known in American history as King William's War (1689-97), Queen 
 Anne's War (1702-13), King George's War (1744-48), and the French and 
 Indian War (1754-63). 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 59 
 
 settlements were generally made, and Spanish authority estab- 
 lished, immediately on the subjugation of territory, that the native 
 population might be set to work by their new Spanish masters in 
 the mines. From these facts, the love of gold gold not pro- 
 duced by industry, nor accumulated by commerce, but gold dug 
 from its native bed in the bowels of the earth, and that earth 
 ravished from its rightful possessors by every possible degree of 
 enormity, cruelty, and crime was long the governing passion in 
 Spanish wars and Spanish settlements in America. Even Colum- 
 bus himself did not wholly escape the influence of this base motive. 
 In his early voyages we find him passing from island to island, 
 inquiring everywhere for gold, as if God had opened the New 
 World to the knowledge of the Old, only to gratify a passion 
 equally senseless and sordid, and to offer up millions of an un- 
 offending race of men to the destruction of the sword, sharpened 
 both by cruelty and rapacity. And yet Columbus was far above 
 his age and country; enthusiastic, indeed, but sober, religious, 
 and magnanimous ; born to great things, and capable of high 
 sentiments, as his noble discourse before Ferdinand and Isabella, 
 as well as the whole history of his life, shows. Probably he sac- 
 rificed much to the known sentiments of others, and addressed 
 to his followers motives likely to influence them. At the same 
 time, it is evident that he himself looked upon the world which 
 he discovered as a world of wealth all ready to be seized and 
 enjoyed. 
 
 The conquerors and the European settlers of Spanish America 
 were mainly military commanders and common soldiers. The 
 monarchy of Spain was not transferred to this hemisphere ; but it 
 acted in it, as it acted at home, through its ordinary means and 
 its true representative, military force. The robbery and destruc- 
 tion of the native race was the achievement of standing armies, 
 in the right of the King and by his authority ; fighting in his name, 
 for the aggrandizement of his power and the extension of his 
 prerogatives, with military ideas under arbitrary maxims, a 
 portion of that dreadful instrumentality by which a perfect des- 
 
60 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 potism governs a people. As there was no liberty in Spain, how 
 could liberty be transmitted to Spanish colonies ? 
 
 The colonists of English America were of the people, and a 
 people already free. They were of the middle, industrious, and 
 already prosperous class, the inhabitants of commercial aric 1 
 manufacturing cities, among whom liberty first revived and re 
 spired after a sleep of a thousand years in the bosom of the Darl: 
 Ages. Spain descended on the New World in the armed and 
 terrible image of her monarchy and her soldiery ; England ap- 
 proached it in the winning and popular garb of personal rights, 
 public protection, and civil freedom. England transplanted lib- 
 erty to America ; Spain transplanted power. England, through 
 the agency of private companies and the efforts of individuals, 
 colonized this part of North America by industrious individuals, 
 making their own way in the wilderness, defending themselves 
 against the savages, recognizing their right to the soil, and with 
 a general honest purpose of introducing knowledge as well as 
 Christianity among them. Spain stooped on South America like 
 a vulture on its prey. Everything was force. Territories were 
 acquired by fire and sword. Cities were destroyed by fire and 
 sword. Hundreds of thousands of human beings fell by fire and 
 sword. Even conversion to Christianity was attempted by fire 
 and sword. 
 
 Behold, then, fellow citizens, the difference resulting from the 
 operation of the two principles ! Here, to-day, on the summit 
 of Bunker Hill, and at the foot of this monument, behold the 
 difference ! I would that the fifty thousand voices present could 
 proclaim it with a shout which should be heard over the globe. 
 Our inheritance was of liberty, secured and regulated by law, and 
 enlightened by religion and knowledge ; that of South America was 
 of power, stern, unrelenting, tyrannical, military power. And 
 now look to the consequences of the two principles on the general 
 and aggregate happiness of the human race. Behold the results 
 in all the regions conquered by Cortes and Pizarro, and the con- 
 trasted results here. I suppose the territory of the United States 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 61 
 
 may amount to one eighth, or one tenth, of that colonized by 
 Spain on this continent ; and yet. in all that vast region there are 
 but between one and two millions of people of European color 
 and European blood, while in the United States there are four- 
 teen millions who rejoice in their descent from the people of the 
 more northern part of Europe. 
 
 But we may follow the difference in the original principle of 
 colonization, and in its character and objects, still further. We 
 must look to moral and intellectual results; we must consider 
 consequences, not only as they show themselves in hastening or 
 retarding the increase of population and the supply of physical 
 wants, but in their civilization, improvement, and happiness. We 
 must inquire what progress has been made in the true science of 
 liberty, in the knowledge of the great principles of self-govern- 
 ment, and in the progress of man as a social, moral, and religious 
 being. 
 
 I would not willingly say anything on this occasion discour- 
 teous to the new governments founded on the demolition of the 
 power of the Spanish monarchy. They are yet on their trial, 
 and I hope for a favorable result. But truth, sacred truth, and 
 fidelity to the cause of civil liberty, compel me to say, that 
 hitherto they have discovered quite too much of the spirit of 
 that monarchy from which they separated themselves. Quite 
 too frequent resort is made to military force ; and quite too 
 much of the substance of the people is consumed in maintaining 
 armies, not for defense against foreign aggression, but for enfor- 
 cing obedience to domestic authority. Standing armies are the 
 oppressive instruments for governing the people in the hands of 
 hereditary and arbitrary monarchs. A military republic, a gov- 
 ernment founded on mock elections and supported only by the 
 sword, is a movement indeed, but a retrograde and disastrous 
 movement, from the regular and old-fashioned monarchical sys- 
 tems. If men would enjoy the blessings of republican govern- 
 ment, they must govern themselves by reason, by mutual counsel 
 and consultation, by a sense and feeling of general interest, and 
 
62 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 by the acquiescence of the minority in the will of the majority, 
 properly expressed ; and, above all, the military must be kept, 
 according to the language of our Bill of Rights, in strict subor- 
 dination to the civil authority. Wherever this lesson is not both 
 learned and practiced, there can be no political freedom. Ab- 
 surd, preposterous is it, a scoff and a satire on free forms of con- 
 stitutional liberty, for frames of government to be prescribed by 
 military leaders, and the right of suffrage to be exercised at the 
 point of the sword. 
 
 Making all allowance for situation and climate, it cannot be 
 doubted by intelligent minds that the difference now existing 
 between North and South America is justly attributable, in a 
 great degree, to political institutions in the Old World and in the 
 New. And how broad that difference is ! Suppose an assembly, 
 in one of the valleys or on the side of one of the mountains of 
 the southern half of the hemisphere, to be held this day in the 
 neighborhood of a large city what would be the scene pre- 
 sented ? Yonder is a volcano, flaming and smoking, but shed- 
 ding no light, moral or intellectual. At its foot is the mine, 
 sometimes yielding, perhaps, large gains to capital, but in which 
 labor is destined to eternal and unrequited toil, and followed only 
 by penury and beggary. The city is filled with armed men ; not 
 a free people, armed and coming forth voluntarily to rejoice in a 
 public festivity, but hireling troops, supported by forced loans, 
 excessive impositions on commerce, or taxes wrung from a half- 
 fed and a half-clothed population. For the great there are palaces 
 covered with gold ; for the poor there are hovels of the meanest 
 sort. There is an ecclesiastical hierarchy, enjoying the wealth of 
 princes ; but there are no means of education for the people. Do 
 public improvements favor intercourse between place and place? 
 So far from this, the traveler cannot pass from town to town 
 without danger, every mile, of robbery and assassination. I 
 would not overcharge or exaggerate this picture ; but its princi- 
 pal features are all too truly sketched. 
 
 And how does it contrast with the scene now actually before 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 63 
 
 us ? Look round upon these fields ; they are verdant and beau- 
 tiful, well cultivated, and at this moment loaded with the riches 
 of the early harvest. The hands which till them are those of the 
 free owners of the soil, enjoying equal rights, and protected by 
 law from oppression and tyranny. Look to the thousand vessels 
 in our sight, filling the harbor, or covering the neighboring sea. 
 They are the vehicles of a profitable commerce, carried on by 
 men who know that the profits of their hardy enterprise, when 
 they make them, are their own ; and this commerce is encouraged 
 and regulated by wise laws, and defended, when need be, by the 
 valor and patriotism of the country. Look to that fair city, the 
 abode of so much diffused wealth, so much general happiness 
 and comfort, so much personal independence, and so much gen- 
 eral knowledge, and not undistinguished, I may be permitted to 
 add, for hospitality and social refinement. She fears no forced 
 contributions, no siege or sacking from military leaders of rival 
 factions. The hundred temples in which her citizens worship 
 God are in no danger of sacrilege. The regular administration 
 of the laws encounters no obstacle. The long processions of 
 children and youth which you see this day issuing by thousands 
 from her free schools, prove the care and anxiety with which a 
 popular government provides for the education and morals of 
 the people. Everywhere there is order; everywhere there is 
 security. Everywhere the law reaches to the highest, and reaches 
 to the lowest, to protect all in their rights, and to restrain all from 
 wrong ; and over all hovers Liberty, that Liberty for which our 
 fathers fought and fell on this very spot, with her eye ever 
 watchful and her eagle wing ever wide outspread. 
 
 The colonies of Spain, from their origin to their end, were sub- 
 ject to the sovereign authority of the mother country. Their 
 government, as well as their commerce, was a strict home monop- 
 oly. If we add to this the established usage of filling important 
 posts in the administration of the colonies exclusively by natives 
 of Old Spain, thus cutting off forever all hopes of honorable pre- 
 ferment from every man born in the Western hemisphere, causes 
 
64 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 enough rise up before us at once to account fully for the subse- 
 quent history and character of these provinces. The viceroys 
 and provincial governors of Spain were never at home in their 
 governments in America. They did not feel that they were of 
 the people whom they governed. Their official character and 
 employment have a good deal of resemblance to those of the 
 proconsuls of Rome in Asia, Sicily, and Gaul, but obviously no 
 resemblance to those of Carver and Winthrop, and very little to 
 those of the governors of Virginia after that Colony had estab- 
 lished a popular House of Burgesses. 
 
 The English colonists in America, generally speaking, were 
 men who were seeking new homes in a new world. They brought 
 with them their families and all that was most dear to them. This 
 was especially the case with the colonists of Plymouth and Mas- 
 sachusetts. Many of them were educated men, and all possessed 
 their full share, according to their social condition, of the knowl 
 edge and attainments of that age. The distinctive characteristic 
 of their settlement is the introduction of the civilization of Europe 
 into a wilderness, without bringing with it the political institutions 
 of Europe. The arts, sciences, and literature of England came 
 over with the settlers. That great portion of the common law 
 which regulates the social and personal relations and conduct of 
 men came also. The jury came ; the habeas corpus came ; the 
 testamentary power came ; and the law of inheritance and de- 
 scent came also, except that part of it which recognizes the rights 
 of primogeniture, 1 which either did not come at all, or soon gave 
 way to the rule of equal partition of estates among children. But 
 the monarchy did not come, nor the aristocracy, nor the church, 
 as an estate of the realm. Political institutions were to be 
 framed anew, such as should be adapted to the state of things. 
 But it could not be doubtful what should be the nature and char- 
 acter of these institutions. A general social equality prevailed 
 among the settlers, and an equality of political rights seemed the 
 
 1 "Rights of primogeniture," i.e., the law providing that the eldest son 
 should inherit the entire estate of his father. 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 65 
 
 natural, if not the necessary consequence. After forty years of 
 revolution, violence, and war, the people of France have placed 
 at the head of the fundamental instrument of their government, 
 as the great boon obtained by all their sufferings and sacrifices, 
 the declaration that all Frenchmen are equal before the law. 
 What France has reached only by the expenditure of so much 
 blood and treasure, and the perpetration of so much crime, the 
 English colonists obtained by simply changing their place, carry- 
 ing with them the intellectual and moral culture of Europe, and 
 the personal and social relations to which they were accustomed, 
 but leaving behind their political institutions. It has been said 
 with much vivacity, that the felicity of the American colonists 
 consisted in their escape from the past. This is true so far as 
 respects political establishments, but no farther. They brought 
 with them a full portion of all the riches of the past, in science, 
 in art, in morals, religion, and literature. The Bible came with 
 them. And it is not to be doubted, that to the free and univer- 
 sal reading of the Bible, in that age, men were much indebted 
 for right views of civil liberty. The Bible is a book of faith, and 
 a book of doctrine, and a book of morals, and a book of reli- 
 gion, of especial revelation from God ; but it is also a book which 
 teaches man his own individual responsibility, his own dignity, 
 and his equality with his fellow man. 
 
 Bacon and Locke, and Shakespeare and Milton, also came 
 with the colonists. It was the object of the first settlers to form 
 new political systems ; but all that belonged to cultivated man, to 
 family, to neighborhood, to social relations, accompanied them. 
 In the Doric l phrase of one of our own historians, " They came to 
 settle on bare creation ; " but their settlement in the wilderness, 
 nevertheless, was not a lodgment of nomadic tribes, a mere rest- 
 ing place of roaming savages. It was the beginning of a per- 
 manent community, the fixed residence of cultivated men. Not 
 only was English literature read, but English, good English, was 
 spoken and written, before the ax had made way to let in the 
 
 1 Plain, unadorned. 
 5 
 
66 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 sun upon the habitations and fields of Plymouth and Massachu- 
 setts. And, whatever may be said to the contrary, a correct use 
 of the English language is, at this day, more general throughout 
 the United States than it is throughout England herself. 
 
 But another grand characteristic is, that in the English Colonies 
 political affairs were left to be managed by the colonists them- 
 selves. This is another fact wholly distinguishing them in char- 
 acter, as it has distinguished them in fortune, from the colonists 
 of Spain. Here lies the foundation of that experience in self- 
 government which has preserved order and security and regu- 
 larity amidst the play of popular institutions. Home govern- 
 ment was the secret of the prosperity of the North- American 
 settlements. The more distinguished of the New-England colo- 
 nists, with a most remarkable sagacity and a long-sighted reach 
 into futurity, refused to come to America unless they could bring 
 with them charters providing for the administration of their 
 affairs in this country. They saw from the first the evils of 
 being governed in the New World by a power fixed in the Old. 
 Acknowledging the general superiority of the Crown, they still 
 insisted on the right of passing local laws, and of local adminis- 
 tration. And history teaches us the justice and the value of this 
 determination in the example of Virginia. The early attempts 
 to settle that Colony failed, sometimes with the most melancholy 
 and fatal consequences, from want of knowledge, care, and atten- 
 tion on the part of those who had the charge of their affairs in 
 England ; and it was only after the issuing of the third charter 
 that its prosperity fairly commenced. The cause was, that by 
 that third charter the people of Virginia, for by this time they 
 deserved to be so called, were allowed to constitute and establish 
 the first popular representative assembly which ever convened 
 on this continent, the Virginia House of Burgesses. 1 
 
 The great elements, then, of the American system of govern- 
 ment, originally introduced by the colonists, and which were early 
 
 1 The first House of Burgesses in Virginia was convened by Gov. Yeard- 
 ley in 1619, thirteen years after the landing at Jamestown. 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 67 
 
 in operation, and ready to be developed more and more as the 
 progress of events should justify or demand, were : 
 
 Escape from the existing political systems of Europe, includ- 
 ing its religious hierarchies, 1 but the continued possession and 
 enjoyment of its science and arts, its literature and its manners ; 
 
 Home government, or the power of making in the Colony the 
 municipal laws which were to govern it ; 
 
 Equality of rights ; 
 
 Representative assemblies, or forms of government founded on 
 popular elections. 
 
 Few topics are more inviting, or more fit for philosophical 
 discussion, than the effect on the happiness of mankind of in- 
 stitutions founded upon these principles ; or, in other words, the 
 influence of the New World upon the Old. 
 
 Her obligations to Europe for science and art, laws, literature, 
 and manners, America acknowledges as she ought, with respect 
 and gratitude. The people of the United States, descendants of 
 the English stock, grateful for the treasures of knowledge derived 
 from their English ancestors, admit also, with thanks and filial 
 regard, that among those ancestors, under the culture of Hamp- 
 den and Sidney 2 and other assiduous friends, that seed of popu- 
 lar liberty first germinated, which on our soil has shot up to its 
 full height, until its branches overshadow all the land. 
 
 But America has not failed to make returns. If. she has not 
 wholly canceled the obligation, or equaled it by others of like 
 weight, she has at least made respectable advances towards re- 
 paying the debt. And she admits that, standing in the midst 
 of civilized nations and in a civilized age, a nation among na- 
 tions, there is a high part which she is expected to act for the 
 general advancement of human interests and human welfare. 
 
 1 Governments by the priesthood. 
 
 2 John Hampden (1594-1643) and Algernon Sidney (1622-83), English 
 patriots distinguished for their fearless advocacy of the rights of the people 
 in opposition to kingly tyranny. 
 
68 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 American mines have filled the mints of Europe with the pre- 
 cious metals. The productions of the American soil and climate 
 have poured out their abundance of luxuries for the tables of the 
 rich and of necessaries for the sustenance of the poor. Birds 
 and animals of beauty and value have been added to the Euro- 
 pean stocks ; and transplantations from the unequaled riches of 
 our forests have mingled themselves profusely with the elms and 
 ashes and druidical oaks of England. 
 
 America has made contributions to Europe far more impor- 
 tant. Who can estimate the amount, or the value, of the aug- 
 mentation of the commerce of the world that has resulted from 
 America? Who can imagine to himself what would now be the 
 shock to the Eastern Continent, if the Atlantic were no longer 
 traversable, or if there were no longer American productions or 
 American markets ? 
 
 But America exercises influences, or holds out examples, for 
 the consideration of the Old World, of a much higher, because 
 they are of a moral and political character. 
 
 America has furnished to Europe proof of the fact that popu- 
 lar institutions, founded on equality and the principle of repre- 
 sentation, are capable of maintaining governments able to secure 
 the rights of person, property, and reputation. 
 
 America has proved that it is practicable to elevate the mass 
 of mankind, that portion which in Europe is called the laboring, 
 or lower class, to raise them to self-respect, to make them com- 
 petent to act a part in the great right and great duty of self-gov- 
 ernment ; and she has proved that this may be done by education 
 and the diffusion of knowledge. She holds out an example, a 
 thousand times more encouraging than ever was presented be- 
 fore, to those nine tenths of the human race who are born with- 
 out hereditary fortune or hereditary rank. 
 
 America has furnished to the world the character of Washing- 
 ton. And, if our American institutions had done nothing else, 
 that alone would have entitled them to the respect of mankind. 
 
 Washington ! " First in war, first in peace, and first in the 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 69 
 
 hearts of his countrymen ! " 1 Washington is all our own ! The 
 enthusiastic veneration and regard in which the people of the 
 United States hold him prove them to be worthy of such a 
 countryman ; while his reputation abroad reflects the highest 
 honor on his country. I would cheerfully put the question to- 
 day to the intelligence of Europe and the world, What character 
 of the century, upon the whole, stands out in the relief of history, 
 most pure, most respectable, most sublime ? and I doubt not, 
 that, by a suffrage approaching to unanimity, the answer would 
 be, Washington ! 
 
 The structure now standing before us, by its uprightness, its 
 solidity, its durability, is no unfit emblem of his character. His 
 public virtues and public principles were as firm as the earth on 
 which it stands ; his personal motives, as pure as the serene 
 heaven in which its summit is lost. But, indeed, though a fit, 
 it is an inadequate emblem. Towering high above the column 
 which our hands have builded, beheld, not by the inhabitants of 
 a single city or a single State, but by all the families of man, 
 ascends the colossal grandeur of the character and life of Wash- 
 ington. In all the constituents of the one, in all the acts of the 
 other, in all its titles to immortal love, admiration, and renown, 
 it is an American production. It is the embodiment and vindi- 
 cation of our Transatlantic liberty. Born upon our soil, of par- 
 ents also born upon it ; never for a moment having had sight of 
 the Old World ; instructed, according to the modes of his time, 
 only in the spare, plain, but wholesome elementary knowledge 
 which our institutions provide for the children of the people ; 
 growing up beneath and penetrated by the genuine influences of 
 American society ; living, from infancy to manhood and age, 
 amidst our expanding but not luxurious civilization ; partaking 
 in our great destiny of labor, our long contest with unreclaimed 
 nature and uncivilized man, our agony of glory, the war of Inde- 
 pendence, our great victory of peace, the formation of the Union 
 
 1 These words were first used by Henry Lee in his oration on the death 
 
 of Washington. 
 
70 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 and the establishment of the Constitution, he is all, all our 
 own ! Washington is ours. That crowded and glorious life, 
 
 " Where multitudes of virtues passed along, 
 Each pressing foremost, in the mighty throng 
 Ambitious to be seen, then making room 
 For greater multitudes that were to come," 
 
 that life was the life of an American citizen. 
 
 I claim him for America. In all the perils, in every darkened 
 moment of the state, in the midst of the reproaches of enemies 
 and the misgivings of friends, I turn to that transcendent name 
 for courage and for consolation. To him who denies or doubts 
 whether our fervid liberty can be combined with law, with order, 
 with the security of property, with the pursuits and advancement 
 of happiness ; to him who denies that our forms of government 
 are capable of producing exaltation of soul and the passion of 
 true glory ; to him who denies that we have contributed anything 
 to the stock of great lessons and great examples, to all these I 
 reply by pointing to Washington. 
 
 And now, friends and fellow citizens, it is time to bring this 
 discourse to a close. 
 
 We have indulged in gratifying recollections of the past, in the 
 prosperity and pleasures of the present, and in high hopes for the 
 future. But let us remember that we have duties and obligations 
 to perform corresponding to the blessings which we enjoy. Lei 
 us remember the trust, the sacred trust, attaching to the rich in 
 heritance which we have received from our fathers. Let us fee 
 our personal responsibility, to the full extent of our power and 
 influence, for the preservation of the principles of civil and reli 
 gious liberty. And let us remember that it is only religion and 
 morals and knowledge, that can make men respectable 1 and 
 happy under any form of government. Let us hold fast the 
 great truth, that communities are responsible, as well as individ- 
 
 1 See note, p. 50. 
 
SECOND BUNKER HILL ADDRESS. 71 
 
 uals ; that no government is respectable 1 which is not just ; that 
 without unspotted purity of public faith, without sacred public 
 principle, fidelity, and honor, no mere forms of government, no 
 machinery of laws, can give dignity to political society. In our 
 day and generation let us seek to raise and improve the moral 
 sentiment, so that we may look, not for a degraded, but for an 
 elevated and improved future. And when both we and our 
 children shall have been consigned to the house appointed for 
 all living, may love of country and pride of country glow with 
 equal fervor among those to whom our names and our blood 
 shall have descended ! And then, when honored and decrepit 
 age shall lean against the base of this monument, and troops of 
 ingenuous youth shall be gathered round it, and when the one 
 shall speak to the other of its objects, the purposes of its con- 
 struction, and the great and glorious events with which it is con- 
 nected, there shall rise from every youthful breast the ejaculation, 
 "Thank God, I I also AM AN AMERICAN !" 
 
 1 See note, p. 50. 
 
THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 A SPEECH DELIVERED AT A PUBLIC DINNER IN THE CITY OF 
 
 WASHINGTON, ON THE 22D OF FEBRUARY, 1832, THE 
 
 CENTENNIAL ANNIVERSARY OF WASHINGTON'S 
 
 BIRTHDAY. 
 
 1RISE, gentlemen, to propose to you the name of that great 
 man in commemoration of whose birth, and in honor of 
 whose character and services, we are here assembled. 
 
 I am sure that I express a sentiment common to every one 
 present, when I say that there is something more than ordinarily 
 solemn and affecting in this occasion. 
 
 We are met to testify our regard for him whose name is inti- 
 mately blended with whatever belongs most essentially to the 
 prosperity, the liberty, the free institutions, and the renown of our 
 country. That name was of power to rally a nation in the hour 
 of thick-thronging public disasters and calamities ; that name 
 shone, amid the storm of war, a beacon light, to cheer and guide 
 the country's friends ; it flamed, too, like a meteor, to repel her 
 foes. That name, in the days of peace, was a loadstone, attract- 
 ing to itself a whole people's confidence, a whole people's love, 
 and the whole world's respect. That name, descending with all 
 time, spreading over the whole earth, and uttered in all the lan- 
 guages belonging to the tribes and races of men, will forever be 
 pronounced with affectionate gratitude by every one in whose 
 breast there shall arise an aspiration for human rights and human 
 liberty. 
 
 We perform this grateful duty, gentlemen, at the expiration of 
 
 72 
 
THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 73 
 
 a hundred years from his birth, near the place, so cherished and 
 beloved by him, where his dust now reposes, and in the capital 
 which bears his own immortal name. 
 
 All experience evinces that human sentiments are strongly 
 influenced by associations. The recurrence of anniversaries, or 
 of longer periods of time, naturally freshens the recollection, and 
 deepens the impression, of events with which they are historical- 
 ly connected. Renowned places, also, have a power to awaken 
 feeling, which all acknowledge. No American ca"n pass by the 
 fields of Bunker Hill, Monmouth, and Camden, as if they were 
 ordinary spots on the earth's surface. Whoever visits them feels 
 the sentiment of love of country kindling anew, as if the spirit 
 that belonged to the transactions which have rendered these 
 places distinguished, still hovered round, with power to move and 
 excite all who in future time may approach them. 
 
 But neither of these sources of emotion equals the power with 
 which great moral examples affect the mind. When sublime 
 virtues cease to be abstractions, when they become embodied in 
 human character, and exemplified in human conduct, we should 
 be false to our own nature if we did not indulge in the spontane- 
 ous effusions of our gratitude and our admiration. A true lover 
 of the virtue of patriotism delights to contemplate its purest 
 models ; and that love of country may be well suspected which 
 affects to soar so high into the regions of sentiment as to be lost 
 and absorbed in the abstract feeling, and becomes too elevated 
 or too refined to glow with fervor in the commendation or the 
 love of individual benefactors. All this i& unnatural. It is as if 
 one should be so enthusiastic a lover of poetry as to care noth- 
 ing for Homer or Milton ; so passionately attached to eloquence 
 as to be indifferent to Tully l and Chatham ; 2 or such a devotee 
 to the arts, in such an ecstasy with the elements of beauty, pro- 
 portion, and expression, as to regard the masterpieces of Raphael 3 
 
 1 Marcus Tullius Cicero, the most famous Roman orator (106-43 B.C.). 
 
 2 William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, the " Great Commoner " (1708-78). 
 
 3 Raphael, or Raffaelle Santi d'Urbino, Italian painter (1483-1520). 
 
74 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 and Michael Angelo l with coldness or contempt. We may be 
 assured, gentlemen, that he who really loves the thing itself, 
 loves its finest exhibitions. A true friend of his country loves her 
 friends and benefactors, and thinks it no degradation to commend 
 and commemorate them. The voluntary outpouring of the public 
 feeling made to-day, from the North to the South, and from the 
 East to the West, proves this sentiment to be both just and nat- 
 ural. In the cities and in the villages, in the public temples and 
 in the family circles, among all ages and sexes, gladdened voices 
 to-day bespeak grateful hearts and a freshened recollection of 
 the virtues of the Father of his Country. And it will be so in 
 all time to come, so long as public virtue is itself an object of 
 regard. The ingenuous youth of America will hold up to them- 
 selves the bright model of Washington's example, and study to 
 be what they behold ; they will contemplate his character till all 
 its virtues spread out and display themselves to their delighted 
 vision, as the earliest astronomers, the shepherds on the plains 
 of Babylon, gazed at the stars till they saw them form into 
 clusters and constellations, overpowering at length the eyes of 
 the beholders with the united blaze of a thousand lights. 
 
 Gentlemen, we are at a point of a century from the birth of 
 Washington ; and what a century it has been ! During its course, 
 the human mind has seemed to proceed with a sort of geo- 
 metric velocity, accomplishing for human intelligence and human 
 freedom more than had been done in fives or tens of centuries 
 preceding. Washington stands at the commencement of a new 
 era, as well as at the head of the New World. A century from the 
 birth of Washington has changed the world. The country of 
 Washington has been the theater on which a great part of that 
 change has been wrought, and Washington himself a principal 
 agent by which it has been accomplished. His age and his 
 country are equally full of wonders ; and of both he is the chief. 
 
 If the poetical prediction uttered a few years before his birth 
 be true ; if indeed it be designed by Providence that the grandest 
 
 1 Michael Angelo Buonarroti, Italian painter and sculptor (1485-1564). 
 
THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 75 
 
 exhibition of human character and human affairs shall be made 
 on this theater of the Western world ; if it be true that 
 
 " The four first acts already past, 
 A fifth shall close the drama with the day: 
 Time's noblest offspring is the last,"i 
 
 how could this imposing, swelling, final scene be appropriately 
 opened, how could its intense interest be adequately sustained, but 
 by the introduction of just such a character as our Washington ? 
 Washington had attained his manhood when that spark of lib- 
 erty was struck out in his own country which has since kindled 
 into a flame, and shot its beams over the earth. In the flow of 
 a century from his birth, the world has changed in science, in 
 arts, in the extent of commerce, in the improvement of naviga- 
 tion, and in all that relates to the civilization of man. But it is 
 the spirit of human freedom, the new elevation of individual 
 man, in his moral, social, and political character, leading the 
 whole long train of other improvements, which has most remark- 
 ably distinguished the era. Society, in this century, has not made 
 its progress, like Chinese skill, by a greater acuteness of ingenuity 
 in trifles ; it has not merely lashed itself to an increased speed 
 round the old circles of thought and action ; but it has assumed 
 a new character ; it has raised itself from beneath governments to 
 a participation in governments ; it has mixed moral and political 
 objects with the daily pursuits of individual men ; and, with a 
 freedom and strength before altogether unknown, it has applied 
 to these objects the whole power of the human understanding. 
 It has been the era, in short, when the social principle has tri- 
 umphed over the feudal principle ; when society has maintained 
 its rights against military power, and established, on foundations 
 never hereafter to be shaken, its competency to govern itself. 
 
 1 From a poem entitled On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learn- 
 ing in America, written by Bishop Berkeley in 1724. The first line of the 
 stanza is, 
 
 " Westward the course of empire takes its way." 
 
76 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 It was the extraordinary fortune of Washington, that having 
 been intrusted in Revolutionary times with the supreme military 
 command, and having fulfilled that trust with equal renown for 
 wisdom and for valor, he should be placed at the head of the 
 first government in which an attempt was to be made on a large 
 scale to rear the fabric of social order on the basis of a written 
 constitution and of a pure representative principle. A govern- 
 ment was to be established, without a throne, without an aristoc- 
 racy, without castes, orders, or privileges ; and this government, 
 instead of being a democracy, existing and acting within the 
 walls of a single city, was to be extended over a vast country, of 
 different climates, interests, and habits, and of various commun- 
 ions of our common Christian faith. The experiment certainly 
 was entirely new. A popular government of this extent, it was 
 evident, could be framed only by carrying into full effect the 
 principle of representation or of delegated power ; and the world 
 was to see whether society could, by the strength of this princi- 
 ple, maintain its own peace and good government, carry forward 
 its own great interests, and conduct itself to political renown and 
 glory. By the benignity of Providence, this experiment, so full 
 of interest to us and to our posterity forever, so full of interest, 
 indeed, to the world in its present generation and in all its gen- 
 erations to come, was suffered to commence under the guidance 
 of Washington. Destined for this high career, he was fitted for 
 it by wisdom, by virtue, by patriotism, by discretion, by whatever 
 can inspire confidence in man towards man. In entering on the 
 untried scenes, early disappointment and the premature extinc- 
 tion of all hope of success would have been certain, had it not 
 been that there did exist throughout the country, in a most ex- 
 traordinary degree, an unwavering trust in him who stood at the 
 helm. 
 
 I remarked, gentlemen, that the whole world was and is in- 
 terested in the result of this experiment. And is it not so ? Do 
 we deceive ourselves, or is it true that at this moment the career 
 which this government is running is among the most attractive 
 
THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 77 
 
 objects to the civilized world ? Do we deceive ourselves, or is it 
 true that at this moment that love of liberty, and that understand- 
 ing of its true principles, which are flying over the whole earth 
 as on the wings of all the winds, are really and truly of American 
 origin ? 
 
 At the period of the birth of Washington, there existed in 
 Europe no political liberty in large communities, except in the 
 provinces of Holland, and except that England herself had set a 
 great example, so far as it went, by her glorious Revolution of 
 1688. Everywhere else despotic power was predominant, and 
 the feudal or military principle held the mass of mankind in 
 hopeless bondage. One half of Europe was crushed beneath the 
 Bourbon scepter ; and no conception of political liberty, no hope 
 even of religious toleration, existed among that nation which was 
 America's first, ally. The king was the state, 1 the king was the 
 country, the king was all. There was one king, with power not 
 derived from his people, and too high to be questioned ; and the 
 rest were all subjects, with no political right but obedience. All 
 above was intangible power; all below, quiet subjection. A 
 recent occurrence in the French Chambers shows us how public 
 opinion on these subjects is changed. A minister had spoken of 
 the " king's subjects." " There are no subjects," exclaimed hun- 
 dreds of voices at once, " in a country where the people make 
 the king ! " 
 
 Gentlemen, the spirit of human liberty and of free government, 
 nurtured and grown into strength and beauty in America, has 
 stretched its course into the midst of the nations. Like an 
 emanation from Heaven, it has gone forth, and it will not return 
 void. It must change, it is fast changing, the face of the earth. 
 Our great, our high duty is to show, in our own example, that 
 this spirit is a spirit of health as well as a spirit of power ; that 
 its benignity is as great as its strength ; that its efficiency to 
 secure individual rights, social relations, and moral order, is equal 
 
 1 An allusion to the famous dictum of Louis XIV., " Detat c*est mot" 
 (" I am the state "). See p. 37. 
 
78 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 to the irresistible force with which it prostrates principalities and 
 powers. The world at this moment is regarding us with a will- 
 ing, but something of a fearful admiration. Its deep and awful 
 anxiety is to learn whether free states may be stable, as well as 
 free ; whether popular power may be trusted, as well as feared : 
 in short, whether wise, regular, and virtuous self-government is a 
 vision for the contemplation of theorists, or a truth established, 
 illustrated, and brought into practice in the country of Washington. 
 
 Gentlemen, for the earth which we inhabit and the whole circle 
 of the sun, for all the unborn races of mankind, we seem to hold 
 in our hands, for their weal or woe, the fate of this experiment. 
 If we fail, who shall venture the repetition ? If our example 
 shall prove to be one, not of encouragement, but of terror, not 
 fit to be imitated, but fit only to be shunned, where else shall 
 the world look for free models ? If this great Western Sun be 
 struck out of the firmament, at what other fountain shall the lamp 
 of liberty hereafter be lighted ? What other orb shall emit a ray 
 to glimmer even, on the darkness of the world ? 
 
 There is no danger of our overrating or overstating the impor- 
 tant part which we are now acting in human affairs. It should 
 not flatter our personal self-respect ; but it should reanimate our 
 patriotic virtues, and inspire us with a deeper and more solemn 
 sense, both of our privileges and of our duties. We cannot wish 
 better for our country nor for the world than that the same 
 spirit which influenced Washington may influence all who suc- 
 ceed him; and that the same blessing from above, which at- 
 tended his efforts, may also attend theirs. 
 
 The principles of Washington's administration are not left 
 doubtful. They are to be found in the Constitution itself, in 
 the great measures recommended and approved by him, in his 
 speeches to Congress, and in that most interesting paper, his 
 " Farewell Address to the People of the United States." The 
 success of the government under his administration is the highest 
 proof of the soundness of these principles. And, after an experi- 
 ence of thirty-five years, what is there which an enemy could 
 

 THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 79 
 
 condemn ? What is there which either his friends, or the friends 
 of the country, could wish to have been otherwise ? I speak, of 
 course, of great measures and leading principles. 
 
 In the first place, all his measures were right in their intent. 
 He stated the whole basis of his own great character, when he 
 told the country, in the homely phrase of the proverb, that hon- 
 esty is the best policy. One of the most striking things ever said 
 of him is, that " he changed mankind* s ideas of political greatness" l 
 To commanding talents and to success, the common elements 
 of such greatness, he added a disregard of self, a spotlessness of 
 motive, a steady submission to every public and private duty, 
 which threw far into the shade the whole crowd of vulgar great. 
 The object of his regard was the whole country. No part of it 
 was enough to fill his enlarged patriotism. His love of glory, so 
 far as that may be supposed to have influenced him at all, spurned 
 everything short of general approbation. It would have been 
 nothing to him, that his partisans or his favorites outnumbered, 
 or outvoted, or outmanaged, or outclamored, those of other lead- 
 ers. He had no favorites; he rejected all partisanship; and, 
 acting honestly for the universal good, he deserved what he has 
 so richly enjoyed, the universal love. 
 
 His principle it was, to act right, and to trust the people for 
 support ; his principle it was, not to follow the lead of sinister and 
 selfish ends, nor to rely on the little arts of party delusion to 
 obtain public sanction for such a course. Born for his country 
 and for the world, he did not give up to party what was meant for 
 mankind. The consequence is, that his fame is as durable as 
 his principles, as lasting as truth and virtue themselves. While 
 the hundreds whom party excitement, and temporary circum- 
 stances, and casual combinations, have raised into transient 
 notoriety, sink again, like thin bubbles, bursting and dissolving 
 into the great ocean, Washington's fame is like the rock which 
 bounds that ocean, and at whose feet its billows are destined to 
 break harmlessly forever. 
 
 l Works of Fisher Ames. 
 
8o DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 The maxims upon which Washington conducted our foreign 
 relations were few and simple. The first was an entire and 
 indisputable impartiality towards foreign states. He adhered 
 to this rule of public conduct against very strong inducements to 
 depart from it, and when the popularity of the moment seemed 
 to favor such a departure. In the next place, he maintained true 
 dignity and unsullied honor in all communications with foreign 
 states. It was among the high duties devolved upon him to in- 
 troduce our new government into the circle of civilized states and 
 powerful nations. Not arrogant or assuming, with no unbecom- 
 ing or supercilious bearing, he yet exacted for it from all others 
 entire and punctilious respect. He demanded, and he obtained 
 at once, a standing of perfect equality for his country in the 
 society of nations ; nor was there a prince or potentate of his day 
 whose personal character carried with it, into the intercourse of 
 other states, a greater degree of respect and veneration. 
 
 He regarded other nations only as they stood in political rela- 
 tions to us. With their internal affairs, their political parties and 
 dissensions, he scrupulously abstained from all interference ; and, 
 on the other hand, he repelled with spirit all such interference by 
 others with us or our concerns. His sternest rebuke, the most 
 indignant measure of his whole administration, was aimed against 
 such an attempted interference. He felt it as an attempt to 
 wound the national honor, and resented it accordingly. 
 
 The reiterated admonitions in his " Farewell Address " show his 
 deep fears that foreign influence would insinuate itself into our 
 counsels through the channels of domestic dissension, and obtain 
 a sympathy with our own temporary parties. Against all such 
 dangers, he most earnestly entreats the country to guard itself. 
 He appeals to its patriotism, to its self-respect, to its own honor, 
 to every consideration connected with its welfare and happiness, 
 to resist, at the very beginning, all tendencies towards such con- 
 nection of foreign interests with our own affairs. With a tone 
 of earnestness nowhere else found, even in his last affectionate 
 farewell advice to his countrymen, he says, " Against the insid- 
 
 
THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 81 
 
 ious wiles of foreign influence (I conjure you to believe me, fel- 
 low citizens), the jealousy of a free people ought to be constantly 
 awake, since history and experience prove that foreign influence 
 is one of the most baneful foes of republican government." 
 
 Lastly, on the subject of foreign relations, Washington never 
 forgot that we had interests peculiar to ourselves. The primary 
 political concerns of Europe, he saw, did not affect us. We had 
 nothing to do with her balance of power, her family compacts, 
 or her successions to thrones. We were placed in a condition 
 favorable to neutrality during European wars, and to the enjoy- 
 ment of all the great advantages of that relation. " Why, then," 
 he asks us, " why forego the advantages of so peculiar a situa- 
 tion ? Why quit our own to stand upon foreign ground ? Why, 
 by interweaving our destiny with that of any part of Europe, 
 entangle our peace and prosperity in the toils of European ambi- 
 tion, rivalship, interest, humor, or caprice ? " 
 
 Indeed, gentlemen, Washington's " Farewell Address " is full of 
 truths important at all times, and particularly deserving consid- 
 eration at the present. With a sagacity which brought the future 
 before him, and made it like the present, he saw and pointed out 
 the dangers that even at this moment most imminently threaten us. 
 I hardly know how a greater service of that kind could now be 
 done to the community than by a renewed and wide diffusion of 
 that admirable paper, and an earnest invitation to every man in 
 the country to reperuse and consider it. Its political maxims 
 are invaluable; its exhortations to love of country and to 
 brotherly affection among citizens, touching ; and the solem- 
 nity with which it urges the observance of moral duties, and im- 
 presses the power of religious obligation, gives to it the highest 
 character of truly disinterested, sincere, parental advice. 
 
 The domestic policy of Washington found its polestar in the 
 avowed objects of the Constitution itself. He sought so to 
 administer that Constitution as to form a more perfect union, 
 establish justice, insure domestic tranquillity, provide for the 
 common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the 
 6 
 
82 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 blessings of liberty. These were objects interesting in the high- 
 est degree to the whole country ; and his policy embraced the 
 whole country. 
 
 Among his earliest and most important duties was the organ- 
 ization of the government itself, the choice of his confidential 
 advisers, and the various appointments to office. This duty, so 
 important and delicate, when a whole government was to be 
 organized, and all its offices for the first time filled, was yet not 
 difficult to him ; for he had no sinister ends to accomplish, no 
 clamorous partisans to gratify, no pledges to redeem, no object 
 to be regarded, but simply the public good. It was a plain, 
 straightforward matter, a mere honest choice of good men for 
 the public service. 
 
 His own singleness of purpose, his disinterested patriotism, 
 were evinced by the selection of his first Cabinet, and by the 
 manner in which he filled the seats of justice and other places 
 of high trust. He sought for men fit for offices, not for offices 
 which might suit men. Above personal considerations, above 
 local considerations, above party considerations, he felt that he 
 could only discharge the sacred trust which the country had 
 placed in his hands, by a diligent inquiry after real merit, and a 
 conscientious preference of virtue and talent. The whole coun- 
 try was the field of his selection. He explored that whole field, 
 looking only for whatever it contained most worthy and distin- 
 guished. He was, indeed, most successful ; and he deserved suc- 
 cess for the purity of his motives, the liberality of his sentiments, 
 and his enlarged and manly policy. 
 
 Washington's administration established the national credit, 
 made provision for the public debt and for that patriotic army 
 whose interests and welfare were always so dear to him, and, 
 by laws wisely framed and of admirable effect, raised the com- 
 merce and navigation of the country, almost at once, from de- 
 pression and ruin to a state of prosperity. Nor were his eyes 
 open to these interests alone. He viewed with equal concern its 
 agriculture and manufactures, and, so far as they came within the 
 
THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 83 
 
 regular exercise of the powers of this government, they experi- 
 enced regard and favor. 
 
 It should not be omitted, even in this slight reference to the 
 general measures and general principles of the first President, 
 that he saw and felt the full value and importance of the judicial 
 department of the government. An upright and able administra- 
 tion of the laws, he held to be alike indispensable to private hap- 
 piness and public liberty. The temple of justice, in his opinion, 
 was a sacred place, and he would profane and pollute it who 
 should call any to minister in it not spotless in character, not 
 incorruptible in integrity, not competent by talent and learning, 
 not a fit object of unhesitating trust. 
 
 Among other admonitions, Washington has left us, in his last 
 communication to his country, an exhortation against the ex- 
 cesses of party spirit. A fire not to be quenched, he yet con- 
 jures us not to fan and feed the flame. Undoubtedly, gentle- 
 men, it is the greatest danger of our system and of our time. 
 Undoubtedly, if that system should be overthrown, it will be the 
 work of excessive party spirit, acting on the government, which 
 is dangerous enough, or acting in the government, which is a 
 thousand times more dangerous ; for government then becomes 
 nothing but organized party, and, in the strange vicissitudes of 
 human affairs, it may come at last, perhaps, to exhibit the singu- 
 lar paradox of government itself being in opposition to its own 
 powers, at war with the very elements of its own existence. Such 
 cases are hopeless. As men may be protected against murder, 
 but cannot be guarded against suicide, so government may be 
 shielded from the assaults of external foes ; but nothing can save 
 it when it chooses to lay violent hands on itself. 
 
 Finally, gentlemen, there was in the breast of Washington one 
 sentiment so deeply felt, so constantly uppermost, that no proper 
 occasion escaped without its utterance. From the letter which 
 he signed in behalf of the Convention when the Constitution was 
 sent out to the people, to the moment when he put his hand to 
 that last paper in which he addressed his countrymen, the Union 
 
84 DANIEL WEBSTER. . 
 
 the Union was the great object of his thoughts. In that first 
 letter he tells them that, to him and his brethren of the Conven- 
 tion, union appears to be the greatest interest of every true Ameri- 
 can ; and in that last paper he conjures them to regard that unity 
 of government which constitutes them one people, as the very 
 palladium l of their prosperity and safety, and the security of 
 liberty itself. He regarded the union of these States less as one 
 of our blessings than as the great treasure-house which contained 
 them all. Here, in his judgment, was the great magazine of all 
 our means of prosperity ; here, as he thought, and as every true 
 American still thinks, are deposited all our animating prospects, 
 all our solid hopes for future greatness. He has taught us to 
 maintain this union, not by seeking to enlarge the powers of the 
 government, on the one hand, nor by surrendering them, on the 
 other, but by an administration of them at once firm and mod- 
 erate, pursuing objects truly national, and carried on in a spirit 
 of justice and equity. 
 
 The extreme solicitude for the preservation of the Union, at 
 all times manifested by him, shows not only the opinion he 
 entertained of its importance, but his clear perception of those 
 causes which were likely to spring up to endanger it, and which, 
 if once they should overthrow the present system, would leave 
 little hope of any future beneficial union. Of all the presump- 
 tions indulged by presumptuous man, that is one of the rashest 
 which looks for repeated and favorable opportunities for the 
 deliberate establishment of a united government over distinct and 
 widely extended communities. Such a thing has happened once 
 in human affairs, and but once : the event stands out as a prom- 
 inent exception to all ordinary history ; and, unless we suppose 
 ourselves running into an age of miracles, we may not expect its 
 repetition. 
 
 Washington, therefore, could regard, and did regard, nothing 
 
 1 Preserver. This was the name applied to the statue of Pallas Athene, 
 the presence of which within the walls of Troy was believed to assure the 
 preservation of the city from the attacks of the Greeks. 
 
THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 85 
 
 as of paramount political interest but the integrity of the Union 
 itself. With a united government well administered, he saw that 
 we had nothing to fear ; and without it, nothing to hope.o The 
 sentiment is just, and its momentous truth should solemnly 
 impress the whole country. If we might regard our country as 
 personated in the spirit of Washington ; if we might consider him 
 as representing her in her past renown, her present prosperity, 
 and her future career, and as, in that character, demanding of us 
 all to account for our conduct as political men or as private 
 citizens, how should he answer him who has ventured to talk of 
 disunion and dismemberment ? Or how should he answer him 
 who dwells perpetually on local interests, and fans every kindling 
 flame of local prejudice ? How should he answer him who 
 would array State against State, interest against interest, and party 
 against party, careless of the continuance of that unity of govern- 
 ment which constitutes us one people ? 
 
 The political prosperity which this country has attained, and 
 which it now enjoys, has been acquired mainly through the in- 
 strumentality of the present government. While this agent con- 
 tinues, the capacity of attaining to still higher degrees of pros- 
 perity exists also. We have, while this lasts, a political life capa- 
 ble of beneficial exertion, with power to resist or overcome mis- 
 fortunes, to sustain us against the ordinary accidents of human 
 affairs, and to promote, by active efforts, every public interest. 
 But dismemberment strikes at the very being which preserves 
 these faculties. It would lay its rude and ruthless hand on this 
 great agent itself. It would sweep away, not only what we pos- 
 sess, but all power of regaining lost, or acquiring new possessions. 
 It would leave the country not only bereft of its prosperity and 
 happiness, but without limbs, or organs, or faculties by which to 
 exert itself hereafter in the pursuit of that prosperity and happiness. 
 
 Other misfortunes may be borne, or their effects overcome. If 
 disastrous war should sweep our commerce from the ocean, an- 
 other generation may renew it ; if it exhaust our treasury, future 
 industry may replenish it ; if it desolate and lay waste our fields, 
 
86 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 still, under a new cultivation, they will grow green again, and 
 ripen to future harvests. It were but a trifle, even if the walls of 
 yonder Capitol were to crumble, if its lofty pillars should fall, 
 and its gorgeous decorations be all covered by the dust of the 
 valley. All these might be rebuilt. But who shall reconstruct 
 the fabric of demolished government ? Who shall rear again 
 the well-proportioned columns of constitutional liberty ? Who 
 shall frame together the skillful architecture which unites national 
 sovereignty with State rights, individual security, and public pros- 
 perity ? No, if these columns fall, they will be raised not again. 
 Like the Coliseum l and the Parthenon, 2 they will be destined to 
 a mournful, a melancholy immortality. Bitterer tears, however, 
 will flow over them than were ever shed over the monuments of 
 Roman or Grecian art ; for they will be the remnants of a more 
 glorious edifice than Greece or Rome ever saw, the edifice of 
 constitutional American liberty. 
 
 But let us hope for better things. Let us trust in that gracious 
 Being who has hitherto held our country as in the hollow of his 
 hand. Let us trust to the virtue and the intelligence of the 
 people, and to the efficacy of religious obligation. Let us trust 
 to the influence of Washington's example. Let us hope that 
 that fear of Heaven which expels all other fear, and that regard 
 to duty which transcends all other regard, may influence public 
 men and private citizens, and lead our country still onward in 
 her happy career. Full of these gratifying anticipations and 
 hopes, let us look forward to the end of that century which is 
 now commenced. A hundred years hence, other disciples of 
 Washington will celebrate his birth, with no less of sincere ad- 
 miration than we now commemorate it. When they shall meet, 
 as we now meet, to do themselves and him that honor, so surely 
 as they shall see the blue summits of his native mountains rise in 
 the horizon, so surely as they shall behold the river on whose 
 banks he lived, and on whose banks he rests, still flowing on to- 
 
 1 The famous amphitheater at Rome, built by the Emperor Vespasian. 
 
 2 The marble temple of Athene, on the Acropolis at Athens. 
 
THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 87 
 
 wards the sea, so surely may they see, as we now see, the flag of 
 the Union floating on the top of the Capitol ; and then, as now, 
 may the sun in his course visit no land more free, more happy, 
 more lovely, than this our own country ! 
 Gentlemen, I propose 
 
 'THE MEMORY OF GEORGE WASHINGTON." 
 
THE LANDING AT PLYMOUTH. 
 
 A SPEECH DELIVERED ON THE 22D OF DECEMBER, 1843, AT 
 
 THE PUBLIC DINNER OF THE NEW-ENGLAND SOCIETY 
 
 OF NEW YORK, IN COMMEMORATION OF THE 
 
 LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 MR. PRESIDENT, I have a grateful duty to perform 
 in acknowledging the kindness of the sentiment thus ex- 
 pressed towards me. 1 And yet I must say, gentlemen, that I rise 
 upon this occasion under a consciousness that I may probably 
 disappoint highly raised, too highly raised expectations. In the 
 scenes of this evening, and in the scene of this day, my part is a 
 humble one. I can enter into no competition with the fresher 
 geniuses of those more eloquent gentlemen, learned and rever- 
 
 1 On the 22d of December, 1843, the anniversary of the landing at Plym- 
 outh was celebrated with great success by the New-England Society of New 
 York. The exercises were opened with a commemorative oration by the 
 Hon. Rufus Choate ; and later in the day the Society and a number of invited 
 guests met at a public dinner at the Astor House. After several appropriate 
 toasts had been given and responded to, George Griswold rose, and offered a 
 few complimentary remarks concerning Daniel Webster. After referring to 
 that gentleman's public services, to his refutation of the doctrine of nullifica- 
 tion, and to the wisdom of his course in connection with the treaty of Wash- 
 ington, Mr. Griswold gave the following toast : 
 
 " DANIEL WEBSTER, the gift of New England_to his country, his whole 
 country, and nothing but his country." 
 
 When Mr. Webster rose to respond to this toast, he was greeted with nine 
 hearty and prolonged cheers; and when quiet had been restored, he proceeded 
 to deliver this address. 
 
 88 
 
THE LANDING AT PLYMOUTH. 89 
 
 end, who have addressed this Society. I may perform, however, 
 the humbler, but sometimes useful, duty of contrast, by adding 
 the dark ground of the picture, which shall serve to bring out 
 the more brilliant colors. 
 
 I must receive, gentlemen, the sentiment proposed by the 
 worthy and distinguished citizen of New York before me, as in- 
 tended to convey the idea, that as a citizen of New England, as 
 a son, a child, a creation, of New England, I may be yet supposed 
 to entertain, in some degree, that enlarged view of my duty as a 
 citizen of the United States and as a public man, which may, in 
 some small measure, commend me to the regard of the whole 
 country. While I am free to confess, gentlemen, that there is 
 no compliment of which I am more desirous to be thought 
 worthy, I will add, that a compliment of that kind could have 
 proceeded from no source more agreeable to my own feelings 
 than from the gentleman who has proposed it, an eminent 
 merchant, the member of a body of eminent merchants, known 
 throughout the world for their intelligence and enterprise. I the 
 more especially feel this, gentlemen, because, whether I view the 
 present state of things, or recur to the history of the past, I can 
 in neither case be ignorant how much that profession and its 
 distinguished members, from an early day of our history, have 
 contributed to make the country what it is, and the government 
 what it is. 
 
 Gentlemen, the free nature of our institutions, and the popular 
 form of those governments which have come down to us from 
 the Rock of Plymouth, give scope to intelligence, to talent, en- 
 terprise, and public spirit, from all classes making up the great 
 body of the community. And the country has received benefit, 
 in all its history and in all its exigencies, of the most eminent and 
 striking character, from persons of the class to which my friend 
 before me belongs. Who will ever forget that the first name 
 signed to our ever-memorable and ever-glorious Declaration of 
 Independence is the name of John Hancock, a merchant of 
 Boston ? Who will ever forget, that in the most disastrous days 
 
90 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 of the Revolution, when the treasury of the country was bank- 
 rupt, with unpaid navies and starving armies, it was a merchant, 
 Robert Morris of Philadelphia, who by a noble sacrifice of 
 his own fortune, as well as by the exercise of his great financial 
 abilities, sustained and supported the wise men of the country in 
 council, and the brave men of the country in the field of battle ? 
 Nor are there wanting more recent instances. I have the pleas- 
 ure to see near me, and near my friend who proposed this sen- 
 timent, the son of an eminent merchant of New England [Mr. 
 Goodhue], an early member of the Senate of the United States, 
 always consulted, always respected, in whatever belonged to the 
 duty and the means of putting in operation the financial and 
 commercial system of the country; and this mention of the 
 father of my friend brings to my mind the memory of his great 
 colleague, the early associate of Hamilton and of Ames, trusted 
 and beloved by Washington, consulted on all occasions connected 
 with the administration of the finances, the establishment of the 
 treasury department, the imposition of the first rates of duty, and 
 with everything that belonged to the commercial system of the 
 United States, George Cabot of Massachusetts. 
 
 I will take this occasion to say, gentlemen, that there is no 
 truth better developed and established in the history of the United 
 States, from the formation of the Constitution to the present time, 
 than this, that the mercantile classes, the great commercial 
 masses of the country, whose affairs connect them strongly with 
 every State in the Union and with all the nations of the earth, 
 whose business and profession give a sort of nationality to their 
 character, that no class of men among us, from the beginning, 
 have shown a stronger and firmer devotion to whatsoever has 
 been designed, or to whatever has tended, to preserve the union 
 of these States and the stability of the free government under 
 which we live. The Constitution of the United States, in regard 
 to the various municipal regulations and local interests, has left 
 the States individual, disconnected, isolated. It has left them 
 their own codes of criminal law ; it has left them their own sys- 
 
THE LANDING AT PLYMOUTH. 91 
 
 tern of municipal regulations. But there was one great interest, 
 one great concern, which, from the very nature of the case, was 
 no longer to be left under the regulations of the then thirteen, 
 afterwards twenty, and now twenty-six States, but was com- 
 mitted, necessarily committed, to the care, the protection, and 
 the regulation of one government ; and this was that great unit, 
 as it has been called, the commerce of the United States. There 
 is no commerce of New York, no commerce of Massachusetts, 
 none of Georgia, none of Alabama or Louisiana. All and singu- 
 lar, in the aggregate and in all its parts, is the commerce of the 
 United States, regulated at home by a uniform system of laws 
 under the authority of the general government, and protected 
 abroad under the flag of our government, the glorious E Pluribus 
 Unurn^ and guarded, if need be, by the power of the general 
 government all over the world. There is, therefore, gentlemen, 
 nothing more cementing, nothing that makes us more cohesive, 
 nothing that more repels all tendencies to separation and dis- 
 memberment, than this great, this common, I may say this over- 
 whelming interest of one commerce, one general system of trade 
 and navigation, one everywhere and with every nation of the 
 globe. There is no flag of any particular American State seen 
 in the Pacific seas, or in the Baltic, or in the Indian Ocean. Who 
 knows, or who hears, there of your proud State, or of my proud 
 State ? Who knows, or who hears, of anything, at the extremest 
 north or south, or at the antipodes ; in the remotest regions of 
 the Eastern or Western sea, who ever hears, or knows, of any- 
 thing but an American ship, or of any American enterprise of a 
 commercial character that does not bear the impression of the 
 American Union with it ? 
 
 It would be a presumption of which I cannot be guilty, gentle- 
 men, for me to imagine for a moment, that, among the gifts 
 which New England has made to our common countiy, I am 
 anything more than one of the most inconsiderable. I readily 
 bring to mind the great men, not only with whom I have met, 
 
 1 One out of many, the motto of the United States. 
 
92 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 but those of the generation before me, who now sleep with their 
 fathers, distinguished in the Revolution, distinguished in the 
 formation of the Constitution and in the early administration of 
 the government, always and everywhere distinguished ; and I 
 shrink in just and conscious humiliation before their established 
 character and established renown ; and all that I venture to say, 
 and all that I venture to hope may be thought true in the senti- 
 ment proposed, is, that so far as mind and purpose, so far as 
 intention and will, are concerned, I may be found among those 
 who are capable of embracing the whole country, of which they 
 are members, in a proper, comprehensive, and patriotic regard. 
 We all know that the objects which are nearest are the objects 
 which are dearest. Family affections, neighborhood affections, 
 social relations ; these, in truth, are nearest and dearest to us all : 
 but whosoever shall be able rightly to adjust the graduation of 
 his affections, and to love his friends and his neighbors and his 
 country as he ought to love them, merits the commendation pro- 
 nounced by the philosophic poet upon him 
 
 "Qui didicit patriae quid debeat, et quid amicis." 1 
 
 Gentlemen, it has been my fortune, in the little part which I 
 have acted in public life, for good or for evil to the community, 
 to be connected entirely with that government, which, within the 
 limits of constitutional power, exercises jurisdiction over all the 
 States and all the people. My friend at the end of the table, on 
 my left, has spoken pleasantly to us to-night of the reputed mira- 
 cles of tutelar saints. In a sober sense, in a sense of deep con- 
 viction, I say that the emergence of this country from British 
 domination, and its union, under its present form of government, 
 beneath the general Constitution of the country, if not a miracle, 
 is, I do not say the most, but one of the most, fortunate, the most 
 admirable, the most auspicious, occurrences which have ever 
 fallen to the lot of man. Circumstances have wrought out for 
 
 1 " Who has learned what he owes to his country, and what to his friends." 
 HORACE. 
 
THE LANDING AT PLYMOUTH. 93 
 
 us a state of things, which, in other times and other regions, phi- 
 losophy has dreamed of, and theory has proposed, and speculation 
 has suggested, but which man has never been able to accomplish. 
 I mean the government of a great nation, over a vastly extended 
 portion of the surface of the earth, by means of local institutions 
 for local purposes, and general institutions for general purposes. I 
 know of nothing in the history of the world, notwithstanding the 
 great league of Grecian states, notwithstanding the success of the 
 Roman system (and certainly there is no exception to the remark 
 in modern history), I know of nothing so suitable, on the whole, 
 for the great interests of a great people spread over a large por- 
 tion of the globe, as the provision of local legislation for local 
 and municipal purposes, with, not a confederacy, nor a loose 
 binding together of separate parts, but a limited, positive general 
 government, for positive general purposes, over the whole. We 
 may derive eminent proofs of this truth from the past and the 
 present. What see we to-day in the agitations on the other side 
 of the Atlantic ? I speak of them, of course, without expressing, 
 any opinion on questions of politics in a foreign country ; but I 
 speak of them as an occurrence which shows the great expedi- 
 ency, the utility, I may say the necessity, of local legislation. 
 If, in a country on the other side of the water [Ireland], there be 
 some who desire a severance of one part of the empire from 
 another, under a proposition of repeal, there are others who pro- 
 pose a continuance of the existing relation under a federative 
 system : and what is this ? No more and no less than an ap- 
 proximation to that system under which we live, which for local 
 municipal purposes shall have a local legislature, and for general 
 purposes a general legislature. 
 
 This becomes the more important when we consider that the 
 United States stretch over so many degrees of latitude, that 
 they embrace such a variety of climate, that various conditions 
 and relations of society naturally call for different laws and regu- 
 lations. Let me ask whether the Legislature of New York could 
 wisely pass laws for the government of Louisiana, or whether 
 
94 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 the Legislature of Louisiana could wisely pass laws for Pennsyl- 
 vania or New York. Everybody will say, " No." And yet the 
 interests of New York and Pennsylvania and Louisiana, in what- 
 ever concerns their relations between themselves and their gen- 
 eral relations with all the states of the world, are found to be per- 
 fectly well provided for, and adjusted with perfect congruity, by 
 committing these general interests to one common government, 
 the result of popular general elections among them all. 
 
 I confess, gentlemen, that having been, as I have said, in my 
 humble career in public life, employed in that portion of the pub- 
 lic service which is connected with the general government, I 
 have contemplated, as the great object of every proceeding, not 
 only the particular benefit of the moment, or the exigency of the 
 occasion, but the preservation of this system ; for I do consider 
 it so much the result of circumstances, and that so much of it is 
 due to fortunate concurrence as well as to the sagacity of the 
 great men acting upon those occasions, that it is an experiment 
 of such remarkable and renowned success, that he is a fool or 
 a madman who would wish to try that experiment a second time. 
 I see to-day, and we all see, that the descendants of the Puritans, 
 who landed upon the Rock of Plymouth ; the followers of 
 Raleigh, who settled Virginia and North Carolina ; he who lives 
 where the truncheon of empire, so to speak, was borne by Smith ; 
 the inhabitants of Georgia ; he who settled, under the auspices of 
 France, at the mouth of the Mississippi ; the Swede on the Dela- 
 ware; the Quaker of Pennsylvania, all find at this day their 
 common interest, their common protection, their common glory, 
 under the united government, which leaves them all, nevertheless, 
 in the administration of their own municipal and local affairs, to 
 be Frenchmen, or Swedes, or Quakers, or whatever they choose. 
 And when one considers that this system of government, I will 
 not say has produced, because God and nature and circum- 
 stances have had an agency in it, but when it is considered 
 that this system has not prevented, but has rather encouraged, 
 the growth of the people of this country from three millions on 
 
THE LANDING AT PLYMOUTH. 95 
 
 the glorious 4th of July, 1776, to seventeen millions now, who 
 is there that will say, upon this hemisphere, nay, who is there that 
 will stand up in any hemisphere, who is there in any part of the 
 world, that will say that the great experiment of a united repub- 
 lic has failed in America ? And yet I know, gentlemen, I feel, 
 that this united system is held together by strong tendencies to 
 union, at the same time that it is kept from too much leaning to- 
 wards consolidation by a strong tendency in the several States 
 to support each its own power and consideration. In the physi- 
 cal world it is said, that 
 
 " All nature's difference keeps all nature's peace," 
 
 and there is in the political world this same harmonious difference, 
 this regular play of the positive and negative powers (if I may so 
 say), which, at least for one glorious half century, has kept us as 
 we have been kept, and made us what we are. 
 
 But, gentlemen, I must not allow myself to pursue this topic. 
 It is a sentiment so commonly repeated by me upon all public 
 occasions, and upon all private occasions, and everywhere, that 
 I forbear to dwell upon it now. It is the union of these States, 
 it is the system of government under which we live, beneath the 
 Constitution of the United States, happily framed, wisely adopted, 
 successfully administered for fifty years, it is mainly this, I say, 
 that gives us power at home and credit abroad. And, for one, 
 I never stop to consider the power, or wealth, or greatness of a 
 State. I tell you, Mr. Chairman, I care nothing for your Empire 
 State as such. Delaware and Rhode Island are as high in my 
 regard as New York. In population, in power, in the govern- 
 ment over us, you have a greater share. You would have the 
 same share, if you were divided into forty States. It is not, 
 therefore, as a State sovereignty, it is only because New York 
 is a vast portion of the whole American people, that I regard 
 this State, as I always shall regard her, as respectable 1 and honor 
 able. But among State sovereignties there is no preference; 
 
 1 See note, p. 50. 
 
g6 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 there is nothing high and nothing low ; every State is independent, 
 and every State is equal. If we depart from this great principle, 
 then are we no longer one people, but we are thrown back 
 again upon the Confederation, and upon that state of things in 
 which the inequality of the States produced all the evils which 
 befell us in times past, and a thousand ill-adjusted and jarring 
 interests. 
 
 Mr. President, I wish, then, without pursuing these thoughts, 
 without especially attempting to produce any fervid impression 
 by dwelling upon them, to take this occasion to answer my friend 
 who has proposed the sentiment, and to respond to it by saying, 
 that whoever would serve his country in this our day, with what- 
 ever degree of talent, great or small, it may have pleased the 
 Almighty Power to give him, he cannot serve it, he will not serve 
 it, unless he be able, at least, to extend his political designs, pur- 
 poses, and objects, till they shall comprehend the whole country 
 of which, he is a servant. 
 
 , Sir, I must say a word in connection with that event which 
 we have assembled to commemorate. It has seemed fit to the 
 dwellers in New York, New Englanders by birth or descent, to 
 form this society. They have formed it for the relief of the poor 
 and distressed, and for the purpose of commemorating annually 
 the great event of the settlement of the country from which they 
 spring. It would be great presumption in me to go back to the 
 scene of that settlement, or to attempt to exhibit it in any colors, 
 after the exhibition made to-day; yet it is an event that in all 
 time since, and in all time to come, and more in times to come 
 than in times past, must stand out in great and striking charac- 
 teristics to the admiration of the world. The sun's return to 'his 
 winter's solstice, in 1620, is the epoch from which he dates his 
 first acquaintance with the small people, now one of the happiest, 
 and destined to be one of the greatest, that his rays fall upon ; 
 and his annual visitation, from that day to this, to our frozen 
 region, has enabled him to see that progress, progress, was the 
 characteristic of that 'small people. He has seen them, from a 
 
THE LANDING AT PLYMOUTH. 97 
 
 handful that one of his beams coming through a keyhole might 
 illuminate, spread over a hemisphere which he cannot enlighten 
 under the slightest eclipse. Nor, though this globe should re- 
 volve round him for tens of hundreds of thousands of years, will 
 he see such another incipient colonization upon any part of this 
 attendant upon his mighty orb. What else he may see in those 
 other planets which revolve around him, we cannot tell^ at least 
 until we have tried the fifty-foot telescope which Lord Rosse is 
 preparing for that purpose. 
 
 There is not, gentlemen, and we may as well admit it, in any 
 history of the past, another epoch from which so many great 
 events have taken a turn, events which, while important to us, 
 are equally important to the country from whence we came. The 
 settlement of Plymouth concurring, I always wish to be under- 
 stood, with that of Virginia was the settlement of New England 
 by colonies of Old England. Now, gentlemen, take these two 
 ideas, and run out the thoughts suggested by both. What has 
 been, and what is to be, Old England ? What has been, what 
 is, and what may be, in the providence of God, New England, 
 with her neighbors and associates ? I would not dwell, gentle- 
 men, with any particular emphasis upon the sentiment, which I 
 nevertheless entertain, with respect to the great diversity in the 
 races of men. I do not know how far, in that respect, I might not 
 encroach on those mysteries of Providence, which, while I adore, 
 I may not comprehend ; but it does seem to me to be very re- 
 markable that we may go back to the time when New England, 
 or those who founded it, were subtracted from Old England, and 
 both Old England and New England went on, nevertheless, in 
 their mighty career of progress and power. 
 
 Let me begin with New England for a moment. What has 
 resulted, embracing, as I say, the nearly contemporaneous settle- 
 ment of Virginia, what has resulted from the planting upon this 
 continent of two or three slender colonies from the mother coun- 
 try ? Gentlemen, the great epitaph commemorative of the char- 
 acter and the worth, the discoveries and gtory, of Columbus, was, 
 7 
 
98 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 that he had given a new world to the crowns of Castile and Aragon. 
 Gentlemen, this is a great mistake. It does not come up at all 
 to the great merits of Columbus. He gave the territory of the 
 southern hemisphere to the crowns of Castile and Aragon ; but as 
 a place for the plantation of colonies, as a place for the habita- 
 tion of men, as a place to which laws and religion and manners 
 and science were to be transferred, as a place in which the 
 creatures of God should multiply and fill the earth, under friendly 
 skies and with religious hearts, he gave it to the whole world, he 
 gave it to universal man ! From this seminal principle, and from 
 a handful, a hundred saints, blessed of God and ever honored 
 of men, landed on the shores of Plymouth, and elsewhere along 
 the coast, united, as I have said already more than once, in the 
 process of time, with the settlement at Jamestown, has sprung 
 this great people of which we are a portion. 
 
 I do not reckon myself among quite the oldest of the land ; 
 and yet it so happens that very recently I recurred to an exult- 
 ing speech or oration of my own, 1 in which I spoke of my coun- 
 try as consisting of nine millions of people. I could hardly per- 
 suade myself, that, within the short time which had elapsed since 
 that epoch, our population had doubled ; and that at the present 
 moment there does exist most unquestionably as great a proba- 
 bility of its continued progress in the same ratio as has ever 
 existed in any previous time. I do not know whose imagination 
 is fertile enough, I do not know whose conjectures, I may almost 
 say, are wild enough, to tell what may be the progress of wealth 
 and population in the United States in half a century to come. 
 All we know is, here is a people of from seventeen to twenty mil- 
 lions, intelligent, educated, freeholders, freemen, republicans, pos- 
 sessed of all the means of modern improvement, modern science, 
 arts, literature, with the world before them ! There is nothing 
 to check them till they touch the shores of the Pacific, 2 and then, 
 
 1 Oration on the First Settlement of New England, Dec. 22, 1820. 
 
 2 Five years later, gold was discovered in California, and the first great 
 movement of settlers towards the Pacific coast was begun. 
 
THE LANDING AT PLYMOUTH. 99 
 
 they are so much accustomed to water, that that's a facility and 
 no obstruction ! 
 
 So much, gentlemen, for this branch of the English race. But 
 what has happened, meanwhile, to England herself, since the 
 period of the departure of the Puritans from the coast of Lin- 
 colnshire, from the English Boston ? Gentlemen, in speaking of 
 the progress of English power, of English dominion and author- 
 ity, from that period to the present, I shall be understood, of 
 course, as neither entering into any defense, or any accusation, 
 of the policy which has conducted her to her present state. As 
 to the justice of her wars, the necessity of her conquests, the pro- 
 priety of those acts by which she has taken possession of so great 
 a portion of the globe, it is not the business of the present occa- 
 sion to inquire. Neque teneo, neque refello. 1 But I speak of 
 them, or intend to speak of them, as facts of the most extraordi- 
 nary character, unequaled in the history of any nation on the 
 globe, and the consequences of which may and must reach 
 through a thousand generations. The Puritans left England in 
 the reign of James I. England herself had then become some- 
 what settled and established in the Protestant faith, and in the 
 quiet enjoyment of property, by the previous energetic, long, 
 and prosperous reign of Elizabeth. Her successor was James 
 VI. of Scotland, now become James I. of England; and here 
 was a union of the crowns, but not of the kingdoms, a very 
 important distinction. Ireland was held by a military power; 
 and one cannot but see that at that day, whatever may be 
 true or untrue in more recent periods of her history, Ireland 
 was held by England by the two great potencies, the power of 
 the sword and the power of confiscation. In other respects, 
 England was nothing like the England which we now behold. 
 Her foreign possessions were quite inconsiderable. She had some 
 hold on the West India Islands ; she had Acadia, or Nova Scotia, 
 which King James granted, by wholesale, for the endowment of 
 the knights whom he created by hundreds. And what has been 
 1 I neither support nor confute. 
 
ioo DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 her progress ? Did she then possess Gibraltar, the key to the 
 Mediterranean ? Did she possess a port in the Mediterranean ? 
 Was Malta hers ? Were the Ionian Islands hers ? Was the 
 southern extremity of Africa, was the Cape of Good Hope hers ? 
 Were the whole of her vast possessions in India hers ? Was her 
 great Australian empire hers ? While that branch of her popula- 
 tion which followed the western star, and under its guidance 
 committed itself to the duty of settling, fertilizing, and peopling 
 an unknown wilderness in the West, were pursuing their destinies, 
 other causes, providential doubtless, were leading English power 
 eastward and southward, in consequence and by means of her 
 naval prowess and the extent of her commerce, until in our day 
 we have seen that within the Mediterranean, on the western coast 
 and at the southern extremity of Africa, in Arabia, in hither 
 India and farther India, she has a population ten times as great 
 as that of the British Isles two centuries ago. And recently, as 
 we have witnessed, I will not say with how much truth and 
 justice, policy or impolicy; I do not speak at all to the morality 
 of the action, I only speak to \hefact, she has found admission 
 into China, and has carried the Christian religion and the Prot- 
 estant faith to the doors of three hundred millions of people. 1 
 
 It has been said that whosoever would see the Eastern world 
 before it turns into a Western world, must make his visit soon, 
 because steamboats and omnibuses, commerce, and all the arts of 
 Europe, are extending themselves from Egypt to Suez, from Suez 
 to the Indian seas, and from the Indian seas all over the explored 
 regions of the still farther East. 
 
 Now, gentlemen, I do not know what practical views, or what 
 practical results, may take place from this great expansion of the 
 power of the two branches of Old England. It is not for me to 
 say. I only can see, that on this continent all is to be Anglo- 
 American, from Plymouth Rock to the Pacific seas, from the 
 
 l The war between China and Great Britain, known as the " opium war," 
 which began in 1834, was ended by the treaty of Aug. 26, 1842. By the 
 conditions of this treaty, Hong-Kong was ceded to the British. 
 
THE LANDING AT PLYMOUTH. 101 
 
 north pole to California. 1 That is certain ; and in the Eastern 
 world I only see that you can hardly place a finger on a map of 
 the world, and be an inch from an English settlement. 
 
 Gentlemen, if there be anything in the supremacy of races, the 
 experiment now in progress will develop it. If there fre any truth 
 in the idea that those who issued from the great Caucasian foun- 
 tain, and spread over Europe, are to react on India and on Asia, 
 and to act on the whole Western world, it may not be for us, nor 
 our children, nor our grandchildren, to see it, but it will be for 
 our descendants of some generation to see the extent of that 
 progress and dominion of the favored races. 
 
 For myself, I believe there is no limit fit to be assigned to it 
 by the human mind, because I find at work everywhere, on both 
 sides of the Atlantic, under various forms and degrees of restric- 
 tion on the one hand, and under various degrees of motive and 
 stimulus on the other hand, in these branches of a common race, 
 the great principle of the freedom of human thought and the re- 
 spectability of individual character. I find everywhere an eleva- 
 tion of the character of man as man, an elevation of the individual 
 as a component part of society. I find everywhere a rebuke of 
 the idea that the many are made for the few, or that govern- 
 ment is anything but an agency for mankind. , And I care not 
 beneath what zone, frozen, temperate, or tortiol;! jJ care not ot 
 what complexion, white or brown ; I care not ijnder what cir- 
 cumstances of climate or cultivation, if, J. eaft :find: a 'race cf 
 men on an inhabitable spot of earth whose general sentiment it 
 is, and whose general feeling it is, that government is made for 
 man, man as a religious, moral, and social being, and not 
 man for government, there I know that I shall find prosperity and 
 happiness. 
 
 1 It is well to remember, that, when these words were spoken, California 
 was a province of Mexico, inhabited only by Indians and a few people of 
 Spanish descent. 
 


ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR 
 SELF-RELIANCE 
 COMPENSATION 
 
 BY 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 NEW YORK : CINCINNATI : CHICAGO 
 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1893, by 
 AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY. 
 
 EM. AMER. SCH, 
 
 The three essays of Emerson included in this volume are printed 
 by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Messrs. Houghton, 
 Mifflin & Company, the authorized publishers of Mr. Emerson's works. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON, poet, essayist, and philosopher, was 
 born in Boston, May 25, 1803. He was the second of five sons 
 of the Rev. William Emerson, minister of the First (Congrega- 
 tional) Church in Boston. His mother was Ruth Haskins, a 
 woman of strong character and superior mental abilities. He 
 had a minister for an ancestor for eight generations back, either 
 on the paternal or the maternal side. Thus he inherited his spir- 
 itual and intellectual tendencies from a long line of distinguished 
 progenitors. His aunt, Mary Moody Emerson, a woman of rare 
 intellectual attainments, was one of his early companions and ex- 
 erted a remarkable influence over his development. 
 
 Emerson began his studies at the public grammar school at 
 the age of eight, and four years later he attended the Latin 
 School. In 1 8 1 7 he entered Harvard. He was not distinguished 
 for proficiency in the studies of the curriculum, but he was superior 
 to most of his classmates in his knowledge of general literature. 
 He was especially interested in the study of Greek and history, 
 and much of his time was spent in the library. He graduated 
 in 1821. 
 
 For five years after leaving college Emerson taught school. 
 In 1823 he began to study for the ministry under Dr. Channing. 
 He was "approbated to preach" in 1826 by the Middlesex 
 
 5 
 
6 IN TR OD UC TION. 
 
 Association of Ministers, but owing to ill health he did not enter 
 immediately upon his public duties, but spent the following winter 
 in Florida. On his return from the South he preached in New 
 Bedford, Northampton, Concord, and Boston. On March u, 
 1829, he was ordained as a colleague of the Rev. Henry Ware, 
 minister of the Second (Congregational Unitarian) Church in 
 Boston. Eighteen months later, Dr. Ware resigned and the 
 pastoral duties fell upon Emerson. 
 
 In September, 1829, he was married to Miss Ellen Louisa 
 Tucker. Their married life was brief, as Mrs. Emerson died of 
 consumption in February, 1832. 
 
 Emerson soon became troubled with doubts regarding his 
 duties as a minister, and as sincerity was always his guiding star, 
 he felt it his duty to proclaim these doubts to his congregation. 
 Accordingly in September, 1832, he delivered a sermon on the 
 Lord's Supper, in which he stated his scruples against adminis- 
 tering that rite. As he and his congregation differed radically 
 in these views, he resigned his pastorate and retired from public 
 preaching. 
 
 In 1833 he visited Europe for the first time. There he met 
 Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Carlyle, and formed with the last- 
 named a lifelong friendship which resulted in their famous 
 correspondence. 
 
 In the winter of 1833-34 he returned to the United States and 
 began his career as a lecturer. At this period of his life he lived 
 with Dr. Ripley in the " Old Manse," afterwards made famous 
 by Hawthorne. The first lectures he delivered were " Water " 
 and " The Relation of Man to the Globe." These were followed 
 by three lectures on his European tour. 
 
 In 1834 he began his series of biographical lectures on Michael 
 

 INTRODUCTION. ^ 
 
 Angelo, Milton, Luther, George Fox, and Edmund Burke. 
 Those on Michael Angelo and George Fox were published later 
 in the " North American Review." 
 
 In September, 1835, ne was married to Miss Lydia Jackson 
 of Plymouth, Mass. They went to live in " the plain, square, 
 wooden house," in Concord, which was Emerson's home for the 
 rest of his life. 
 
 During the next three winters Emerson delivered three courses 
 of lectures in Boston : ten on English literature, in 1835 ; twelve 
 on the philosophy of history, in 1836 ; and ten on human culture, 
 in 1837. 
 
 In 1836 he wrote the "Concord Hymn" for the dedication 
 ceremonies at the monument raised in honor of the Concord fight. 
 It is one of the most beautiful poems he has written. 
 
 In 1836 his first volume, " Nature," a philosophic essay full 
 of poetic thoughts, was published anonymously. It was quite 
 different from anything Emerson had written before, and it did 
 not meet with a favorable reception. It was too vague for pop- 
 ular comprehension, and the time was not ripe for its full appre- 
 ciation. It took five years to sell five hundred copies of it in the 
 United States. 
 
 In 1836 the Symposium, or Transcendental Club, was organ- 
 ized, and Emerson became an active member. Among its other 
 members were James Freeman Clarke, Theodore Parker, Bronson 
 Alcott, Elizabeth P. Peabody, and Margaret Fuller. They dis- 
 cussed, besides a variety of other topics, religious justice, truth, 
 mysticism, and the development of American genius. 
 
 From the last-named subject Emerson probably received the 
 impulse which prompted him in 1837 to deliver his oration 
 entitled " The American Scholar " before the Phi Beta Kappa 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Society at Cambridge. The address was received by the audi- 
 ence with the utmost enthusiasm and approval. 
 
 On July 24, 1838, Emerson delivered an oration on literary 
 ethics before the literary societies at Dartmouth College. 
 
 In the winter of 1838-39 he gave a course of ten lectures, 
 " The Doctrine of the Soul," " Home," " The School," " Love," 
 "Genius," "The Protest," "Tragedy," "Comedy," "Duty," 
 " Demonology." 
 
 His next address was " The Method of Nature," delivered be- 
 fore the Society of the Adelphi in Waterville, Me., Aug. n, 1841. 
 Other addresses delivered about this time were " Man, the Re- 
 former," "Lecture on the Times," "The Transcendentalist," and 
 "The Conservative." 
 
 In July, 1840, a transcendental magazine called "The Dial" 
 began its career under the editorship of Margaret Fuller. Emer- 
 son soon succeeded her as editor, and he contributed numerous 
 articles to the paper. It was not a financial success, and was 
 abandoned in 1844. 
 
 In 1841 Emerson's first volume of collected essays was pub- 
 lished. This volume now includes the following essays : " His- 
 tory," " Self-Reliance," " Compensation," " Spiritual Laws," 
 "Love," "Friendship," "Prudence," "Heroism," "The Over- 
 Soul," "Circles," "Intellect," "Art," "The Young American." 
 The last named was not published till 1844, but it now forms 
 part of the " First Series of Essays." 
 
 In February, 1842, Emerson wrote the pathetic "Threnody," 
 on the death of his dearly beloved son. In 1844 he delivered, 
 in Concord, an address on the emancipation of the negroes in 
 the British West Indies. 
 
 In 1844 the "Second Series of Essays" appeared. It includes : 
 
IN TROD UC TION. 9 
 
 "The Poet," "Experience," "Character," "Manners," "Gifts," 
 " Nature," " Politics," " Nominalist and Realist," and " New 
 England Reformers." 
 
 In 1847 Emerson's first volume of poems was published. 
 This was chiefly a collection of poems which had appeared be- 
 fore, most of them in " The Dial." 
 
 In October, 1847, ne sailed for Europe on an English lecture 
 tour. Many of the lectures he delivered on this trip were pub- 
 lished in a volume, " Representative Men," which appeared in 
 1850. It consists of a series of character sketches or mental 
 portraits, each designed to represent a class. The essays are : 
 "Lives of Great Men;" "Plato, or the Philosopher;" "Plato, 
 New Readings;" " Swedenborg, or the Mystic;" "Montaigne, 
 or the Skeptic;" "Shakespeare, or the Poet;" "Napoleon, or 
 the Man of the World ;" " Goethe, or the Writer." 
 
 In 1849 he returned to the United States. In 1850 he 
 signed the call for the first Woman's Rights Convention. In 
 1852, conjointly with James Freeman Clarke and William 
 Ellery Channing, he published the " Memoirs of Margaret 
 Fuller Ossoli." 
 
 In January, 1855, he gave one of the lectures in a course of 
 Antislavery Addresses, delivered in Boston, and in the same 
 year he delivered an address before the Antislavery Party in New 
 York. The plan he proposed was to buy the slaves from the 
 owners and then liberate them. 
 
 " English Traits," the result of his observations in England, 
 was published in 1856. In November, 1857, the "Atlantic 
 Monthly " began its career in Boston with James Russell Lowell 
 as editor. Many of the former contributors of " The Dial " 
 wrote for this paper, among them Emerson, who contributed to 
 
10 
 
 IN TROD UC TION. 
 
 it some of his best poems. The " Essay on Persian Poetry " was 
 published in this paper in 1858. 
 
 " The Conduct of Life " appeared in 1860. It contains essays 
 on " Fate," " Power," " Wealth," " Culture," " Manners," " Be- 
 havior," " Worship," " Beauty," " Illusions," " Considerations by 
 the Way." When we consider that twenty-five hundred copies 
 of this book were sold in a few days we perceive how much 
 Emerson had grown in favor in the twenty years since the publi- 
 cation of his first volume. 
 
 About this time a new paper called " The Dial " was started 
 in Cincinnati, for which Emerson wrote several articles. In 1862 
 he delivered an address at Boston on the Emancipation Procla- 
 mation. The " Boston Hymn" was read by him in Music Hall, 
 Jan. i, 1863. 
 
 " Voluntaries " was published in the "Atlantic Monthly " in 
 1863, and "Saadi" in 1864, "My Garden" in 1866, and "Ter- 
 minus" in 1867. These poems and others were collected in 
 1867 in a volume entitled " May Day and Other Pieces." 
 
 In 1866 Emerson received the degree of LL.D. from Har- 
 vard University, and in 1867 he was elected to their board of 
 overseers. In the same year he delivered an oration on the 
 Progress of Culture before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Cam- 
 bridge. This year practically marked the close of his literary 
 career. Most of the works of note which appeared at a later 
 date were published from manuscript written by him at an ear- 
 lier period. 
 
 In 1868-70 he delivered a series of lectures at Harvard Uni- 
 versity on the " Natural History of the Intellect." " Society and 
 Solitude," a new collection of essays, was published in 1870. The 
 essays include : " Society and Solitude," " Civilization," "Art," 
 
IN TROD UC TION. 1 1 
 
 
 
 " Eloquence," " Domestic Life," " Fanning," " Weeks and 
 Days," " Books," " Clubs," " Courage," " Success," " Old Age." 
 
 In 1871, accompanied by his daughter Edith, he made a 
 trip to California. In July, 1872, his house caught fire. The 
 shock he received on this occasion greatly hastened his mental 
 decline. He was ^induced to go to Europe for his health, and 
 on his return he found his house perfectly restored to its for- 
 mer condition by friends who had paid for it by voluntary 
 subscriptions. 
 
 In December, 1874, he edited "Parnassus," a collection of 
 poems by British and American authors. In the same year 
 " Letters and Social Aims " appeared, containing the following 
 essays : " Poetry and Imagination," " Social Aims," " Elo- 
 quence," "Resources," "The Comic," "Quotation and Origi- 
 nality," " Progress of Culture," " Persian Poetry," " Inspiration," 
 " Greatness," " Immortality." 
 
 On March 30, 1878, he delivered a lecture in the Old South 
 Church, Boston, on the "Fortune of the Republic." "The 
 Sovereignty of Ethics " was published in the " North American 
 Review" in 1878. In May, 1879, he read his address on "The 
 Preacher" in Divinity College, Harvard. In 1881 he read a 
 paper on Carlyle before the Massachusetts Historical Society. 
 His essay on " Superlatives " appeared in the " Century " for 
 February, 1882. 
 
 In April, 1882, Emerson caught a severe cold, which developed 
 into pneumonia, of which he died on April 27. He was buried 
 in Concord near the graves of Hawthorne and Thoreau. 
 
 In addition to many short poems hitherto unpublished, two 
 volumes of essays, " Miscellanies " and " Biographical Sketches," 
 have appeared since his death. 
 
12 INTRODUC TION. 
 
 To understand Emerson's works, we must inquire into his re- 
 ligious belief, since it permeates and colors all his writings. He 
 belongs to the school of transcendentalism, but this word admits 
 of many interpretations. Emerson himself defines it as " modern 
 idealism." "The materialist," he tells us, "insists on facts, on 
 history, on the force of circumstances and the animal wants of 
 man ; the idealist, on the power of Thought and of Will, on in- 
 spiration, on miracle, on individual culture. . . . The idealist 
 takes his departure from his consciousness and reckons the world 
 an appearance. . . . His thought, that is the universe." 
 
 His precise attitude as to the conception of the Deity is diffi- 
 cult to define. He declares in one of his essays that " there is a 
 sublime and friendly destiny by which the human race is guided 
 the race never dying, the individual never spared to results 
 affecting masses and ages." 
 
 Perhaps the following passage from Oliver Wendell Holmes 
 will give us as good a conception as any, of Emerson's religious 
 attitude : 
 
 " His creed was a brief one, but he carried it everywhere with 
 him. In all he did, in all he said, and, so far as all outward 
 signs could show, in all his thoughts, the indwelling Spirit was 
 his light and guide ; through all nature he looked up to nature's 
 God ; and if he did not worship the ' man Christ Jesus ' as the 
 churches of Christendom have done, he followed his footsteps 
 so nearly that our good Methodist, Father Taylor, spoke of him 
 as more like Christ than any man he had known." 
 
 But, whatever we may think of his theological views, we can- 
 not fail to admire his ethics. He aimed to be a teacher of man, 
 a reformer of reformers. He preached by life as well as by pen 
 a new code of morals. He was an idealist, and he insisted on 
 
IN TROD UC TION. 1 3 
 
 the application of idealism to the everyday matters of life. His 
 was a courageous and hopeful nature. He had unbounded con- 
 fidence in the power for good in the human soul, and he preached 
 untiringly the worth of the moral sentiment. He explored every 
 province of human life and thought ; he lent his voice in behalf 
 of all great public measures ; and he never lost an opportunity 
 to prove himself a good citizen. His mission in life was to in- 
 spire others, to make life nobler, purer, loftier. 
 
 There is, perhaps, no writer regarding whom there is less con- 
 sensus of opinion than of Emerson. The judgments formed of 
 him are as various as the habits of thought in the critics. We 
 may regard him in three phases : Emerson the essayist, Emerson 
 the poet, and Emerson the philosopher and moral leader. In all 
 these phases we find the most diverse opinions and criticisms 
 regarding him. 
 
 Some say there never before was such a writer, poet, sage ; 
 others can find no sense in his writings and pronounce them 
 mere empty words. One critic accords him a high place as a 
 philosopher, but characterizes his poetry as inartistic and harsh ; 
 another ranks him among the greatest poets, and says of him, 
 " The great poets addressed him as one of themselves ; he was 
 not of their audience, but of their choir;" while a third declares 
 tfyat his poetry is as devoid of life as his philosophy of wisdom. 
 We give a few of these criticisms by men whose opinions are 
 valued. 
 
 First let us hear what Oliver Wendell Holmes says : 
 
 "The poet in Emerson never accurately differentiated itself 
 from the philosopher. . . . Emerson is so essentially a poet that 
 whole pages of his are like so many litanies of alternating chants 
 and recitations. His thoughts slip on and off their light rhythmic 
 
14 INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 robes just as the mood takes him. Many of the metrical pre- 
 ludes to his lectures are a versified and condensed abstract of the 
 leading doctrine of the discourse. Emerson was not only a poet, 
 but a very remarkable one. . . . He was a man of intuition, of 
 insight, a seer, a poet with a tendency to mysticism which renders 
 him sometimes obscure and once in a while almost, if not quite, 
 unintelligible. He made desperate work now and then with 
 rhyme and rhythm, showing that though a born poet he was not 
 a born singer. . . . After all our criticisms we have to recognize 
 that there is a charm in his poems which cannot be defined any 
 more than the fragrance of a rose or a hyacinth. ... No man 
 would accuse Emerson of parsimony of ideas. He crams his 
 pages with the very marrow of his thought. But in weighing 
 out a lecture he was as punctilious as Portia about the pound of 
 flesh. When the lecture had served its purpose it came before 
 the public in the shape of an essay, but the essay never lost the 
 character it borrowed from the conditions under which it was 
 delivered ; it was a lay sermon." 
 
 Now let us listen to Matthew Arnold : 
 
 " And, in truth, one of the legitimate poets, Emerson, in my 
 opinion, is not. His poetry is interesting ; it makes one think, 
 but it is not the poetry of one of the born poets. ... I do not, 
 then, place Emerson among the great poets. But I go farther 
 and say that I do not place him among the great writers, the 
 great men of letters. . . . Emerson has passages of noble and 
 pathetic eloquence; he has passages of shrewd and felicitous 
 wit ; he has crisp epigram ; he has passages of exquisitely touched 
 observation of nature. Yet he is not a great writer ; his style 
 has not the requisite wholeness of good tissue. . . . Emerson 
 cannot, I think, be called with justice a great philosophical 
 
INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 writer. He cannot build ; his arrangement of philosophical ideas 
 has no progress in it no evolution ; he does not construct a 
 philosophy." 
 
 Lastly, the Rev. C. A. Bartol, criticising the critic, says : 
 " Mr. Arnold, who has forgot the dreams and got so bravely 
 over the supposed illusions of his youth, putting for them the 
 depressing doubts and hopeless speculations of his age, while he 
 prizes Emerson's spiritual substance, eschews as not good tissue 
 his literary style. Moses, David, Paul, James, and Jesus, as 
 reported by his amanuenses, under this self-confident critic's 
 cleaver, must lose their heads as writers and authors on the same 
 block. They, too, are no weavers of words whose work is figured 
 by the loom ; but brief, sententious, pictorial, ejaculatory, a 
 quiver full of arrows being rather their type. Is there not a good 
 prophetic and oracular as well as a didactic or dialectic style? " 
 
 So we see that it is not safe to trust the opinion of any one 
 critic. It is not always easy to understand Emerson ; his sen- 
 tences are full of hidden meaning which cannot be detected at a 
 glance ; they must be read and re-read to perceive the full drift 
 of the thought ; but the thought in its fullness well repays us for 
 the trouble. With unbiased mind and earnest purpose we must 
 go to the storehouse of Emerson's works, take from thence all 
 the material we can gather, and with this as the basis, each 
 according to his understanding, form his own judgment. 
 
 "The American Scholar" has been well called our literary 
 declaration of independence. In it Emerson deplores the ten- 
 dencies of Americans to devote their energies exclusively in the 
 direction of mechanical skill, and he fearlessly accuses them of 
 subserviency to European taste and style. 
 
1 6 INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 In treating of the education of the scholar, he recognizes three 
 great influences, Nature, the Past with its accumulation of 
 books, and Action. 
 
 Nature he regards as the most important influence. " Know 
 thyself " and " Study nature " are to him as one maxim. The 
 classifying instinct is one of the first to be developed ; we must 
 learn to see that many things are governed by one law. 
 
 In speaking of the influence of the past, he dwells chiefly on 
 books. The danger, he tells us, is in placing too much faith in 
 books. " Instead of Man Thinking we have the bookworm. 
 Books are the best of things, well used; abused, among the 
 worst." 
 
 Action, though subordinate to the other influences, still is an 
 essential factor in education. "It is the raw material out of 
 which the intellect molds her splendid product." He emphasizes 
 the dignity and necessity of labor, and spurns the idea that the 
 scholar must withdraw from the practical issues of life. Having 
 spoken of the scholar's education, he eloquently describes his 
 duties, which, he tells us, are all included in self-trust. If we 
 would be true to ourselves, we must never yield to the popular 
 cry, but manfully declare our independence, cost what it may, 
 and hold to our belief though the whole world decry it. 
 
 Lastly, he makes special application of these principles to the 
 American Scholar. He rejoices in the fact that people are be- 
 ginning to be interested in near and common things instead of in 
 the " doings in Italy and Arabia." " What would we really know 
 the meaning of the meal in the firkin, the milk in the pan, the 
 ballad in the street." And he closes in that hopeful strain, so 
 characteristic of Emerson, by expressing the utmost faith and 
 confidence in the American Scholar. 
 
IN TROD UC TION. 1 7 
 
 Perhaps no other work of Emerson's has been less criticised 
 or more universally approved. James Russell Lowell, in speak- 
 ing of its delivery, says : " It was an event without any former 
 parallel in our literary annals, a scene to be always treasured in 
 the memory for its picturesqueness and its inspiration. What 
 crowded and breathless aisles, what windows clustering with 
 eager heads, what enthusiasm of approval, what grim silence of 
 foregone dissent!" 
 
 In this oration are to be found the germs of those thoughts 
 and principles which animate all the author's later works, self- 
 trust, self-culture, the dignity of labor, harmony and analogy in 
 nature, intellectual and moral independence. Emerson has been 
 accused of burying his thoughts so deep that common seekers 
 cannot find them ; but in this essay, at least, few passages can 
 be found which are not perfectly intelligible. Some of them, 
 indeed, are so exquisitely expressed as to constitute veritable 
 prose poems. The address, like all of Emerson's works, is full 
 of quotations and allusions ; yet Emerson is essentially original. 
 He is the champion of mental freedom, and continually urges 
 others to free themselves from the fetters of conventionality. 
 
 He practiced what he preached in this oration, and set the 
 example of ignoring European methods and manners. The 
 humblebee and the pine tree rather than the nightingale and the ' 
 asphodel furnished his models. 
 
 Let us rejoice that Emerson no longer need complain of our 
 subserviency to European taste. Since this address was deliv- 
 ered, we have had a host of original writers, Cooper, Irving, 
 Hawthorne, Bryant, Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes, Whit- 
 man, and many others. The whole tendency of American liter- 
 ature has changed. As with one impulse it has grown more 
 
 2 
 
1 8 IN TROD UC TION. 
 
 original and more American. Emerson's rich and vigorous fresh- 
 ness has undoubtedly proved a stimulant to his contemporaries, 
 and to him, more than to any other, we are indebted for the 
 development of American scholarship. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to explain the theme of " Self -Reliance." 
 The title is self-explanatory. It is the doctrine which Emerson 
 preaches in " The American Scholar," reiterated and elaborated. 
 When we read there, " In self -trust all the virtues are compre- 
 hended," we strike the keynote of this later essay. To the self- 
 reliant man everything is possible ; he may become a genius, a 
 leader of men, but without this one virtue, his case is hopeless. 
 
 Some of us, perhaps, cannot agree with Emerson when he tells 
 us it is right to ignore many of the ordinary duties of life for the 
 sake of maintaining our individuality ; but certain it is that con- 
 formity to the conventionalities of society stamps out from 
 many a man his originality and individuality, and makes of him 
 merely one of a mass of men. Let us see how it is in our own 
 case. Suppose some one took enough interest in you or me to 
 write our biography. Would it not read somewhat like this? 
 
 " Mr. was of such a nationality (Order). He belonged to 
 
 such a religious sect (Class). He followed such a profession or 
 engaged in such a business (Genus). He was a member of such 
 a club, was interested in such a movement, etc. (Species)." These 
 are all class distinctions, but where, we ask, is the attribute that 
 shows his individuality, that makes him himself and distinguishes 
 him from his companions B and C and D? Of this, alas! most 
 men's lives leave no record. 
 
 In times of revolution, when conventionalities are forcibly 
 thrust aside, our great men grow up like mushrooms in a night. 
 
IN TROD UCTION. 1 9 
 
 So we find in our own history that at no other time did our 
 country produce so many great men as during the Revolutionary 
 period and the period of the Civil War. Must we, then, wish for 
 war and turmoil, or shall we rather believe with Emerson that if 
 we would but be as brave as he would have us, the most peaceful 
 times might fill our records with the achievements of men who 
 now sink into unknown graves? 
 
 In " Compensation " we strike one of Emerson's deeper and 
 more philosophic veins, that great theory of retribution on 
 earth which makes us pause and hold our breath. Is it indeed 
 true that " every excess causes a defect, every defect an excess? " 
 that "for everything you have missed you have gained some- 
 thing else, and for everything you gain you lose something? " 
 that " every secret is told, every crime is punished, every virtue 
 rewarded, every wrong redressed, in silence and certainty?" 
 The universal acceptation of this doctrine would work a revolu- 
 tion in society : for would not the wicked man fear to do wrong 
 if he knew the punishment to be as inevitable as the laws of 
 nature, and not dependent upon a possible detection and convic- 
 tion by the judges of the world ? And where would be the 
 motive for his crime if he felt that he already possessed his full 
 allotment of happiness, and that for everything he gained in one 
 direction he would lose something in another? And would not 
 the virtuous man be encouraged to persist all the more in his 
 virtue if he knew that for every sacrifice he made there would 
 be some reward, a gain in character, if not a material com- 
 pensation ? 
 
 But the doctrine is one that is not easily learned. To be well 
 understood it must be carefully taught by inspired men, by men 
 
20 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 like Emerson himself : for all men have not his penetrating eye ; 
 they cannot see below the surface, and so long as the wrongdoer 
 succeeds in his wrongdoing and the wicked man is rich and sur- 
 rounded by friends, so long will he be envied. No matter what 
 his mental turmoil may be, no matter though the poorest beggar 
 in the street have greater peace of mind, to the world at large he 
 appears happy and successful, and men continue to look for ret- 
 ribution in a life to come. 
 
THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 1 
 
 MR. PRESIDENT AND GENTLEMEN, 
 
 I GREET you on the recommencement of our literary year. 
 Our anniversary is one of hope, and, perhaps, not enough of 
 labor. We do not meet for games of strength or skill, for the 
 recitation of histories, tragedies, and odes, like the ancient 
 Greeks; 2 for parliaments of love and poesy, like the Trouba- 
 dours ; 3 nor for the advancement of science, like our contempora- 
 ries in the British and European capitals. Thus far, our holiday 
 has been simply a friendly sign of the survival of the love of 
 letters amongst a people too busy to give to letters any more. 
 As such, it is precious as the sign of an indestructible instinct. 
 Perhaps the time is already come, when it ought to be, and will 
 be, something else ; when the sluggard intellect of this continent 
 will look from under its iron lids, 4 and fill the postponed expecta- 
 tion of the world with something better than the exertions of 
 
 1 This oration was delivered in August, 1837, before the Cambridge chap- 
 ter of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, a society composed of honor students 
 graduated from the various colleges. 
 
 2 Public games were a religious institution in ancient Greece. The most 
 important were the Olympic games celebrated in honor of Zeus. At first 
 they comprised simply feats of strength, races, etc. ; but later it became cus- 
 tomary to indulge in intellectual exercises. Dramatic pieces and discourses 
 were delivered, and artists exhibited their work while the games were in 
 progress. 
 
 3 Minstrels of Provence, in southern France, in the eleventh, twelfth, 
 and thirteenth centuries. Their poetry was about love and gallantry or about 
 war and chivalry. They sang at public festivals or at the courts of great 
 barons or princes. They were also known as Proven9al minstrels. 
 
 4 Heavy lids. 
 
 21 
 
22 EMERSON. 
 
 mechanical skill. Our day of dependence, our long apprentice- 
 ship to the learning of other lands, draws to a close. The 
 millions, that around us are rushing into life, cannot always be fed 
 on the sere remains of foreign harvests. Events, actions arise, 
 that must be sung, that will sing themselves. Who can doubt, 
 that poetry will revive and lead in a new age, as the star in the 
 constellation Harp, which now flames in our zenith, astronomers 
 announce, shall one day be the polestar 1 for a thousand years? 
 
 In this hope, I accept the topic which not only usage, but the 
 nature of our association, seem to prescribe to this day, The 
 AMERICAN SCHOLAR. Year by year, we come up hither to read 
 one more chapter of his biography. Let us inquire what light new 
 days and events have thrown on his character, and his hopes. 
 
 It is one of those fables, which, out of an unknown antiquity, 
 convey an unlooked-for wisdom, that the gods, in the beginning, 
 divided Man into men, that he might be more helpful to himself ; 
 just as the hand was divided into fingers, the better to answer its 
 end. 
 
 The old fable covers a doctrine ever new and sublime ; that 
 there is One Man, present to all particular men only partially, 
 or through one faculty ; and that you must take the whole soci- 
 ety to find the whole man. Man is not a farmer, or a professor, 
 or an engineer, but he is all. Man is priest, and scholar, and 
 statesman, and producer, and soldier. In the divided or social 
 state, these functions are parceled out to individuals, each of 
 whom aims to do his stint of the joint work, whilst each other 
 performs his. The fable implies, that the individual, to possess 
 himself, must sometimes return from his own labor to embrace 
 all the other laborers. But unfortunately, this original unit, this 
 fountain of power, has been so distributed to multitudes, has 
 been so minutely subdivided and peddled out, that it is spilled 
 into drops, and cannot be gathered. The state of society is one 
 in which the members have suffered amputation from the trunk, 
 
 1 The north star, or the star in the zenith of the north pole of the earth. 
 
THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 23 
 
 and strut about so many walking monsters, a good finger, a 
 neck, a stomach, an elbow, but never a man. 
 
 Man is thus metamorphosed into a thing, into many things. 
 The planter, who is Man sent out into the field to gather food, is 
 seldom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his ministry. 
 He sees his bushel and his cart, and nothing beyond, and sinks 
 into the farmer, instead of Man on the farm. The tradesman 
 scarcely ever gives an ideal worth to his work, but is ridden 1 by 
 the routine of his craft, and the soul is subject to dollars. The 
 priest becomes a form ; the attorney, a statute book ; the mechanic, 
 a machine ; the sailor, a rope of a ship. 
 
 In this distribution of functions, the scholar is the delegated 
 intellect. In the right state, he is, Man Thinking. In the degen- 
 erate state, when the victim of society, he tends to become a 
 mere thinker, or, still worse, the parrot 2 of other men's thinking. 
 
 In this view of him, as Man Thinking, the theory of his office 
 is contained. Him nature solicits with all her placid, all her 
 monitory pictures ; him the past instructs ; him the future invites. 
 Is not, indeed, every man a student, and do not all things exist 
 for the student's behoof? And, finally, is not the true scholar 
 the only true master? But the old oracle said, "All things have 
 two handles: beware of the wrong one." 3 In life, too often, 
 the scholar errs with mankind and forfeits his privilege. Let us 
 see him in his school, and consider him in reference to the main 
 influences he receives. 
 
 I. The first in time and the first in importance of the influences 
 upon the mind is that of nature. Every day, the sun ; 4 and, after 
 
 1 Tyrannized over. 2 Imitator. 
 
 3 The teachings of Epictetus (60-120), a Roman Stoic philosopher, have 
 been handed down by one of his pupils, and preserved in two treatises, Dis- 
 courses of Epictetus, and Enchiridion. From the latter of these works the 
 quotation is made. 
 
 4 The predicate must be supplied, a construction which occurs fre- 
 quently in this oration. 
 
24 EMERSON. 
 
 sunset, night and her stars. Ever the winds blow; ever the 
 grass grows. Every day, men and women, conversing, beholding 
 and beholden. The scholar is he of all men whom this spectacle 
 most engages. He must settle its value in his mind. What is 
 nature to him? There is never a beginning, there is never an 
 end, to the inexplicable continuity of this web of God, but always 
 circular 1 power returning into itself. Therein it resembles his 
 own spirit, whose beginning, whose ending, he never can find, 
 so entire, so boundless. Far, too, as her splendors shine, system 
 on system shooting like rays, upward, downward, without center, 
 without circumference, in the mass and in the particle, nature 
 hastens to render account of herself to the mind. Classification 
 begins. To the young mind, everything is individual, stands by 
 itself. By and by, it finds how to join two things, and see in 
 them one nature ; then three, then three thousand ; and so, tyran- 
 nized over by its own unifying 2 instinct, it goes on tying things 
 together, diminishing anomalies, discovering roots running under 
 ground, whereby contrary and remote things cohere, and flower 
 out from one stem. It presently learns, that, since the dawn of 
 history, there has been a constant accumulation and classifying 
 of facts. But what is classification but the perceiving that these 
 objects are not chaotic, and are not foreign, but have a law 
 which is also a law of the human mind? The astronomer dis- 
 covers that geometry, a pure abstraction of the human mind, is 
 the measure of planetary motion. The chemist finds proportions 
 and intelligible method throughout matter ; and science is nothing 
 but the finding of analogy, identity, in the most remote parts. 
 The ambitious soul sits down before each refractory fact ; one 
 after another, reduces all strange constitutions, all new powers, to 
 their class and their law, and goes on forever to animate the last 
 fiber of organization, the outskirts of nature, by insight. 
 
 Thus to him, to this schoolboy under the bending dome of 
 
 1 Circular, because without beginning and without end. 
 
 2 Uniting into one. 
 
THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 25 
 
 day, 1 is suggested, that he and it proceed from one root ; one is 
 leaf and one is flower ; relation, sympathy, stirring in every vein. 
 And what is that Root ? Is not that the soul of his soul ? A 
 thought too bold, a dream too wild. Yet when this spiritual 
 light shall have revealed the law of more earthly natures, when 
 he has learned to worship the soul, and to see that the natural 
 philosophy that now is, is only the first gropings of its gigantic 
 hand, he shall look forward to an ever-expanding knowledge as 
 to a becoming creator. 2 He shall see, that nature is the opposite 
 of the soul, answering to it part for part. One is seal, and one 
 is print. Its beauty is the beauty of his own mind. Its laws 
 are the laws of his own mind. Nature then becomes to him the 
 measure of his attainments. So much of nature as he is ignorant 
 of, so much of his own mind does he not yet possess. And, in 
 fine, the ancient precept, "Know thyself," 3 and the modern 
 precept, " Study nature," become at last one maxim. 
 
 II. The next great influence into the spirit of the scholar, is, 
 the mind of the Past, in whatever form, whether of literature, 
 of art, of institutions, that mind is inscribed. Books are the best 
 type of the influence of the past, and perhaps we shall get at the 
 truth, learn the amount of this influence more conveniently, 
 by considering their value alone. 
 
 The theory of books is noble. The scholar of the first age 
 received into him the world around ; brooded thereon ; gave it 
 the new arrangement of his own mind, and uttered it again. It 
 came into him, life ; it went out from him, truth. It came to him, 
 short-lived actions ; it went out from him, immortal thoughts. It 
 came to him, business ; it went from him, poetry. It was dead 
 fact ; now, it is quick thought. It can stand, and it can go. It 
 now endures, it now flies, it now inspires. Precisely in propor- 
 
 1 " Dome of day," i.e., the sky. 
 
 2 " Knowledge as to," etc., i.e., knowledge will become a creator for him. 
 
 3 A maxim of Chilo, one of the seven sages of Greece, who lived in the 
 sixth century B.C. 
 
26 EMERSON. 
 
 tion to the depth of mind from which it issued, so high does it 
 soar, so long does it sing. 
 
 Or, I might say, it depends on how far the process had gone, 
 of transmuting life into truth. In proportion to the complete- 
 ness of the distillation, so will the purity and imperishableness 
 of the product be. But none is quite perfect. As no air 
 pump can by any means make a perfect vacuum, so neither 
 can any artist entirely exclude the conventional, the local, the 
 perishable from his book, or write a book of pure thought, 
 that shall be as efficient, in all respects, to a remote posterity, 
 as to contemporaries, or rather to the second age. Each age, 
 it is found, must write its own books ; or rather, each genera- 
 tion for the next succeeding. The books of an older period will 
 not fit this. 
 
 Yet hence arises a grave mischief. The sacredness which at- 
 taches to the act of creation, the act of thought, is transferred 
 to the record. The poet chanting, was felt to be a divine man : 
 henceforth the chant is divine also. The writer was a just and 
 wise spirit : henceforward it is settled, the book is perfect ; as 
 love of the hero corrupts into worship of his statue. Instantly, 
 the book becomes noxious : the guide is a tyrant. The sluggish 
 and perverted mind of the multitude, slow to open to the incur- 
 sions of Reason, having once so opened, having once received 
 this book, stands upon it, and makes an outcry, if it is disparaged. 
 Colleges are built on it. Books are written on it by thinkers, not 
 by Man Thinking ; by men of talent, that is, who start wrong, 
 who set out from accepted dogmas, not from their own sight of 
 principles. Meek young men grow up in libraries, believing it 
 their duty to accept the views, which Cicero, 1 which Locke, 2 
 
 1 Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 B.C.), Roman author, orator, and states- 
 man. He stands preeminent as a specimen of the highest moral and intel- 
 lectual culture of the ancient world. 
 
 2 John Locke (1632-1704), English philosopher and theologian. His aim 
 was to inquire into the original certainty and extent of human knowledge. 
 His most famous work is his Essay on the Human Understanding. 
 
THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 27 
 
 which Bacon, 1 have given, forgetful that Cicero, Locke, and 
 Bacon were only young men in libraries, 2 when they wrote these 
 books. 
 
 Hence, instead of Man Thinking, we have the bookworm. 
 Hence, the book-learned class, who value books, as such ; not as 
 related to nature and the human constitution, but as making a 
 sort of Third Estate 3 with the world and the soul. Hence, the 
 restorers of readings, the emendators, the bibliomaniacs of all 
 degrees. 
 
 Books are the best of things, well used ; abused, among the 
 worst. What is the right use? What is the one end, which all 
 means go to effect? They are for nothing but to inspire. I 
 had better never see a book, than to be warped by its attraction 
 clean out of my own orbit, and made a satellite instead of a sys- 
 tem. The one thing in the world, of value, is the active soul. 
 This every man is entitled to ; this every man contains within 
 him, although, in almost all men, obstructed, and as yet unborn. 
 The soul active sees absolute truth ; and utters truth, or creates. 
 In this action, it is genius ; not the privilege of here and there a 
 favorite, but the sound estate of every man. In its essence, it is 
 progressive. The book, the college, the school of art, the insti- 
 tution of any kind, stop with some past utterance of genius. 
 This is good, say they, let us hold by this. They pin me 
 down. They look backward and not forward. But genius looks 
 forward : the eyes of man are set in his forehead, not in his hind- 
 head: 4 man hopes: genius creates. Whatever talents maybe, 
 if the man create not, the pure efflux of the Deity is not his ; 
 
 1 Francis Bacon (1561-1626), English philosopher and statesman. He 
 tried to recall philosophy from speculation and use it as an interpreter of 
 nature. His most important work is the Novum Organum (New Method). 
 
 2 " Young men in libraries," i.e., young men like themselves. 
 
 3 In some countries the population has been divided into three classes or 
 estates, with respect to political rights and powers, as nobility, clergy, and 
 people ; lords temporal, lords spiritual, and commons, etc. The common 
 people represent the " third estate." 
 
 4 The back part of the head. 
 
28 EMERSON. 
 
 cinders and smoke there may be, but not yet flame. There are 
 creative manners, there are creative actions, and creative words ; 
 manners, actions, words, that is, indicative of no custom or 
 authority, but springing spontaneous from the mind's own sense 
 of good and fair. 
 
 On the other part, instead of being its own seer, let it receive 
 from another mind i^s truth, though it were in torrents of light, 
 without periods of solitude, inquest, and self-recovery, and a 
 fatal disservice is done. Genius is always sufficiently the enemy 
 of genius by overinfluence. The literature of every nation bears 
 me witness. The English dramatic poets have Shakespearized l 
 now for two hundred years. 
 
 Undoubtedly there is a right way of reading, so it be sternly 
 subordinated. Man Thinking must not be subdued by his instru- 
 ments. Books are for the scholar's idle times. When he can 
 read God directly, the hour is too precious to be wasted in other 
 men's transcripts of their readings. But when the intervals of 
 darkness come, as come they must, when the sun is hid, and 
 the stars withdraw their shining, we repair to the lamps which 
 were kindled by their ray, to guide our steps to the East again, 
 where the dawn is. We hear, that we may speak. The Arabian 
 proverb says, "A fig tree, looking on a fig tree, becometh fruitful." 
 
 It is remarkable, the character of the pleasure we derive from 
 the best books. They impress us with the conviction, that one 
 nature wrote and the same reads. We read the verses of one of 
 the great English poets, of Chaucer, 2 of Marvell, 3 of Dryden, 4 
 
 1 Imitated Shakespeare. This is one of the many words which Emerson 
 has coined. 
 
 2 Geoffrey Chaucer (1340-1400), the " Father of English Poetry," author 
 of the famous Canterbury Tales. 
 
 3 Andrew Marvell (1621-78), English poet, called the " British Aristides " 
 on account of his great probity, the allusion being to the Athenian statesman 
 Aristides, surnamed " the Just." The Emigrants in the Bermudas is Mar- 
 veil's greatest poem. 
 
 4 John Dryden (1631-1700), English poet. He was appointed poet lau- 
 reate in 1668. One of his most popular poems is The Ode for St. Cecilia's Day. 
 
THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 29 
 
 with the most modern joy, with a pleasure, I mean, which is 
 in great part caused by the abstraction of all time from their 
 verses. There is some awe mixed with the joy of our surprise, 
 when this poet, who lived in some past world, two or three hun- 
 dred years ago, says that which lies close to my own soul, that 
 which I also had well-nigh thought and said. But for the evidence 
 thence afforded to the philosophical doctrine of the identity of all 
 minds, we should suppose some preestablished harmony, some 
 foresight of souls that were to be, and some preparation of stores 
 for their future wants, like the fact observed in insects, who lay 
 up food before death for the young grub they shall never see. 
 
 I would not be hurried by any love of system, by any exag- 
 geration of instincts, to underrate the Book. We all know, that, 
 as the human body can be nourished on any food, though it were 
 boiled grass and the broth of shoes, so the human mind can be 
 fed by any knowledge. And great and heroic men have existed, 
 who had almost no other information than by the printed page. 
 I only would say, that it needs a strong head to bear that diet. 
 One must be an inventor to read well. As the proverb says, 
 " He that would bring home the wealth of the Indies, must carry 
 out the wealth of the Indies." 1 There is then creative reading 
 as well as creative writing. When the mind is braced by labor 
 and invention, the page of whatever book we read becomes 
 luminous with manifold allusion. Every sentence is doubly 
 significant, and the sense of our author is as broad as the world. 
 We then see, what is always true, that, as the seer's hour of vision 
 is short and rare among heavy days and months, so is its record, 
 perchance, the least part of his volume. The discerning will 
 read, in his Plato 2 or Shakespeare, 3 only that least part, only 
 
 1 Spanish proverb. 
 
 2 Plato (429-347 B.C.), Athenian author and philosopher, the father of 
 idealism. He was a disciple of Socrates, whose memory and teachings he 
 preserved in his Dialogues. 
 
 3 William Shakespeare (1564-1616), the greatest of English poets and 
 dramatists. His most popular plays are Merchant of Venice and Hamlet. 
 
30. EMERSON. 
 
 the authentic utterances of the oracle ; all the rest he rejects, 
 were it never so many times Plato's and Shakespeare's. 
 
 Of course, there is a portion of reading quite indispensable to 
 a wise man. History and exact science he must learn by labo- 
 rious reading. Colleges, in like manner, have their indispensable 
 office, to teach elements. But they can only highly serve us, 
 when they aim not to drill, but to create ; when they gather from 
 far every ray of various genius to their hospitable halls, and, by 
 the concentrated fires, set the hearts of their youth on flame. 
 Thought and knowledge are natures in which apparatus and pre- 
 tension avail nothing. Gowns, and pecuniary foundations, though 
 of towns of gold, can never countervail 1 the least sentence or 
 syllable of wit. 2 Forget this, and our American colleges will 
 recede in their public importance, whilst they grow richer every 
 year. 
 
 III. There goes in the world a notion, that the scholar should 
 be a recluse, a valetudinarian, as unfit for any handiwork or 
 public labor, as a penknife for an ax. The so-called " practical 
 men" sneer at speculative men, as if, because they speculate or 
 see, they could do nothing. I have heard it said that the clergy, 
 who are always, more universally than any other class, the 
 scholars of their day, are addressed as women ; that the rough, 
 spontaneous conversation of men they do not hear, but only a 
 mincing and diluted speech. They are often virtually disfran- 
 chised ; and, indeed, there are advocates for their celibacy. As 
 far as this is true of the studious classes, it is not just and wise. 
 Action is with the scholar subordinate, but it is essential. With- 
 out it, he is not yet man! Without it, thought can never ripen 
 into truth. Whilst the world hangs before the eye as a cloud of 
 beauty, we cannot even see its beauty. Inaction is cowardice, 
 but there can be no scholar without the heroic mind. The pre- 
 amble 3 of thought, the transition through which it passes from 
 
 i Prevail against. 2 Sound sense. 3 Prelude, or preliminary. 
 
THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 31 
 
 the unconscious to the conscious, is action. Only so much do I 
 know, as I have lived. Instantly we know whose words are 
 loaded with life, and whose not. 
 
 The world, this shadow of the soul, or other me, lies wide 
 around. Its attractions are the keys which unlock my thoughts 
 and make me acquainted with myself. I run eagerly into this 
 resounding tumult. I grasp the hands of those next me, and 
 take my place in the ring to suffer and to work, taught by an 
 instinct, that so shall the dumb abyss be vocal with speech. I 
 pierce its order ; I dissipate its fear ; I dispose of it within the 
 circuit of my expanding life. So much only of life as I know 
 by experience, so much of the wilderness have I vanquished and 
 planted, or so far have I extended my being, my dominion. I 
 do not see how any man can afford, for the sake of his nerves 
 and his nap, to spare any action in which he can partake. It is 
 pearls and rubies to his discourse. Drudgery, calamity, exasper- 
 ation, want, are instructors in eloquence and wisdom. The true 
 scholar grudges every opportunity of action passed by, as a loss 
 of power. 
 
 It is the raw material out of which the intellect molds her 
 splendid products. A strange process too, this, by which experi- 
 ence is converted into thought, as a mulberry leaf is converted 
 into satin. 1 The manufacture goes forward at all hours. 
 
 The actions and events of our childhood and youth, are now 
 matters of calmest observation. They lie like fair pictures in the 
 air. Not so with our recent actions, with the business which 
 we now have in hand. On this we are quite unable to speculate. 
 Our affections as yet circulate through it. We no more feel or 
 know it, than we feel the feet, or the hand, or the brain of our 
 body. The new deed is yet a part of life, remains for a time 
 immersed in our unconscious life. In some contemplative hour, 
 it detaches itself from the life like a ripe fruit, to become a 
 thought of the mind. Instantly, it is raised, transfigured ; the 
 
 1 The silkworm feeds on the mulberry leaf, which furnishes the material 
 from which it spins the silk that is manufactured into satin. 
 
32 EMERSON. 
 
 corruptible has put on incorruption. 1 Henceforth it is an object 
 of beauty, however base its origin and neighborhood. Observe, 
 too, the impossibility of antedating this act. In its grub state, it 
 cannot fly, it cannot shine, it is a dull grub. But suddenly, with- 
 out observation, the selfsame thing unfurls beautiful wings, and is 
 an angel of wisdom. So is there no fact, no event, in our private 
 history, which shall not, sooner or later, lose its adhesive, inert 
 form, and astonish us by soaring from our body into the empy- 
 rean. Cradle and infancy, school and playground, the fear of 
 boys, and dogs, and ferules, 2 the love of little maids and berries, 
 and many another fact that once rilled the whole sky, are gone 
 already ; friend and relative, profession and party, town and 
 country, nation and world, must also soar and sing. 
 
 Of course, he who has put forth his total strength in fit actions, 
 has the richest return of wisdom. I will not shut myself out 
 of this globe of action, and transplant an oak into a flowerpot, 
 there to hunger and pine ; nor trust the revenue of some single 
 faculty, and exhaust one vein of thought, much like those Savoy- 
 ards, 3 who, getting their livelihood by carving shepherds, shep- 
 herdesses, and smoking Dutchmen, for all Europe, went out one 
 day to the mountain to find stock, and discovered that they had 
 whittled up the last of their pine trees. Authors we have, in 
 numbers, who have written out their vein, and who, moved by 
 a commendable prudence, sail for Greece or Palestine, follow 
 the trapper into the prairie, or ramble round Algiers, to replenish 
 their merchantable stock. 
 
 If it were only for a vocabulary, the scholar would be covetous 
 of action. Life is our dictionary. Years are well spent in coun- 
 try labors ; in town, in the insight into trades and manufactures ; 
 
 1 i Cor. xv. 54. 
 
 2 Corporal punishment at school administered with the ferule. 
 
 3 Inhabitants of Savoy, south of Lake Geneva, the loftiest mountain re- 
 gion of Europe. Wood-carving was one of their chief industries, for which 
 the forests of beech, birch, and pine, which have suffered deplorable clear- 
 ances, furnished ample material. 
 
THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 33 
 
 in frank intercourse with many men and women ; in science ; in 
 art ; to the one end of mastering in all their facts a language by 
 which to illustrate and embody our perceptions. I learn imme- 
 diately from any speaker how much he has already lived, through 
 the poverty or the splendor of his speech. Life lies behind us 
 as the quarry from whence we get tiles and copestones 1 for the 
 masonry of to-day. This is the way to learn grammar. Colleges 
 and books only copy the language which the field and the work- 
 yard made. 
 
 But the final value of action, like that of books, and better than 
 books, is, that it is a resource. That great principle of Undula- 
 tion 2 in nature,lthat shows itself in the inspiring and expiring of 
 the breath ; in desire and satiety ; in the ebb and flow of the 
 sea ; in day and night ; in heat and cold ; and as yet more 
 deeply ingrained in every atom and every fluid, is known to us 
 under the name of Polarity, 3 these "fits of easy transmission 
 and reflection," as Newton 4 called them, are the law of nature 
 because they are the law of spirit. 
 
 The mind now thinks ; now acts ; and each fit reproduces the 
 other. When the artist has exhausted his materials, when the 
 fancy no longer paints, when thoughts are no longer appre- 
 hended, and books are a weariness, he has always the resource 
 to live. Character is higher than intellect. Thinking is the 
 function. Living is the functionary. The stream retreats to its 
 source. A great soul will be strong to live, as well as strong to 
 think. Does he lack organ or medium to impart his truths? 
 He can still fall back on this elemental force of living them. 
 This is a total act. Thinking is a partial act. Let the grandeur 
 of justice shine in his affairs. Let the beauty of affection cheer 
 
 1 Headstones of a wall. 2 Wave motion. 
 
 3 That quality or condition of a body by virtue of which it exhibits oppo- 
 site or contrasted powers or properties in opooute directions. 
 
 4 Sir Isaac Newton ( 1042-1 727;, lingiish phflosonher and mathematician. 
 He discovered the law of gravitation and is regarded as the greatest of natural 
 philosophers. His most important work was the Principia. 
 
 3 
 
34 EMERSON. 
 
 his lowly roof. Those " far from fame," who dwell and act with 
 him, will feel the force of his constitution in the doings and pas- 
 sages of the day better than it can be measured by any public 
 and designed display. Time shall teach him, that the scholar 
 loses no hour which the man lives. Herein he unfolds the 
 sacred germ of his instinct, screened from influence. What is 
 lost in seemliness is gained in strength. Not out of those, on 
 whom systems of education have exhausted their culture, comes 
 the helpful giant to destroy the old or to build the new, but out 
 of unhandseled 1 savage nature, out of terrible Druids 2 and 
 Berserkirs 3 come at last Alfred 4 and Shakespeare. 
 
 I hear therefore with joy whatever is beginnlig to be said of 
 the dignity and necessity of labor to every citizen. There is 
 virtue yet in the hoe and the spade, for learned as well as for 
 unlearned hands. And labor is everywhere welcome ; always 
 we are invited to work ; only be this limitation observed, that a 
 man shall not for the sake of wider activity sacrifice any opinion 
 to the popular judgments and modes of action. 
 
 I have now spoken of the education of the scholar by nature, by 
 books, and by action. It remains to say somewhat of his duties. 
 
 1 A handsel is a gift ; hence, ungifted or uncultured. 
 
 2 An order of priests among the ancient Celts of Gaul, Britain, and Ire- 
 land. They believed in one Supreme Being and in the transmigration of the 
 soul from one body to another. They were held in great awe, as disobedience 
 to their mandates was followed by excommunication, in those days a terrible 
 fate. They guarded the secret archives of the religion and acted as instruc- 
 tors and judges. Though they were well educated and understood many of 
 the sciences, they also practiced divination and magic, and sacrificed human 
 beings as part of their worship. The Druids reverenced the oak and the 
 mistletoe, and their most profound ceremonies were performed in the depths 
 of oak forests or in caves. 
 
 3 Berserkir, or Berserker, was a hero in Scandinavian mythology who 
 fought without armor, but overcame all opponents by his valor ; hence the 
 name Berserkirs was given to a class of warriors who fought naked under the 
 influence of frenzy. 
 
 4 Alfred the Great (849-901), King of the West Saxons, a distinguished 
 
THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 35 
 
 They are such as become Man Thinking. They may all be 
 comprised in self-trust. The office of the scholar is to cheer, to 
 raise, and to guide men by showing them facts amidst appear- 
 ances. He plies the slow, unhonored, and unpaid task of obser- 
 vation. Flamsteed 1 and Herschel, 2 in their glazed observatories, 
 may catalogue the stars with the praise of all men, and, the results 
 being splendid and useful, honor is sure. But he, in his private 
 observatory, cataloguing obscure and nebulous stars of the 
 human mind, which as yet no man has thought of as such, 
 watching days and months, sometimes, for a few facts ; correcting 
 still his old records ; must relinquish display and immediate 
 fame. In the long period of his preparation, he must betray 
 often an ignorance and shiftlessness in popular arts, incurring the 
 disdain of the able who shoulder him aside. Long he must 
 stammer in his speech ; often forego the living for the dead. 
 Worse yet, he must accept, how often! poverty and solitude. 
 For the ease and pleasure of treading the old road, accepting 
 the fashions, the education, the religion of society, he takes the 
 cross of making his own, and, of course, the self-accusation, the 
 faint heart, the frequent uncertainty and loss of time, which are 
 the nettles and tangling vines in the way of the self-relying and 
 self-directed ; and the state of virtual hostility in which he seems 
 
 scholar and patron of learning. He is characterized by historians as the 
 wisest, best, and greatest king that ever reigned in England. 
 
 1 John Flamsteed (1646-1719), first English astronomer royal under 
 Charles II. He was the first to explain the true principles of the equation 
 of time. His Historia Coelistis Britannicae, in which he determined the 
 position of nearly 3000 stars, was the first trustworthy catalogue of the stars. 
 
 2 Sir William Herschel (1738-1822) was of German birth, but all his 
 astronomical work was done in England. He accomplished more than any 
 other man in the field of astronomy. He discovered the planet Uranus, and 
 made many remarkable observations upon the physical constitution of the 
 sun, and upon comets ; but his most valuable service to the cause of astron- 
 omy consisted in his accurate observations upon variable and binary stars. 
 He demonstrated the action upon the most distant members of the firmament 
 of the same mechanical laws that bind together our solar system. 
 
36 EMERSON. 
 
 to stand to society, and especially to educated society. For all 
 this loss and scorn, what offset? He is to find consolation in 
 exercising the highest functions of human nature. He is one, 
 who raises himself from private considerations, and breathes and 
 lives on public and illustrious thoughts. He. is the world's eye. 
 He is the world's heart. He is to resist the vulgar prosperity 
 that retrogrades ever to barbarism, by preserving and commu- 
 nicating heroic sentiments, noble biographies, melodious verse, 
 and the conclusions of history. Whatsoever oracles the human 
 heart, in all emergencies, in all solemn hours, has uttered as its 
 commentary on the world of actions, these he shall receive 
 and impart. And whatsoever new verdict Reason from her 
 inviolable seat pronounces on the passing men and events of to- 
 day, this he shall hear and promulgate. 
 
 These being his functions, it becomes him to feel all confidence 
 in himself, and to defer never to the popular cry. He and he 
 only knows the world. The world of any moment is the merest 
 appearance. Some great decorum, some fetish 1 of a govern- 
 ment, some ephemeral trade, or war, or man, is cried up by half 
 mankind and cried down by the other half, as if all depended on 
 this particular up or down. The odds are that the whole ques- 
 tion is not worth the poorest thought which the scholar has lost 
 in listening to the controversy. Let him not quit his belief that 
 a popgun is a popgun, though the ancient and honorable of the 
 earth affirm it to be the crack of doom. In silence, in steadi- 
 ness, in severe abstraction, let him hold by himself ; add obser- 
 vation to observation, patient of neglect, patient of reproach ; and 
 bide his own time, happy enough, if he can satisfy himself 
 alone, that this day he has seen something truly. Success treads 2 
 on every right step. For the instinct is sure, that prompts him 
 to tell his brother what he thinks. He then learns, that in going 
 down into the secrets of his own mind, he has descended into the 
 secrets of all minds. He learns that he who has mastered any 
 
 1 An idol or object of blind devotion. 
 
 2 Follows. 
 
THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 37 
 
 law in his private thoughts, is master to that extent of all men 
 whose language he speaks, and of all into whose language his 
 own can be translated. The poet, in utter solitude remembering 
 his spontaneous thoughts and recording them, is found to have 
 recorded that, which men in crowded cities find true for them 
 also. The orator distrusts at first the fitness of his frank confes- 
 sions, his want of knowledge of the persons he addresses, until 
 he finds that he is the complement of his hearers ; that they 
 drink his words because he fulfills for them their own nature ; 
 the deeper he dives into his privatest, secretest presentiment, to 
 his wonder he finds, this is the most acceptable, most public, and 
 universally true. The people delight in it ; the better part of 
 every man feels, This is my music ; this is myself. 
 
 In self-trust, all the virtues are comprehended. Free should 
 the scholar be, free and brave. Free even to the definition of 
 freedom, " without any hindrance that does not arise out of his 
 own constitution." Brave ; for fear is a thing, which a scholar 
 by his very function puts behind him. Fear always springs from 
 ignorance. It is a shame to him if his tranquillity, amid dan- 
 gerous times, arise from the presumption, that, like children and 
 women, his is a protected class ; or if he seek a temporary peace 
 by the diversion of his thoughts from politics or vexed questions, 
 hiding his head like an ostrich in the flowering bushes, 1 peeping 
 into microscopes, and turning rhymes, as a boy whistles to keep 
 his courage up. Sa is the danger a danger still ; so is the fear 
 worse. Manlike let him turn and face it. Let him look into its 
 eye and search its nature, inspect its origin, see the whelping 
 of this lion, which lies no great way back; he will then find 
 in himself a perfect comprehension of its nature and extent ; he 
 will have made his hands meet on the other side, and can hence- 
 forth defy it, and pass on superior. The world is his, who can see 
 through its pretension. What deafness, what stone-blind custom, 
 what overgrown error you behold is there only by sufferance, 
 
 1 The ostrich, when hunted, thrusts its head into a bush and imagines 
 itself invisible because it cannot see the hunter. 
 
38 EMERSON. 
 
 by your sufferance. See it to be a lie, and you have already 
 dealt it its mortal blow. 
 
 Yes, we are the cowed, we the trustless. It is a mischievous 
 notion that we are come late into nature ; that the world was 
 finished a long time ago. As the world was plastic and fluid in 
 the hands of God, so it is ever to so much of his attributes as we 
 bring to it. To ignorance and sin, it is flint. 1 They adapt them- 
 selves to it as they may ; but in proportion as a man has any- 
 thing in him divine, the firmament flows before him and takes his 
 signet and form. Not he is great who can alter matter, but he 
 who can alter my state of mind. They are the kings of the 
 world who give the color of their present thought to all nature 
 and all art, and persuade men by the cheerful serenity of their 
 carrying the matter, that this thing which they do, is the apple 
 which the ages have desired to pluck, now at last ripe, and invit- 
 ing nations to the harvest. The great man makes the great 
 thing. Wherever Macdonald sits, there is the head of the table. 2 
 Linnaeus 3 makes botany the most alluring of studies, and wins 
 it from the farmer and the herb-woman ; Davy, 4 chemistry ; and 
 
 1 " It is flint," i.e., hard or unimpressionable as flint. 
 
 2 In Cervantes' Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, Don Quixote's squire, relates 
 a story of a gentleman who, having invited a poor farmer to dine with him, 
 pressed him to take the head of the table. The countryman, piquing himself 
 on his good breeding, refused to take the place of honor, until his host, los- 
 ing all patience, exclaimed, " Sit thee down, clodpole, for let me sit wherever 
 I will, thpt will still be the upper end and the place of worship to thee." 
 The sam<~ thought, modified in expression, is placed by different authors in 
 the mouths of various men, and it is uncertain to which of several famous 
 Scotchmen Emerson ascribes it. 
 
 3 Carolus Linnaeus, or Carl von Linne (1707-78), Swedish botanist. He 
 established natural science upon its modern basis, and was, in botany and 
 zoology, the foremost man of his time. His artificial system of plant classi- 
 fication, though now discarded, was simple and easily followed, and has 
 greatly facilitated the study of botany. 
 
 4 Sir Humphry Davy (1778-1829), English chemist. His greatest 
 achievement was his account of the decomposition by galvanism of the fixed 
 alkalies, by which he proved that these alkalies are metallic oxides. 
 
THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 39 
 
 Cuvier, 1 fossils. The day is always his, who works in it with 
 serenity and great aims. The unstable estimates of men crowd 
 to him whose mind is filled with a truth, as the heaped waves of 
 the Atlantic follow the moon. 2 
 
 For this self -trust, the reason is deeper than can be fathomed, 
 darker than can be enlightened. I* might not carry with me 
 the feeling of my audience in stating my own belief. But I have 
 already shown the ground of my hope, in adverting to the doc- 
 trine that man is one. I believe man has been wronged ; he 
 has wronged himself. He has almost lost the light, that can lead 
 him back to his prerogatives. Men are become of no account. 
 Men in history, men in the world of to-day are bugs, are spawn, 
 and are called "the mass" and "the herd." .In a century, in a 
 millennium, one or two men ; that is to say, one or two approxi- 
 mations to the right state of every man. All the rest behold in 
 the hero or the poet their own green and crude being, ripened ; 
 yes, and are content to be less, so that may attain to its full 
 stature. What a testimony, full of grandeur, full of pity, is borne 
 to the demands of his own nature, by the poor clansman, the poor 
 partisan, who rejoices in the glory of his chief. The poor and 
 the low find some amends to their immense moral capacity, for 
 their acquiescence in a political and social inferiority. They are 
 content to be brushed like flies from the path of a great person, 
 so that justice shall be done by him to that common nature 
 which it is the dearest desire of all to see enlarged and glorified. 
 They sun themselves in the great man's light, and feel it to be 
 their own element. They cast the dignity of man from their 
 downtrod selves upon the shoulders of a hero, and will perish 
 to add one drop of blood to make that great heart beat, those 
 
 1 George Cuvier (1769-1832), French naturalist. He first applied to 
 zoology the natural method, and founded a system of classification of animals 
 based on their anatomical structure. He is regarded as the founder of the 
 science of comparative anatomy. 
 
 2 The attraction of the moon heaps up the waters of the sea into a broad, 
 low wave, the passage of which forms the ebb and flow of the tide. 
 
4^> EMERSON. 
 
 giant sinews combat and conquer. He lives for us, and we live 
 in him. 
 
 Men such as they are, very naturally seek money or power ; 
 and power because it is as good as money, the "spoils," so 
 called, " of office." And why not? for they aspire to the highest, 
 and this, in their sleep-Walking, they dream is highest. Wake 
 them, and they shall quit the false good, and leap to the true, and 
 leave governments to clerks and desks. This revolution is to 
 be wrought by the gradual domestication of the idea of Culture. 
 The main enterprise of the world for splendor, for extent, is the 
 upbuilding of a man. Here are the materials strown 1 along the 
 ground. The private life of one man shall be a more illustrious 
 monarchy, more formidable to its enemy, more sweet and serene 
 in its influence to its friend, than any kingdom in history. For 
 a man, rightly viewed, comprehendeth the particular natures of 
 all men. Each philosopher, each bard, each actor, has only 
 done for me, as by a delegate, what one day I can do for my- 
 self. The books which once we valued more than the apple 
 of the eye, we have quite exhausted. What is that but saying, 
 that we have come up with the point of view which the uni- 
 versal mind took through the eyes of one scribe ; we have 
 been that man, and have passed on. First, one ; then another ; 
 we drain all cisterns, and, waxing greater by all these supplies, 
 we crave a better and more abundant food. The man has 
 never lived that can feed us ever. The human mind cannot be 
 enshrined in a person, who shall set a barrier on any one side to 
 this unbounded, unboundable empire. It is one central fire, 
 which, flaming now out of the lips of Etna, 2 lightens the capes 
 of Sicily ; and, now out of the throat of Vesuvius, 3 illuminates 
 the towers and vineyards of Naples. It is one light which 
 
 1 Strewn. 
 
 2 A celebrated volcanic mountain of Sicily, the largest island in the Medi- 
 terranean Sea. 
 
 3 A famous volcano, the most active in Europe, situated near Naples, the 
 largest town in Italy. 
 
THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 4 1 
 
 beams out of a thousand stars. It is one soul which animates 
 all men. ^^ 
 
 But I have dwelt perhaps tediously upon this abstraction of 
 the Scholar. I ought not to delay longer to add what I have to 
 say, of nearer reference to the time and to this country. 
 
 Historically, there is thought to be a difference in the ideas 
 which predominate over successive epochs, and there are data 
 for marking the genius of the Classic, of the Romantic, and now 
 of the Reflective or Philosophical age. With the views I have 
 intimated of the oneness or the identity of the mind through all 
 individuals, I do not much dwell on these differences. In fact, 
 I believe each individual passes through all three. The boy is a 
 Greek ; the youth, romantic ; the adult, reflective. I deny not, 
 however, that a revolution in the leading idea may be distinctly 
 enough traced. 
 
 Our age is bewailed as the age of Introversion. 1 Must that 
 needs be evif? We, it seems, are critical ; we are embarrassed 
 with second thoughts ; we cannot enjoy anything for hankering 
 to know whereof the pleasure consists ; we are lined with eyes ; 
 we see with our feet ; the time is infected with Hamlet's unhap- 
 piness, 
 
 " Sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." 2 
 
 Is it so bad then? Sight is the last thing to be pitied. Would 
 we be blind? Do we fear lest we should outsee nature and God, 
 and drink truth dry? I look upon the discontent of the literary 
 class, as a mere announcement of the fact, that they find them- 
 selves not in the state of mind of their fathers, and regret the 
 coming state as untried ; as a boy dreads the water before he 
 has learned that he can swim. \ If there is any period one would 
 desire to be born in, is it not the age of Revolution ; when the 
 old and the new stand side by side, and admit of being compared ; 
 
 1 Literally, turning inward ; hence, reflection. 
 
 2 Shakespeare's Hamlet, act in., sc. I. 
 
42 EMERSON. 
 
 when the energies of all men are searched by fear and by hope ; 
 when the historic glories of the old, can be compensated by the 
 rich possibilities of the new era ? This time, like all times, is a 
 very good one, if we but know what to do with it. 
 
 I read with joy some of the auspicious signs of the coming 
 days, as they glimmer already through poetry and art, through 
 philosophy and science, through church and state. 
 
 One of these signs is the fact, that the same movement which 
 effected the elevation of what was called the lowest class in the 
 state, assumed in literature a very marked and as benign an 
 aspect. Instead of the sublime and beautiful ; the near, the low, 
 the common, was explored and poetized. That, which had been 
 negligently trodden under foot by those who were harnessing 
 and provisioning themselves for long journeys into far countries, 
 is suddenly found to be richer than all foreign parts. The liter- 
 ature of the poor, the feelings of the child, the philosophy of the 
 street, the meaning of household life, are the topics of the time. 
 It is a great stride. It is a sign, is it not? of new vigor, when 
 the extremities are made active, when currents of warm life run 
 into the hands and the feet. I ask not for the great, the remote, 
 the romantic ; what is doing in Italy or Arabia ; what is Greek 
 art, or Provengal minstrelsy ; I embrace the common, I explore 
 and sit at the feet of the familiar, the low. Give me insight 
 into to-day, and you may have the antique and future worlds. 
 What would we really know the meaning of ? The meal in the 
 firkin ; the milk in the pan ; the ballad in the street ; the news 
 of the boat ; the glance of the eye ; the form and the gait of the 
 body ; show me the ultimate reason of these matters ; show 
 me the sublime presence of the highest spiritual cause lurking, as 
 always it does lurk, in these suburbs and extremities of nature ; 
 let me see every trifle bristling with the polarity that ranges it 
 instantly on an eternal law ; and the shop, the plow, and the 
 leger, 1 referred to the like cause by which light undulates and. 
 poets sing ; and the world lies no longer a dull miscellany and 
 
 1 Old form of "ledger." 
 

 THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 43 
 
 lumber room, but has form and order ; there is no trifle ; there is 
 no puzzle ; but one design unites and animates the farthest pin- 
 nacle and the lowest trench. 
 
 x~~This idea has inspired the genius of Goldsmith, 1 Burns, 2 Cow- 
 per, 3 and, in a newer time, of Goethe, 4 Wordsworth, 5 and Car- 
 lyle. 6 This idea they have differently followed and with various 
 success. In contrast with their writing, the style of Pope, 7 of 
 Johnson, 8 of Gibbon, 9 looks cold and pedantic. This writing is 
 blood-warm. Man is surprised to find that things near are not 
 less beautiful and wondrous than things remote. The near ex- 
 plains the far. The drop is a small ocean. A man is related to 
 all nature. This perception of the worth of the vulgar is fruitful 
 
 1 Oliver Goldsmith (1728-74), Irish poet, historian, and novelist. The 
 charm of his poetry lies in the fact that he enlists simple and universal feel- 
 ings in behalf of the moral principle he seeks to establish. His best known 
 poem is The Deserted Village, and his famous and only novel, The Vicar of 
 Wakefield. 
 
 2 Robert Burns (1759-96), Scottish poet, the poet of the people and of 
 homely human nature. Tarn O'Shanter, and The Cotter's Saturday Night 
 are his most noted poems. 
 
 3 William Cowper (1731-1800), English poet of simple human affections. 
 He is best known by The Task, and Table Talk. 
 
 4 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), Germany's greatest philo- 
 sophical poet. His masterpieces are Faust, and Wilhelm Meister. 
 
 5 William Wordsworth (17701850), English poet of nature and of man. 
 His longest poems are The Prelude, and The Excursion. 
 
 6 Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881), British essayist and historian, noted for 
 his deep insight into the nature of things. His most famous works are 
 History of the French Revolution, and Sartor Resartus. 
 
 7 Alexander Pope (1688-1744), English poet. Pope was a critical poet 
 of no great originality. He cast other men's thoughts into finished verse. 
 His most noted works are the Essay on Man, and the Dunciad. 
 
 8 Samuel Johnson (1709-84), English miscellaneous writer, author of the 
 didactic novel Rasselas and of the Dictionary of the English Language. He 
 was a man of wonderful conversational powers, and his language is con- 
 densed and well-balanced like Pope's. 
 
 9 Edward Gibbon (1737-94), English historian. His language is elab- 
 orate but he displays little sympathy with humanity. His great work is The 
 Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. 
 
44 EMERSON. 
 
 in discoveries. Goethe, in this very thing the most modern of 
 the moderns, has shown us, as none ever did, the genius of the 
 ancients. 
 
 There is one man of genius, who has done much for this 
 philosophy of life, whose literary value has never yet been rightly 
 estimated ; I mean Emanuel Swedenborg. 1 The most imagi- 
 native of men, yet writing with the precision of a mathematician, 
 he endeavored to ingraft a purely philosophical Ethics on the 
 popular Christianity of his time. Such an attempt, of course, 
 must have difficulty, which no genius could surmount. But he 
 saw and showed the connection between nature and the affec- 
 tions of the soul. He pierced the emblematic or spiritual char- 
 acter of the visible, audible, tangible world. Especially did his 
 shade-loving muse 2 hover over and interpret the lower parts of / 
 I nature ; he showed the mysterious bond that allies moral evil to 
 1 the foul material forms, and has given in epical parables 3 a the- 
 y ory of insanity, of beasts, of unclean and fearful things. 
 \^Another sign of our times, also marked by an analogous polit- 
 ical movement, is the new importance given to the single person. 
 Everything that tends to insulate the individual, to surround 
 him with barriers of natural respect, so that each man shall feel 
 the world is his, and man shall treat with man as a sovereign 
 state with a sovereign state ; tends to true union as well as 
 greatness. " I learned," said the melancholy Pestalozzi, 4 " that 
 no man in God's wide earth is either willing or able to help any 
 
 1 Emanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772), founder of the New Jerusalem 
 Church. He first applied himself to the problem of discovering the nature 
 of the soul and spirit by anatomical studies, but a change came over him 
 which made of the scientific inquirer a supernatural prophet. 
 
 2 An inspiring power. 
 
 3 An epic is a poem about heroic or great events ; a parable is a moral 
 fable or an allegory ; hence, allegorical relations of great events or things. 
 
 4 Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi (1746-1827), Swiss educational reformer, 
 and author of Leonard and Gertrude. He was deeply in earnest in his work 
 and spent his life with his pupils, sharing in their sufferings as well as in 
 their play. 
 
THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR. 45 
 
 other man." Help must come from the bosom alone. The 
 scholar is that man who must take up into himself all the ability 
 of the time, all the contributions of the past, all the hopes of the 
 future. He must be an university of knowledges. If there be 
 one lesson more than another, which should pierce his ear, it is, 
 The world is nothing, the man is all ; in yourself is the law of all 
 nature, and you know not yet how a globule of sap ascends ; in 
 yourself slumbers the whole of Reason ; it is for you to know 
 all, it is for you to dare all. Mr. President and Gentlemen, 
 this confidence in the unsearched might of man belongs, by all 
 motives, by all prophecy, by all preparation, to the American 
 Scholar. We have listened too long to the courtly muses of 
 Europe. The spirit of the American freeman is already suspected 
 to be timid, imitative, tame. Public and private avarice make 
 the air we breathe thick and fat. The scholar is decent, indo- 
 lent, complaisant. See already the tragic consequence. The 
 mind of this country, taught to aim at low objects, eats upon 
 itself. There is no work for any but the decorous and the com- 
 plaisant. Youn^fmen of the fairest promise, who begin life upon 
 our shores, inflated by the mountain winds, shined upon by all 
 the stars of God, find the earth below not in unison with these, 
 but are hindered from action by the disgust which the principles 
 on which business is managed inspire, and turn drudges, or die 
 of disgust, some of them suicides. What is the remedy? They 
 did not yet see, and thousands of young men as hopeful now 
 crowding to the barriers for the career, do not yet see, that, if the 
 single man plant himself indomitably on his instincts, and there 
 abide, the huge world will come round to him. Patience, pa- 
 tience ; with the shades 1 of all the good and great for company ; 
 and for solace, the perspective of your own infinite life ; and for 
 work, the study and the communication of principles, the making 
 those instincts prevalent, the conversion of the world. Is it not 
 
 1 Spirits or spiritual influence ; so called because it was formerly believed 
 that the soul, after its separation from the body, was perceptible to the sight, 
 but not to the touch, in which respect it resembled a shadow or shade. 
 
46 EMERSON. 
 
 the chief disgrace in the world, not to be an unit ; not to be 
 reckoned one character ; not to yield that peculiar fruit which 
 each man was created to bear, but to be reckoned in the gross, 
 in the hundred, or the thousand, of the party, the section, to 
 which we belong ; and our opinion predicted geographically, as 
 the north, or the south? Not so, brothers and friends, please 
 God, ours shall not be so. We will walk on our own feet ; we 
 will work with our own hands ; we will speak our own minds. 
 The study of letters shall be no longer a name for pity, for doubt, 
 and for sensual indulgence. The dread of man and the love of 
 man shall be a wall of defense and a wreath of joy around all. 
 A nation of men will for the first time exist, because each believes 
 himself inspired by the Divine Soul which also inspires all men. 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 "Ne te qucesiveris extra." l 
 
 11 MAN is his own star; and the soul that can 
 Render an honest and a perfect man, 
 Commands all light, all influence, all tate ; 
 Nothing to him falls early or too late. 
 Our acts our angels are, or 2 good or ill, 
 Our fatal shadows that walk by us still." 
 
 Ep. to BEAUMONT and FLETCHER'S Honest Man's Fortune. 
 
 1 " Do not seek for anything outside of thyself." 
 
 2 Whether. 
 
 47 
 
CAST the bantling on the rocks, 
 Suckle him with the she-wolfs teat i 
 Wintered with the hawk and fox, 
 Power and speed be hands and feet. 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 I READ the other day some verses written by an eminent 
 painter which were original and not conventional. The soul 
 always hears an admonition in such lines, let the subject be what 
 it may. The sentiment they instill is of more value than any 
 thought they may contain. To believe your own thought, to 
 believe that what is true for you in your private hearths true for 
 all men, that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it 
 shall be the universal sense ; 1 for the inmost in due time becomes 
 the outmost, and our first thought is rendered back to us by the 
 trumpets of the Last Judgment. Familiar as the voice of the 
 mind is to each, the highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato, 2 
 and Milton 3 is, that they set at naught books and traditions, and 
 spoke not what men, but what they thought. A man should 
 learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes 
 across his mind from within, more than the luster of the firma- 
 ment 4 of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his 
 thought, because it js_his. In every work of genius we recognize 
 our own rejected thoughts : they come back to us with a certain 
 alienated majesty. Great works of art have no more affecting 
 lesson for us than this. They teach us to abide by our spon- 
 taneous impression with good-humored inflexibility then most 5 
 when the whole cry of voices is on the other side. Else, to-mor- 
 
 1 Opinion. 2 See Note 2, p. 29. 
 
 3 John Milton (160874), one of the greatest and most original of English 
 poets, author of Paradise Lost. 
 
 4 The heavens or canopy in which the stars appear to be placed ; hence, 
 to carry out the metaphor, the firmament, rather than the world, of bards 
 and sages. 5 " Then most," i.e., most at that time. 
 
 4 49 
 
50 EMERSON. 
 
 row a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what 
 we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to 
 take with shame our own opinion from another. 
 
 There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at 
 the conviction that envy is ignorance ; that imitation is suicide ; 
 that he must take himself for better-for worse, as his portion ; 
 that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nour- 
 ishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on 
 that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power 
 which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows 
 what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has 
 tried. Not for nothing /one face, one character, one fact, makes 
 much irmoressipn on him, and another none. This sculpture l in 
 the memory is not without preestablished harmony. The eye 
 was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that 
 particular ray. We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed 
 of that divine idea which each of us represents. It may be 
 safely trusted as proportionate and of good issues, so 2 it be faith- 
 fully imparted, but God will not have his work made manifest 
 by cowards. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his 
 heart into his work and done his best ; but what he has said or 
 done otherwise, shall give him no peace. It is a deliverance 
 which does not deliver. In the attempt his genius deserts him ; 
 no muse befriends ; no invention, no hope. 
 
 Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Ac- 
 cept the place the divine providence has found for you, /the so- 
 ciety of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great 
 men have always done so, and confided themselves childlike to 
 the genius of their age, betraying their perception that the abso- 
 lutely trustworthy was seated at their heart, working through 
 their hands, predominating in all their being. And we are now 
 men, and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent 
 
 1 Image. 
 
 2 " Proportionate," etc., i.e., of correct proportions and of good results, 
 so long as. 
 
SELF-RE LI A NCE. 5 1 
 
 destiny ; and not minors and invalids in a protected corner, not 
 cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers, and 
 benefactors, obeying the Almighty effort, and advancing on 
 Chaos 1 and the Dark. 
 
 What pretty oracles nature yields us on this text, in the face 
 and behavior of children, babes, and even brutes! That divided 
 and rebel mind, that distrust of a sentiment because our arith- 
 metic has computed the strength and means opposed to our pur- 
 pose, these 2 have not. Their mind being whole, their eye is as 
 yet unconquered, and when we look in their faces, we are dis- 
 concerted. Infancy conforms to nobody : all conform to it, so 
 that one babe commonly makes four or five 3 out of the adults 
 who prattle and play to it. So God has armed youth and puber- 
 ty 4 and manhood no less with its own pjouancy and charm, and 
 made it enviable and gracious and its'craims not to be put by, 
 if it will stand by itself. Do not think the youth has no force, 
 because he cannot speak to you and me. Hark! in the next 
 room his voice is sufficiently clear and emphatic. It seems he 
 knows how to speak to his contemporaries. Bashful or bold, 
 then, he will know how to make us seniors very unnecessary. 
 
 The nonchalance 5 of boys who are sure of a dinner, and 
 would disdain as much as a lord to do or say aught to conciliate 
 one, is the healthy attitude of human nature. A boy is in the 
 pajlpr what the pjrtis in the playhouse; 6 independent, irresponsi- 
 ble, looking out from his corner on such people and facts as pass 
 by, he tries and sentences them on their merits, in the swift, 
 
 1 The confused or formless elementary state in which the universe is 
 supposed to have existed before order was developed; hence, disorder in 
 general. 
 
 2 Children, babes, and brutes. 3 Supply " babes." 
 4 The age of maturity. 5 Indifference. 
 
 6 In the early theaters the floor of the house, below the level of the stage, 
 was Icnown as the pit. The seats in this part were the cheapest in the house, 
 and the people who assembled there were of a class who did not care much 
 what others thought of them, but shouted and stamped their applause and 
 hissed their disapproval, as the occasion seemed to demand. 
 
52 EMERSON. 
 
 summary way of boys, as good, bad, interesting, silly, eloquent, 
 troublesome. He cumbers himself never about consequences, 
 about interests ; he gives an independent, genuine verdict. You 
 must court him: he_does not court you. But the man is, as it 
 were, clapped into jail by his consciousness. As soon as he has 
 once acted or spoken with eclat 1 he is a committed person, 
 watched by the sympathy or the hatred of hundreds, whose 
 affections must now enter into his account. There is no Ljthe" 2 
 for this. Ah, that he could pass again into his neutrality! Who 3 
 can thus avoid all pledges, and having observed, observe again 
 from the same unaffected, unbiased, unbribable, unaffrighted inno- 
 cence, must always be formidable. He would utter opinions on all 
 passing affairs, which being seen to be not private, but necessary, 
 would sink like darts into the ear of men, and put them in fear. 
 
 These are the voices which we hear in solitude, but they grow 
 faint and inaudible as we enter into the world. Society every- 
 where is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its 
 members. Society is a joint-stock company, in which the mem- 
 bers agree, for the better securing of his bread to each share- 
 holder, to surrender the liberty and culture of the eater. The 
 virtue in most request is conformity. Self^eliance is its aversion. 
 It loves not realities and creators, but names and customs. 
 
 Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist. 4 He who 
 would gather immortal palms 5 must not be hindered by the name 
 of goodness, but must explore if it be goodness. 6 Nothing is at 
 
 1 A French word (pronounced a Ida/) meaning brilliancy of success which 
 attracts applause. 
 
 2 Oblivion ; from the ancient Greek myth of Lethe, the personification of 
 oblivion, or from the river Lethe, in the lower world, of which the souls of 
 the departed drank and forgot all they had done in the upper world. 
 
 3 He who. 
 
 4 One who does not conform to established opinions or creeds. 
 
 5 Undying fame. A branch or leaf of the palm was anciently worn as a 
 symbol of victory or rejoicing. 
 
 6 " Explore," etc., i.e., himself investigate if the thing so called be really 
 goodness. 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 53 
 
 last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. Absolve you 
 to yourself, 1 and you shall have the suffrage 2 of the world. I 
 remember an answer which when quite young I was prompted 
 to make to a valued adviser, who was wenit to importune me 
 with the dear old doctrines of the church. On my saying, 
 What have I to do with the sacredness of traditions, if I live 
 wholly from within? my friend suggested, "But these impulses 
 may be from below, not from above." I replied, "They do not 
 seem to me to be such ; but if I am the Devil's child, I will live 
 then from the Devil." No law can be sacred to me but that of 
 my nature. Good and bad are but names very readily transfer- 
 able to that or this ; the only right is what is after my constitu- 
 tion, the only wrong what is against it. A man is to carry him- 
 . /..-& & _ _ fWfMC/ 
 
 self in the presence of all opposition, as if everything were titular 
 
 and ephemeral 3 but he. I am ashamed to think how easily we 
 capitulate to badges and names, to large societies and dead insti- 
 tutions. Every decent and well-spoken individual affects and 
 sways me more than is right. I ought to go upright and vital, 4 
 and speak the rude truth in all ways. If malice and vanity wear 
 the coat of philanthropy, shall that pass? 5 If an angry bigot 
 assumes this bountiful cause of Abolition, and comes to me with 
 his last news from Barbadoes, 6 why should I not say to him, 
 "Go love thy infant; love thy wood-chopper: be good-natured 
 and modest : have that grace ; and never varnish your hard, un- 
 charitable ambition with this incredible tenderness for black folk 
 a thousand miles off. Thy love 'afar is spite at home." Rough 
 and graceless would be such greeting, but truth is handsomer 
 than the affectation of love. Your goodness must have some 
 
 1 "Absolve," etc., i.e., justify yourself. 2 Approval. 
 
 3 " Titular and ephemeral," i.e., existing in name only and of short 
 duration. 4 " I ought," etc., i.e., I ought to act as if I were alive. 
 
 5 Be tolerated. 
 
 6 An island in the Atlantic Ocean, belonging to Great Britain, one of the 
 Lesser Antilles. The inhabitants are mainly negroes who, prior to 1834, 
 were slaves. 
 
54 EMERSON. 
 
 edge to it, else it is none. The doctrine of hatred must be 
 preached as the counteraction of the doctrine of love, when that 
 pules and whines. I shun father and mother and wife and 
 brother, when my genius calls me. I would write on the lintels 
 of the doorpost, Whim. 1 I hope it is somewhat better than 
 whim at last, but we cannot spend the day in explanation. Ex- 
 pect me not to show cause why I seek or why I exclude com- 
 pany. Then, again, do not tell me, as a good man did to-day, of 
 my obligation to put all poor men in good situations. Are they 
 my poor? I tell thee, thou foolish philanthropist, that I grudge 
 the dollar, the dime, the cent, I give to such men as do not be- 
 long to me and to whom I do not belong. There is a class of 
 persons to whom by all spiritual affinity I am bought and sold ; 
 for them I will go to prison, if need be ; but your miscellaneous 
 popular charities ; the education at college of fools j the build- 
 ing of meetinghouses to the vain end to which many now stand ; 
 alms to sots ; and the thousand-fold Relief Societies ; though I 
 confess with shame I sometimes succumb and give the dollar, it 
 is a wicked dollar which by and by I shall have the manhood 
 to withhold. 
 
 Virtues are, in the popular estimate, rather the exception than 
 the rule. There is the man and his virtues. Men do what is 
 called a good action, as some piece of courage or charity, much 
 as they would pay a fine in expiation of daily nonappearance on 
 parade. Their works are done as an apology or extenuation of 
 their living in the world, as invalids and the insane pay a high 
 board. Their virtues are penances. I do not wish to expiate, 
 but to live. My life is for itself and not for a spectacle. I much 
 prefer that it should be of a lower strain, so it be genuine and 
 equal, than that it should be glittering and unsteady. I wish it 
 to be sound and sweet, and not to need diet and bleeding. 2 I 
 
 1 Emerson means to convey the idea that he would rather have his actions 
 ascribed to mere caprice than to be compelled to spend his time in explaining 
 them. 
 
 2 A use of the sign for the thing signified. " Not to need diet and bleed- 
 
SELF-RE LI A NCE. 5 5 
 
 ask primary evidence that you are a man, and refuse this appeal 
 from the man to his actions. I know that for myself , it makes 
 no difference whether I do or forbear those actions which are 
 reckoned excellent. I cannot consent to pay for a privilege 
 where I have intrinsic right. Few and mean as my gifts may 
 be, I actually am, and do not need for my own assurance or 
 the assurance of my fellows any secondary testimony. 
 
 What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people 
 think. This rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual 
 life, may serve for the whole distinction between greatness and 
 meanness. It is the harder, because you will always find those 
 who think they know what is your duty better than you know it. 
 It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion ; it is easy 
 in solitude to live after our own ; but the great man is he who 
 in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the inde- 
 pendence of solitude. 
 
 The objection to conforming to usages that have become dead 
 to you is, that it scatters your force. It loses your time and blurs 
 the impression of your character. If you maintain a dead 
 church, contribute to a dead Bible-society, vote with a great 
 party either for the government or against it, spread your table 
 like base housekeepers, under all these screens I have difficulty 
 to detect the precise man 1 you are. And, of course, so much force 
 is withdrawn from your proper life. But do your work, and I 
 shall know you. Do your work, and you shall reenforce yourself. 
 A man must consider what a blindman's-buff is this game of 
 conformity. If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument. I 
 hear a preacher announce for his text and topic the expediency 
 of one of the institutions of his church. Do I not know before- 
 hand that not possibly can he say a new and spontaneous word? 
 Do I not know that, with all this ostentation of examining the 
 
 ing " means not to be unhealthy, a special course of diet being frequently 
 prescribed in cases of illness, and bleeding having been one of the first 
 resources of the old medical practitioners. 
 
 1 " The precise man," i.e., precisely what kind of a man. 
 
5 & EMERSON. 
 
 grounds of the institution, he will do no such thing? Do I not 
 know that he is pledged to himself not to look but at one side, 
 the permitted side, not as a man, but as a parish minister? He 
 is a retained attorney, and these airs of the bench 1 are the emp- 
 tiest affectation. Well, most men have bound their eyes with 
 one or another handkerchief, 2 and attached themselves to some 
 one of these communities of opinion. This conformity makes 
 them not false in a few particulars, authors of a few lies, but false 
 in all particulars. Their every truth is not quite true. Their 
 two is not the real two, their four not the real four; so that 
 every word they say chagrins us, and we know not where to begin 
 to set them right. Meantime nature is not slow to equip us in 
 the prison-uniform of the party to which we adhere. We come 
 to wear one cut of face and figure, and acquire by degrees the 
 gentlest asinine 3 expression. There is a mortifying experience 
 in particular, which does not fail to wreak itself also in the gen- 
 eral history; I mean "the foolish face of praise," the forced 
 smile which we put on in company where we do not feel at ease 
 in answer to conversation which does not interest us. The mus- 
 cles, not spontaneously moved, but moved by a low usurping 
 willfulness, grow tight about the outline of the face with the 
 most disagreeable sensation. 
 
 For nonconformity the world whips you with its displeasure. 
 And therefore a man must know how to estimate a sour face. 
 The bystanders look askance on him in the public street or in 
 the friend's parlor. If this aversation 4 had its origin in con- 
 tempt and resistance like his own, he might well go home with a 
 sad countenance ; but the sour faces of the multitude, like their 
 sweet faces, have no deep cause, but are put on and off as the 
 wind blows and a newspaper directs. Yet is the discontent of 
 the multitude more formidable than that of the senate and the 
 
 1 Court of justice. 
 
 2 An extension of the metaphor of the blindman's-buff. 
 
 3 Like an ass, or stupid. 
 
 4 A turning away from. 
 
SELF-RE LI A NCE. 5 ^ 
 
 college. It is easy enough for a firm man who knows the world 
 to brook the rage of the cultivated classes. Their rage is deco- 
 rous and prudent, for they are timid as being very vulnerable 
 themselves. But when to their feminine 1 rage the indignation 
 of the people is added, when the ignorant and the poor are 
 aroused, when the unintelligent brute force that lies at the bot- 
 tom of society is made to growl and mow, 2 it needs the habit 
 of magnanimity and religion to treat it godlike as* a trifle of no 
 concernment. 
 
 The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consist- 
 ency ; a reverence for our past act or word, because the eyes of 
 others have no other data for computing our orbit 3 than our past 
 acts, and we are loth to disappoint them. 
 
 But why should you keep your head over your shoulder? 
 -' Why d[a<g about this corpse of your memory, lest you contradict 
 some\v4**tt7you have stated in this or that public place? Sup- 
 pose you should contradict yourself ; what then? It seems to 
 be a rule of wisdom never to rely on your memory alone, scarcely 
 even in acts of pure memory, but to bring the past for judgment 
 into the thousand-eyed 5 present, and live ever in a new day. In 
 your metaphysics you have denied personality to the Deity ; yet 
 when the devout motions of the soul come, yield to them heart 
 and life, though they should clothe God with shape and color. 
 Leave your theory, as Joseph 6 his coat in the hand of the harlot, 
 and flee. 
 
 A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored 
 by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consist- 
 ency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well 
 concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you 
 think now in hard 7 words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow 
 
 1 Feminine, because decorous and timid. 2 To make grimaces. 
 
 3 Course or path in life. 4 Something. 
 
 5 Thousand-eyed, because there may be thousands of witnesses to things 
 that happen in the present, while for the past we must rely on memory and 
 history. 6 Gen. xxxix. 12. 7 Strong and enduring. 
 
 ap, 
 
58 EMERSON. 
 
 thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything you 
 said to-day. "Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood." - 
 Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was mis- 
 understood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Coper- 
 nicus, and Galileo, and Newton, 1 and every pure and wise spirit 
 that ever took flesh. To .be great is to be misunderstood*. 
 
 I suppose no man can violate his nature. All the sallies 2 of 
 t his will are rounded in by the law of his being, as the inequalities 
 of Andes and Himmaleh 3 are insignificant in the curve of the 
 sphere. Nor does it matter how you gauge and try him. A 
 character is like an acrostic or Alexandrian stanza ; read it for- 
 ward, backward, or across, it still spells the same thing. 4 In this 
 pleasing, contrite wood-life which God allows me, let me record 
 
 1 Pythagoras (560-510 B.C.), a famous Greek philosopher, and leader in 
 a movement for ethical and religious reform. He died in banishment. 
 Socrates (470-399 B. C. ), one of the most famous of Athenian philosophers 
 and teachers of truth, virtue, and self-control, was ridiculed, imprisoned, and 
 died a martyr; Jesus was crucified; Martin Luther (1483-1546), a German 
 Augustine monk, protested against certain abuses that had grown up within 
 the Catholic Church, and became the leader of the Reformation or religious 
 revolution. He was excommunicated by the church and outlawed by the 
 state. Nicholas Copernicus (1473-1543), a Polish astronomer, was the 
 originator of the theory that the planets revolve around the sun. This theory 
 was opposed to the prejudices and dogmas of the time and was not generally 
 accepted until many years after his death. Galileo, or Galilei (1564-1642), 
 was a famous Italian astronomer, mathematician, physicist, and inventor of 
 the refracting telescope by means of which he discovered the mountainous 
 character of the moon, the phases of the planet Venus, the satellites of Jupi- 
 ter, and the rings of Saturn. His physical discoveries were heard with in- 
 credulity by the physicists of his time, and he was subjected to persecution 
 and imprisonment by the Inquisition because of them. Sir Isaac Newton 
 (1642-1727), the great English philosopher and mathematician who discov- 
 ered the law of gravitation. His teachings were hotly contested and only 
 adopted after many years. 2 Digressions. 
 
 3 Andes and Himmaleh (Himalaya), the great mountain ranges of South 
 America and Asia respectively. 
 
 4 It is the palindrome, not the acrostic or Alexandrian stanza, which has 
 this peculiarity. 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 59 
 
 day by day my honest thought without prospect or retrospect, 1 and, 
 I cannot doubt, it will be found symmetrical, though I mean it not, 
 and see it not. My book should smell of pines and resound with the 
 hum of insects. The swallow over my window should interweave 
 that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. 2 We pass 
 for what we are. Character teaches above our wills, Men imagine 
 that they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, 
 and do not see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment. 
 
 There will be an agreement in whatever variety of actions, so 
 they be each honest and natural in their hour. For of one will, 
 the actions will be harmonious, however unlike they seem. These 
 varieties are lost sight of at a little distance, at a little height of 
 thought. One tendency unites them all. The voyage of the 
 best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks. 3 See the line from 
 a sufficient 'distance, and it straightens itself to the average tend- 
 ency. Your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain 
 your other genuine actions. Your conformity explains nothing. 
 Act singly, and what you have already done singly will justify 
 you now. Greatness appeals to the future. If I can be firm 
 enough to-day to do right, and scorn eyes, I must have done 
 so much right before as to defend me now. Be it how it will, 
 do right now. Always scorn appearances, and you always may. 
 The force of character is cumulative. All the foregone days of 
 virtue work their health into this. What makes the majesty of 
 the heroes of the senate and the field, which so fills the imagina- 
 tion ? The consciousness of a train of great days and victories 
 behind. They shed an united light on the advancing actor. 
 He is attended as by a visible escort of angels. That is it which 
 throws thunder into Chatham's 4 voice, and dignity into Wash- 
 
 1 " Without prospect," etc., i.e., without looking backward or forward. 
 
 2 Emerson means to express by this whole passage that our lives should 
 be natural, not artificial or conventional. 
 
 3 The short, oblique courses back and forth by which a sailing vessel ad- 
 vances against a headwind. 
 
 * William Pitt, Earl of Chatham (1708-78), one of the most distinguished 
 
60 EMERSON. 
 
 ington's port, and America into Adams's 1 eye. Honor is vener- 
 able to us because it is no eph&meris. 2 It is always ancient 
 virtue. We worship it to-day because it is not of to-day. We 
 love it and pay it homage, because it is not a trap for our love 
 and homage, but is self-dependent, self-derived, and therefore of 
 an old immaculate pedigree, even if shown in a young person. 
 ..xi I hope in these days we have heard the last of conformity and 
 consistency. Let the words be gazetted 3 and ridiculous hence- 
 forward. Instead of the gong for dinner, let us hear a whistle 
 from the Spartan fife. 4 Let us never bow and apologize more. 
 A great man is coming to eat at my house. I do not wish to 
 please him ; I wish that he should wish to please me. I will 
 stand here for humanity, and though I would make it kind, I 
 would make it true. Let us affront and reprimand the smooth 
 mediocrity and squalid contentment of the times, and* hurl in the 
 face of custom, and trade, and office, the fact which is the upshot 
 of all history, that there is a great responsible Thinker and Actor 
 working wherever a man works ; that a true man belongs to no 
 other time or place, but is the center of things. Where he is, 
 there is nature. He measures you, and all men, and all events. 
 Ordinarily, everybody in society reminds us of somewhat else, or 
 of some other person. Character, reality, reminds you of nothing 
 else ; it takes place of the whole creation. The man must be so 
 much, that he must make all circumstances indifferent. Every 
 
 of English statesmen. He was possessed of great eloquence and all his 
 actions were impelled by deep patriotic feeling. 
 
 1 Samuel Adams (1722-1803), American statesman. Adams was a con- 
 spicuous agitator of the popular cause in America, a prominent member of 
 the Continental Congress at Philadelphia, and one of the signers of the 
 Declaration of Independence. He is called the " Father of the Revolution." 
 
 2 A journal or account of daily transactions. 
 
 3 Officially announced. 
 
 4 The Spartans of ancient Greece were especially noted for their courage 
 and valor. The signal of attack in battle was given by the music of the fife 
 or flute. Hence, " instead of the gong," etc., instead of a mere summons to 
 dinner let us have something that will inspire us to bravery. 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 61 
 
 *. 
 
 true man is a cause, a country, and an age ; requires infinite 
 spaces and numbers and time fully to accomplish his design ; 
 and posterity seem to follow his steps as a train of clients. A 
 man Caesar 1 is born, and for ages after we have a Roman Em- 
 pire. Christ is born, and millions of minds so grow and cleave 
 to his genius, that he is confounded with virtue and the possible 2 
 of man. An institution is the lengthened shadow of one man ; 
 as, Monachism, of the Hermit Antony; 3 the Reformation, of 
 Luther; Quakerism, of Fox; 4 Methodism, of Wesley; 5 Aboli- 
 tion, of Clarkson. 6 Scipio, Milton called " the height of 
 Rome ; " 7 and all history resolves itself very easily into the biog- 
 raphy of a few stout and earnest persons. 
 
 Let a man then know his worth, and keep things under his 
 feet. Let him not peep or steal, or skulk un and down with the 
 air of a charity-boy, a bastard, or an interloper, in the world 
 which exists for him. But the man in the street, finding no 
 worth in himself which corresponds to the force which built a 
 
 1 Julius Caesar (100-44 B.C.), the great Roman general, one of the great- 
 est the world has ever seen, also preeminent as a statesman and as an orator. 
 After subduing Gaul he crossed the Rubicon against his enemies in Rome. 
 He became undisputed master of the known world, was made imperator for 
 life, and sought to promote the true interests of his country. He laid a strong 
 foundation to the imperial power of his successors. 
 
 2 " Possible," i.e., that which it is possible for man to accomplish. 
 
 3 Saint Antony or Anthony (250-356), a voluntary hermit of Upper Egypt, 
 founder of Monachism, the doctrine of a life of religious seclusion, asceticism, 
 and devotion. 
 
 4 George Fox (1624-91), an Englishman, founder of the Society of 
 Friends, or Quakers. 
 
 5 John Wesley (1703-91), an Englishman, founder of the religious sect 
 of the Methodists. 
 
 6 Thomas Clarkson (1760-1846), English philanthropist. He devoted 
 his life to the abolition of the slave trade and the relief of the oppressed. 
 Through his influence Parliament declared the slave trade illegal in 1807. 
 
 7 See Milton's Paradise Lost, Book IX., line 510. Publius Cornelius 
 Africanus Scipio Major (237 or 234-184 B.C.), the greatest Roman general 
 before Caesar. By his defeat of Hannibal he ended the long struggle between 
 Rome and Carthage. 
 
62 EMERSON. 
 
 tower or sculptured a marble god, feels poor when he looks on 
 these. To him a palace, a statue, a costly book, have an alien 
 and forbidding air, much like a gay equipage, and seem to say 
 like that, "Who are you, Sir?" Yet they all are his, suitors for 
 his notice, petitioners to his faculties that they will come out and 
 take possession. The picture waits for my verdict : it is not 
 to command me, but I am to settle its claims to praise. That 
 popular fable of the sot who was picked up dead drunk in the 
 street, carried to the duke's house, washed and dressed and laid 
 in the duke's bed, and, on his waking, treated with all obsequious 
 ceremony like the duke, and assured that he had been insane, 1 
 owes its popularity to the fact, that it symbolizes so well the state 
 of man, who is in the world a sort of sot, but now and then 
 
 wakes up, exercises his reason, and finds himself a true prince. 
 
 'Blrtki . f ^* 
 
 Our reading is mendicant and sycophantic. In history, our 
 
 imagination plays us false. Kingdom and lordship, power and 
 estate, are a gaudier vocabulary than private John and Edward 
 in a small house and common day's work ; but the things of life 
 are the same to both ; the sum total of both is the same. Why 
 
 ft Cf ft t 
 
 all this deference to Alfred, 2 and Scanderbeg, 3 and Gustavus? 4 
 Suppose they were virtuous ; did they wear out virtue ? As great 
 a stake depends on your private act to-day, as followed their pub- 
 lic and renowned steps. When private men shall act with origi- 
 nal views, the luster will be transferred from the actions of kings 
 to those of gentlemen, 
 k The world has been instructed by its kings, who have so mag- 
 
 1 It is difficult to say where this fable originated. See the story of " The 
 Sleeper Awakened " in the Arabian Nights, and the Introduction to Shake- 
 speare's Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 2 See Note 4, p. 34. 
 
 3 Scanderbeg (George Castriota, 1410-67), an Albanian chief who abjured 
 Islamism, and successfully conducted several crusades against the Turks. 
 
 4 Gustavus II. (Gustavus Adolphus, 1594-1632), King of Sweden. Law, 
 order, and national spirit were encouraged during his reign, schools were 
 everywhere established, roads made, and foreign trade extended. He even 
 established model farms. 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 63 
 
 netized the eyes of nations. It has been taught by this colossal 
 symbol the mutual reverence that is due from man to man. The 
 joyful loyalty with which men have everywhere suffered the king, 
 the noble, or the great proprietor to walk among them by a law 
 of his own, make his own scale of men and things, and reverse 
 theirs, pay for benefits not with money but with honor, and 
 represent the law in his person, was the hieroglyphic 1 by which 
 they obscurely signified their consciousness of their own right 
 and comeliness, the right of every man. 
 
 The magnetism which all original action exerts is explained 
 when we inquire the ^reason of self-trust. Who is the Trustee ? 
 What is the abongiriaP Self, on which a universal reliance may 
 be grounded? What is the nature and power of that science- 
 baffling star, without parallax, 3 without calculable elements, 
 which shoots a ray of beauty even into trivial and impure ac- 
 tions, if the least mark of independence appear? The inquiry 
 leads us to that source, at once the essence of genius, of virtue, 
 and of life, which we call Spontaneity or Instinct. We denote 
 this primary wisdom as Intuition, whilst all later teachings are 
 tuitions. In that deep force, the last fact behind which analysis 
 cannot go, all things find their common origin. For, the sense of 
 being which in calm hours rises, we know not how, in the soul, 
 is not diverse from things, from space, from light, from time, 
 from man, but one with them, and proceeds obviously from the 
 same source whence their life and being also proceed. We first 
 share the life by which things exist, and afterwards see them as 
 appearances in nature, and forget that we have shared their 
 cause. Here is the fountain of action and of thought. Here 
 are the lungs 4 of that inspiration which giveth man wisdom, and 
 
 1 Hidden sign. 2 Primitive, first. 
 
 3 Apparent displacement of an object as observed from different points of 
 view. The parallax of a heavenly body is used in estimating its distance, and 
 decreases as the distance increases ; hence, the exact location of a star so far 
 distant as to have no parallax cannot be calculated. 
 
 4 The source from which it draws breath ; hence, the origin. 
 
64 EMERSON. 
 
 which cannot be denied without impiety and atheism. We lie 
 in the lap of immense intelligence, which makes us receivers of 
 its truth and organs of its activity. When we discern justice, 
 when we discern truth, we do nothing of ourselves, but allow a 
 passage to its beams. If we ask whence this comes, if we seek 
 to pry into the soul that causes, all philosophy is at fault. Its 
 presence or its absence is all we can affirm. Every man discrim- 
 inates between the voluntary acts of his mind, and his involun- 
 tary perceptions, and knows that to his involuntary perceptions 
 a perfect faith is due. He may err in the expression of them, 
 but he knows that these things are so, like day and night, not to 
 be disputed. My willful actions and acquisitions are but roving ; 
 
 the idlest reverie, the faintest native emotion, command my 
 curiosity and respect. Thoughtless people contradict as readily 
 the statement of perceptions as of opinions, or rather much more 
 readily ; for, they do not distinguish between perception and 
 notion. They fancy that I choose to see this or that thing. 
 But perception is not whimsical, but fatal. If I see a trait, my 
 children will see it after me, and in course of time, all mankind, 
 
 although it may chance that no one has seen it before me. 
 For my perception of it is as much a fact as the sun. 
 
 The relations of the soul to the divine spirit are so pure, that it 
 is profane to seek to interpose helps. It must be that when God 
 speaketh he should communicate, not one thing, but all things ; 
 should fill the world with his voice ; should scatter forth light, 
 nature, time, souls, from the center of the present thought ; and 
 new date and new create the whole. Whenever a mind is sim- 
 ple, and receives a divine wisdom, old things pass away, means, 
 teachers, texts, temples fall ; it lives now, and absorbs past and 
 future into the present hour. All things are made sacred by 
 relation to it, one as much as another. All things are dissolved 
 to their center by their cause, and, in the universal miracle, petty 
 and particular miracles disappear. If, therefore, a man claims to 
 know and speak of God, and carries you backward to the phrase- 
 ology of some old moldered nation in another country, in another 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. &5 
 
 world, believe him not. Is the acorn better than the oak which 
 is its fullness and completion? Is the parent better than the 
 child into whom he has cast his ripened being? Whence, then, 
 this worship of the past? The centuries are conspirators against 
 the sanity and authority of the soul. Time and space are but 
 physiological colors which the eye makes, but the soul is light ; 
 where it is, is day ; where it was, is night ; and history is an im- 
 pertinence and an injury, if it be anything more than a cheerful 
 apologue or parable l of my being and becoming. 
 
 Man is timid and apologetic ; he is no longer upright ; he 
 dares not say " I think," " I am," but quotes some saint or sage. 
 He is ashamed' before the blade of grass or the blowing rose. 
 These roses under my window make no reference to former roses 
 or to better ones ; they are for what they are ; they exist with 
 God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the 
 rose ; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before a 
 leaf bud has burst, its whole life acts ; in the full-blown flower 
 there is no more ; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature 
 is satisfied, and it satisfies nature, in all moments alike. But man 
 postpones or remembers ; he does not live in the present, but 
 with reverted 2 eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches 
 that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He 
 cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the 
 
 esent, above time. 3 
 
 This should be plain enough. Yet see what strong intellects 
 dare not yet hear God himself, unless he speak the phraseology 
 of I know not what David, or Jeremiah, or Paul. We shall not 
 always set so great a price on a few texts, on a few lives. We 
 are like children who repeat by rote the sentences of grandames 4 
 and tutors, and, as they grow older, of the men of talents and 
 character they chance to see, painfully recollecting the exact 
 words they spoke ; afterwards, when they come into the point of 
 
 l See Note 3, p. 44. 2 Turned back. 
 
 3 That is, apart from time past or time to come. 
 
 4 Old women ; grandmothers. 
 
66 EMERSON. 
 
 view which those had who uttered these sayings, they under- 
 stand them, and are willing to let the words go ; for, at any time, 
 they can use words as good when occasion comes. If we live 
 truly, we shall see truly. It is as easy for the strong man to be 
 strong, as it is for the weak to be weak. When we have new per- 
 ception, we shall gladly disburden the memory of its hoarded treas- 
 ures as old rubbish. When a man lives with God, his voice shall be 
 as sweet as the murmur of the brook and the rustle of the corn. 
 
 And now at last the highest truth on this subject remains un- 
 said ; probably cannot be said ; for all that we say is the far-off 
 remembering of the intuition. That thought, by what I can now 
 nearest approach to say it, is this. When good is near you, 
 when you have life in yourself, it is not by any known or accus- 
 tomed way ; you shall not discern the footprints of any other ; 
 you shall not see the face of man ; you shall not hear any 
 name; the way, the thought, the good, shall be wholly strange 
 and new. It shall exclude example and experience. You take 
 the way from man, not to man. All persons that ever existed 
 are its forgotten ministers. Fear and hope are alike beneath it. 
 There is somewhat low even in hope. In the hour of vision, 
 there is nothing that can be called gratitude, nor properly joy. 
 The soul raised over passion beholds identity and eternal causa- 
 tion, perceives the self-existence of Truth and Right, and calms 
 itself with knowing that all things go well. Vast spaces of 
 nature, the Atlantic Ocean, the South Sea, long intervals of 
 time, years, centuries, are of no account. This which I think 
 and feel underlay every former state of life and circumstances, 
 as it does underlie my present, and what is called life, and what 
 is called death. 
 
 Life only avails, not the having lived. Power ceases in the 
 instant of repose ; it resides in the moment of transition from a 
 past to a new state, in the shooting of the gulf, in the darting to 
 an aim. This one fact the world hates, that the soul becomes; 
 for that forever degrades the past, turns all riches to poverty, all 
 reputation to a shame, confounds the saint with the rogue, shoves 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 67 
 
 Jesus and Judas equally aside. Why, then, do we prate of self- 
 reliance? Inasmuch as the soul is present, there will be power 
 not confident but agent. 1 To talk of reliance is a poor external 
 way of speaking. Speak rather of that which relies, because it 
 works and is. Who has more obedience than I masters me, 
 though he should not raise his finger. Round him I must re- 
 volve by the gravitation of spirits. We fancy it rhetoric, when 
 we speak of eminent virtue. We do not yet see that virtue is 
 Height, and that a man or a company of men, plastic and per- 
 meable to principles, by the law of nature must overpower and 
 ride 2 all cities, nations, kings, rich men, poets, who are not. 
 
 This is the ultimate fact which we so quickly reach on this, as 
 I on every topic, the resolution of all into the ever-blessed ONE. 
 Self-existence is the attribute of the Supreme Cause, and it con- 
 stitutes the measure of good by the degree in which it enters into 
 all lower forms. All things real are so by so much virtue as 
 they contain. Commerce, husbandry, hunting, whaling, war, elo- 
 quence, personal weight, are somewhat, and engage my respect 
 as examples of its presence and impure action. I see the same 
 law working in nature for conservation and growth. Power is 
 in nature the essential measure of right. Nature suffers nothing 
 to remain in her kingdoms which cannot help itself. The gen- 
 esis and maturation of a planet, its poise and orbit, the bended 
 tree recovering itself from the strong wind, the vital resources of 
 every animal and vegetable, are demonstrations of the self-suf- 
 ficing, and therefore self-relying soul. 
 
 Thus all concentrates : let us not rove ; let us sit at home with 
 the cause. Let us stun and astonish the intruding rabble of 
 men and books and institutions, by a simple declaration of the 
 divine fact. Bid the invaders take the shoes from off their feet, 
 for God is here within. 3 Let our simplicity judge them, and our 
 
 1 Power not reliant but active. 
 
 2 " Overpower," etc., i.e., have power over and rule. 
 
 3 The Mohammedans are obliged to take off their shoes before they are 
 permitted to enter a mosque. 
 
68 EMERSON. 
 
 docility to our own law demonstrate the poverty of nature and 
 fortune beside our native riches. 
 
 But now we are a mob. Man does not stand in awe of man, 
 nor is his genius admonished to stay at home, to put itself in 
 communication with the internal ocean, but it goes abroad to 
 beg a cup of water of the urns of other men. We must go alone. 
 I like the silent church before the service begins, better than any 
 preaching. How far off, how cool, how chaste the persons look, 
 begirt each one with a precinct or sanctuary! So let us always 
 sit. Why should we assume the faults of our friend, or wife, or 
 father, or child, because they sit around our hearth, or are said 
 to have the same blood? All men have my blood, and I have 
 
 P*i5kt*X* 
 
 all men's. 1 Not for that will I adopt their petulance or folly, 
 even to the extent of being ashamed of it. But your isolation 
 must not be mechanical, but spiritual, that is, must be elevation. 
 At times the whole world seems to be in conspiracy to importune 
 you with emphatic trifles. Friend, client, child, sickness, fear, 
 want, charity, all knock at once at thy closet door, and say, 
 "Come out unto us." But keep thy state; come not into their 
 confusion. The power men possess to annoy me, I give them 
 by a weak curiosity. No man can come near me but through 
 my act. " What we love that we have, but by desire. we bereave 
 ourselves of the love." 
 
 If we cannot at once rise to the sanctities of obedience and 
 faith, let us at least resist our temptations ; let us enter into the 
 state of war, jand wake Thor and Woden, 2 courage and constancy, 
 in our Saxon breasts. This is to be done in our smooth times 
 by speaking the truth. Check this lying hospitality and lying 
 affection. Live no longer to the expectation of these deceived 
 and deceiving people with whom we converse. Say to them, 
 O father, O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived 
 
 1 An allusion to the fact that all men are brothers. 
 
 2 In Norse mythology the god Woden was held to be all-powerful and 
 noted for his constancy, while his eldest son Thor, the god of thunder, was 
 the personification of strength and courage. 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 69 
 
 with you after appearances hitherto. Henceforward I am the 
 truth's. Be it known unto you that henceforward I obey no law 
 less than the eternal law. I will have no covenants but proximi- 
 ties. 1 I shall endeavor to nourish my parents, to support my 
 family, to be the chaste husband of one wife, but these rela- 
 tions I must fill after a new and unprecedented way. I appeal 
 from your customs. I must be myself. I cannot break myself 
 any longer for you, or you. 2 If you can love me for what I am, 
 we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to de- 
 serve that you should. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. 
 I will so trust that what is deep is holy, that I will do strongly 
 before the sun and moon whatever inly 3 rejoices me, and the 
 heart appoints. If you are noble, I will love you ; if you are 
 not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical attentions. 
 If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to 
 your companions ; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, 
 but humbly and truly. It is alike your interest, and mine, and 
 all men's, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth. 
 Does this sound harsh to-day? You will soon love what is dic- 
 tated by your nature as well as mine, and, if we follow the truth, 
 it will bring us out safe at last. But so may you give these 
 friends pain. Yes, but I cannot sell my liberty and my power, 
 to save their sensibility. Besides, all persons have their moments 
 of reason, when they look out into the region of absolute truth ; 
 then will they justify me, and do the same thing. 
 
 The populace think that your rejection of jpopular standards 
 is a rejection of all standard, and mere anjtinbrmanjism ; 4 and the 
 bold sensualist will use the name of philosophy to gild 5 his 
 
 1 " I will," etc., i.e., I will agree to govern my conduct only according to 
 the dictates of my inner consciousness, of my soul's intuitive sense of right. 
 
 2 You in the singular, i.e., the particular person whom Emerson imagines 
 himself as addressing. 3 Within the soul. 
 
 4 The doctrine that Christians are freed from the moral law as set forth in 
 the Old Testament by the new dispensation of grace in the Gospel. 
 
 5 Cover or conceal. 
 
70 EMERSON. 
 
 crimes. But the law of consciousness abides. There are two 
 confessionals, in one or the other of which we must be shriven. 1 
 You may fulfill your round of duties by clearing yourself in the 
 direct, or in the reflex way. Consider whether you have satisfied 
 your relations to father, mother, cousin, neighbor, town, cat, and 
 dog ; whether any of these can upbraid you. But I may also 
 neglect this reflex standard, and absolve me to myself. I have 
 my own stern claims and perfect circle. It denies the name of 
 duty to many offices that are called duties. But if I can dis- 
 charge its debts, it enables me to dispense with the popular code. 
 If any one imagines that this law is lax, let him keep its com- 
 mandment one day. 
 
 And truly it demands something godlike in him who has cast 
 off the common motives of humanity, and has ventured to trust 
 himself for a taskmaster. High be his heart, faithful his will, 
 clear his sight, that he may in good earnest be doctrine, society, 
 law, to himself, that a simple purpose may be to him as strong 
 as iron necessity is to others! 
 
 If any man consider the present aspects of what is called by 
 distinction society, he will see the need of these ethics. The 
 sinew r and heart of man seem to be drawn out, and we are be- 
 come timorous, desponding whimperers. We are afraid of truth, 
 afraid of fortune, afraid of death, and afraid of each other. Our 
 age yields no great and perfect persons. We want men and 
 women who shall renovate life and our social state, but we see 
 that most natures are insolvent, cannot satisfy their own wants, 
 have an ambition out of all proportion to their practical force, 
 and do lean and beg day and night continually. Our house- 
 keeping is mendicant, our arts, our occupations, our marriages, 
 our religion, we have not chosen, but society has chosen for us. 
 We are parlor soldiers. We shun the rugged battle of fate, where 
 strength is born. 
 
 If our young men miscarry in their first enterprises, they lose 
 all heart. If the young merchant fails, men say he is ruined. If 
 
 1 Confessed. 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. ^ I 
 
 the finest genius studies at one of our colleges, and is not installed 
 in an office within one year afterwards in the cities or suburbs of 
 Boston or New York, it seems to his friends and to himself that 
 he is right in being disheartened, and in complaining the rest of 
 his life. A sturdy lad from New Hampshire or Vermont, who 
 in turn tries all the professions, who teams it. farms it, 1 peddles, 
 keeps a school, preaches, edits a newspaper, goes to Congress, 
 buys a township, and so forth, in successive years, and always, 
 like a cat, falls on his feet, is worth a hundred of these city dolls. 
 He walks abreast with his days, and feels no shame in not " study- 
 ing a profession," for he does not postpone his life, but lives 
 already. He has not one chance, but a hundred chances. Let 
 a Stoic 2 open the resources of man, and tell men they are not 
 leaning willows, but can and must detach themselves ; that with 
 the exercise of self-trust, new powers shall appear ; that a man 
 is the word made flesh, 3 born to shed healing to the nations, 
 that he should be ashamed of our compassion, and that the mo- 
 ment he acts from himself, tossing the laws, the books, idolatries, 
 and customs out of the window, we pity him no more, but thank 
 and revere him, and that teacher shall restore the life of man 
 to splendor, and make his name dear to all history. 
 
 It is easy to see that a greater self-reliance must work a revo- 
 lution in all the offices and relations of men ; in their religion ; in 
 their education ; in their pursuits ; their modes of living ; their 
 association ; in their property ; in their speculative views. 
 
 i. In what prayers do men allow themselves! 4 That which 
 they call a holy office is not so much as brave and manly. Prayer 
 
 1 " Teams it," etc., i.e., drives a team or engages in farming as a profes- 
 sion. 
 
 2 A disciple of the philosopher Zeno, who founded a sect and taught that 
 men should be free from passion, unmoved by joy or grief, and should sub- 
 mit uncomplainingly to the inevitable; hence, the name is applied to any 
 one who professes to be indifferent to pleasure or pain. 
 
 3 See John i. 14. 
 
 4 " In what prayers," etc., i.e., in what prayers do men allow themselves 
 to indulge. 
 
72 EMERSON. 
 
 looks abroad and asks for some foreign addition to come through 
 some foreign virtue, and loses itself in endless mazes of natural 
 and supernatural, and mediatorial and miraculous. Prayer that 
 craves a particular commodity, anything less than all good, is 
 vicious. Prayer is the contemplation of the facts of life from the 
 highest point of view. It is the soliloquy of a beholding and 
 jubilant soul. It is the spirit of God pronouncing his works good. 
 But prayer as a means to effect a private end is meanness and 
 theft. It supposes dualism 1 and not unity in nature and con- 
 sciousness. As soon as the man is at one with God, he will not 
 beg. He will then see prayer in all action. The prayer of the 
 farmer kneeling in his field to weed it, the prayer of the rower 
 kneeling with the stroke of his oar, are true prayers heard through- 
 out nature, though for cheap ends. Caratach, in Fletcher's " Bon- 
 duca," 2 when admonished to inquire the mind of the god Audate, 
 
 replies, 
 
 " His hidden meaning lies in our endeavors; 
 Our valors are our best gods." 
 
 Another sort of false prayers are our regrets. Discontent is 
 the want of self-reliance : it is infirmity of will. Regret calami- 
 ties, if you can thereby help the sufferer ; if not, attend your own 
 work, and already the evil begins to be repaired. Our sympathy 
 is just as base. We come to them who weep foolishly, and sit 
 down and cry for company, instead of imparting to them truth 
 and health in rough electric shocks, putting them once more in 
 communication with their own reason. The secret of fortune is 
 joy in our hands. Welcome evermore to gods and men is the 
 self -helping man. For him all doors are flung wide : him all 
 tongues greet, all honors crown, all eyes follow with desire. Our 
 
 1 A twofold division. 
 
 2 Caratach, or Caractacus, was a character in the play of Bonduca (another 
 name for Boadicea), written by the English dramatist and poet John Fletcher 
 (1576-1625). The scene of the play is laid in ancient Britain, where the 
 characters were historical. Audate is another name for the Celtic goddess 
 (not god) Audrasta. 
 
SELF-RE LI A NCE. ^ 3 
 
 love goes out to him and embraces him, because he did not 
 need it. We solicitously and apologetically caress and celebrate 
 him, because he held on his way and scorned our disapproba- 
 tion. The gods love him because men hated him. " To the 
 persevering mortal," said Zoroaster, 1 " the blessed Immortals are 
 swift." 
 
 As men's prayers are a disease of the will, so are their creeds 
 a disease of the intellect. They say with those foolish Israelites, 
 " Let not God speak to us, lest we die. Speak thou, speak any 
 man with us, and we will obey." Everywhere I am hindered of 
 meeting God in my brother, because he has shut his own temple 
 doors, and recites fables merely of his brother's, or his brother's 
 brother's God. Every new mind is a new classification. If it 
 prove a mind of uncommon activity and power, a Locke, 2 a 
 Lavoisier, 3 a Hutton, 4 a Bentham, 5 a Fourier, 6 it imposes its 
 classification on other men, and lo! a new system. In propor- 
 tion to the depth of the thought, and so to the number of the 
 objects it touches and brings within reach of the pupil, is his 
 complacency. But chiefly is this apparent in creeds and churches, 
 which are also classifications of some powerful mind acting on 
 the elemental thought of duty, and man's relation to the Highest. 
 Such is Calvinism, 7 Quakerism, Swedenborgism. 8 The pupil 
 takes the same delight in subordinating everything to the new 
 terminology, as a girl who has just learned botany in seeing a 
 
 1 The founder of the ancient Persian religion. The time in which he lived 
 is uncertain. 2 See Note 2, p. 26. 
 
 3 Antoine Laurent Lavoisier (1743-94), illustrious French chemist. He 
 discovered the composition of water. 
 
 * James Hutton (1726-97), great Scotch geologist. He wrote the Theory 
 of Rain, and Theory of the Earth. 
 
 5 Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832), English philosopher and reformer. He 
 devoted himself to reforms in legislature and government. 
 
 6 Fran$ois Marie Charles Fourier (1772-1837), French socialist. 
 
 7 The doctrine of the followers of John Calvin (1509-64), French theo- 
 logian. 
 
 8 The doctrine taught by Emanuel Swedenborg. See Note I, p. 44. 
 
74 EMERSON. 
 
 new earth and new seasons thereby. It will happen for a time, 
 that the pupil will find his intellectual power has grown by the 
 study of his master's mind. But in all unbalanced minds, the 
 classification is idolized, passes for the end, and not for a speedily 
 exhaustible means, so that the walls of the system blend to their 
 eye in the remote horizon with the walls of the universe ; the 
 luminaries of heaven seem to them hung on the arch their master 
 built. They cannot imagine how you aliens have any right to 
 see, how you can see; "It must be somehow that you stole 
 the light from -JJiK." ^ /TB^Y do not vet perceive, that light, unsys- 
 tematic, indomitable, will break into any cabin, even into theirs. 
 Let them chirp awhile and call it their own. If they are honest 
 and do well, presently their neat new pinfold 1 will be too strait 2 
 and low, will crack, will lean, will rot and vanish, and the im- 
 mortal light, all young and joyful, million-orbed, million-colored, 
 will beam over the universe as on the first morning. 
 
 2. It is for want of self-culture that the superstition of Trav- 
 eling, whose idols are Italy, England, Egypt, retains its fasci- 
 nation for all educated Americans. They who made England, 
 Italy, or Greece venerable in the imagination did so by sticking 
 fast where they were, like an axis of the earth. In manly hours, 
 we feel that duty is our place. The soul is no traveler ; the 
 wise man stays at home, and when his necessities, his duties, on 
 any occasion call him from his house, or into foreign lands, he 
 is at home still, and shall make men sensible by the expression of 
 his countenance, that he goes the missionary of wisdom and vir- 
 tue,and visits cities and men like a sovereign, and not like an 
 
 i* -'-- i . 
 
 interloper or a valet. 
 
 I have no churlish ..objection to the circumnavigation of the 
 globe, for the purposes of art, of study, and benevolence, so that 
 the man is first domesticated, or does not go abroad with the 
 hope of finding somewhat greater than he knows. He who 
 travels to be amused, or to get somewhat which he does not 
 carry, travels away from himself, and grows old even in youth 
 
 l An inclosure for beasts. 2 Narrow. 
 
SELF-RE LI A NCE. ^ 5 
 
 among old things. In Thebes, 1 in Palmyra, 2 his will and mind 
 have become old and dilapidated as they. He carries ruins to 
 ruins. 
 
 f ( Traveling is a fool's paradise. Our first journeys discover to 
 us the indifference of places. At home I dream that at Naples, 
 at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and lose my sadness. 
 I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and 
 at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, 
 the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I seek the 
 Vatican, 3 and the palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights 
 and suggestions, but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with 
 me wherever I go. 
 
 3. But the rage of traveling is a symptom of a deeper un- 
 soundness affecting the whole intellectual action. The intellect 
 is vagabond, and our system of education fosters restlessness. 
 Our minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay at home. 
 We imitate ; and what is imitation but the traveling of the mind ? 
 Our houses are built with foreign taste ; our shelves are garnished 
 with foreign ornaments ; our opinions, our tastes, our faculties, 
 lean, and follow the Past and the Distant. The soul created the 
 arts wherever they have flourished. It was in his own mind 
 that the artist sought his model. It was an application of Ms 
 own thought to the thing to be done and the conditions to be 
 observed. And why need we copy the Doric 4 or the Gothic 5 
 model? Beauty, convenience, grandeur of thought, and quaint 
 expression are as near to us as to any, and if the American 
 
 1 The ruined prehistoric city, capital of Upper Egypt. 
 
 2 A ruined city, founded by Solomon, in an oasis of the Syrian desert, a 
 hundred and twenty miles northeast of Damascus. 
 
 3 The residence of the Pope in Rome, the largest palace in the world, 
 consisting of over four thousand rooms. It contains the finest existing col- 
 lection of marbles, bronzes, frescoes, paintings, gems, and statues. 
 
 4 A style of architecture distinguished for simplicity and strength, which 
 originated in Doris in ancient Greece. 
 
 5 A style of architecture derived from the Goths, with high and sharply 
 pointed arches and clustered columns. 
 
76 EMERSON. 
 
 artist will study with hope and love the precise thing to be done 
 by him, considering the climate, the soil, the length of the day, 
 the wants of the people, the habit and form of the government, 
 he will create a house in which all these will find themselves 
 fitted, and taste and sentiment will be satisfied also. 
 
 Insist on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift you can 
 present every moment with the cumulative force of a whole life's 
 cultivation ; but of the adopted talent of another, you have only 
 an extemporaneous, half possession. That which each can do 
 best, none but his Maker can teach him. No man yet knows 
 what it is, nor can, till that person has exhibited it. Where is 
 the master who could have taught Shakespeare? 1 Where is the 
 master who could have instructed Franklin, 2 or Washington, or 
 Bacon, 3 or Newton? Every great man is a unique. The Scip- 
 ionism of Scipio is precisely that part he could not borrow. 
 Shakespeare will never be made by the study of Shakespeare. 
 Do that which is assigned you, and you cannot hope too much 
 or dare too much. There is at this moment for you an utterance 
 brave and grand as that of the colossal chisel of Phidias, 4 or 
 trowel 5 of the Egyptians, or the pen of Moses, or Dante, 6 but 
 different from all these. Not possibly will the ^pul all rich, all 
 eloquent, with thousand-cloven 7 tongue, deign to repeat itself; 
 but if you can hear what these patriarchs say, surely you can 
 reply to them in the same pitch of voice ; for the ear and the 
 tongue are two organs of one nature. Abide in the simple and 
 
 1 See Note 3, p. 29. 
 
 2 Benjamin Franklin (1706-90), American philosopher, statesman, and 
 writer. He discovered the nature of lightning, invented the lightning rod, 
 performed important diplomatic services during the Revolution, and compiled 
 the famous Poor Richard's Almanac. 
 
 3 See Note I, p. 27. 
 
 4 Phidias (400-432 B.C.), the greatest sculptor of Greece if not of all 
 lands. 5 The tool with which they reared the pyramids. 
 
 6 Dante Alighieri (1265-1321), the greatest Italian poet, author of the 
 Inferno. 
 
 7 Divided into many parts ; that is, capable of speaking in many ways. 
 
SELF-RE LI A NCE. ^ 7 
 
 noble regions of thy life, obey thy heart, and thou shalt reproduce 
 the Foreworld 1 again. 
 
 // 4> 4. As our Religion, our Education, our Art look abroad, so 
 does our spirit of society. All men plume themselves on the 
 improvement of society, and no man improves. 
 
 if /"~ Society never advances. It recedes as fast on one side as it 
 gains on the other. It undergoes continual changes ; it is bar- 
 barous, it is civilized, it is ^ christianized, it is rich, it is scientific ; 
 but this change is not amelioration. For everything that is 
 given, something is taken. Society acquires new arts, and loses 
 old instincts. What a contrast between the well-clad, reading, 
 writing, thinking American, with a watch, a pencil, and a bill of 
 exchange in his pocket, and the naked New Zealander, whose 
 property is a club, a spear, a mat, and an undivided twentieth 
 of a shed to sleep under! But compare the health of the two 
 men, and you shall see that the white man has lost his aboriginal 
 strength. If the traveler tell us truly, strike the savage with a 
 broad ax, and in a day or two the flesh shall unite and heal as if 
 you struck the blow into soft pitch, and the same blow shall send 
 the white to his grave. 
 
 The civilized man has built a coach, but has lost the use of his 
 feet. He is supported on crutches, but lacks so much support 
 of muscle. He has a fine Geneva 2 watch, but he fails of the 
 skill to tell the hour by the sun. A Greenwich nautical almanac 3 
 he has, and so being sure of the information when he wants it, 
 the man in the street does not know a star in the sky. The sol- 
 
 stice he does not observe; the equinox he knows as little; and 
 the whole bright calendar of the year is without a dial in his mind. 
 His notebooks impair his memory; his libraries overload his 
 wit ; the insurance office increases the number of accidents ; and 
 
 1 A previous state of the world. 
 
 2 Geneva, Switzerland, at one time produced the best watches in the 
 world. 
 
 3 An almanac for the use of navigators and astronomers, calculated at the 
 Royal Observatory at Greenwich, England. 
 
78 EMERSON. 
 
 it may be a question whether machinery does not encumber; 
 whether we have not lost by refinement some energy, by a Chris- 
 tianity intrenched in establishments and forms, some vigor of 
 wild virtue. For every Stoic was a Stoic ; but in Christendom 
 where is the Christian? 
 
 X1 There is no more deviation in the moral standard than in the 
 ( standard of height or bulk. No greater men are now than ever 
 were. A singular equality may be observed between the great 
 men of the first and of the last ages ; nor can all the science, 
 art, religion, and philosophy of the nineteenth century avail to 
 educate greater men than Plutarch's l heroes, three or four and 
 twenty centuries ago. Not in time is the race progressive. Pho- 
 cion, 2 Socrates, Anaxagoras, 3 Diogenes, 4 are great men, but they 
 leave no class. He who is really of their class will not be called 
 by their name, but will be his own man, and, in his turn, the 
 founder of a sect. The arts and inventions- of each period are 
 only its costume, and do not invigorate men. The harm of the 
 improved machinery may compensate its good. Hudson 5 and 
 Bering 6 accomplished so much in their fishing boats, as to astonish 
 Parry 7 and Franklin, 8 whose equipment exhausted the resources 
 
 1 A Grecian philosopher living in the first century A.D. He was also a 
 prolific writer. His most noted work is Parallel Lives, a series of forty-six 
 biographies divided into pairs, one taken from Greek and one from Roman 
 history, and each accompanied by a psychological and moral comparison be- 
 tween the characters described. 2 An Athenian general (402-317 B.C.). 
 
 3 Eminent Greek philosopher (500-426 B.C.). He maintained the eter- 
 nity of matter. 
 
 4 A famous Greek cynic philosopher (400-323 B.C.). He affected a 
 contempt for the comforts of life and the customs of the world. According 
 to tradition he lodged in a tub. 
 
 5 Henry Hudson, distinguished English discoverer, discovered Hudson 
 River and Hudson Bay. 
 
 6 A Danish navigator (1680-1741). He discovered Bering Strait in 1728, 
 and ascertained that Asia was not joined to America, as was formerly supposed. 
 
 7 Sir William Edward Parry, English navigator (1790-1855). In 1819-23 
 he penetrated the Arctic regions farther than any previous explorer. 
 
 8 Sir John Franklin (1786-1845), English Arctic explorer. 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 79 
 
 of science and art. Galileo, with an opera glass, discovered a 
 more splendid series of celestial phenomena than any one since. 
 Columbus 1 found the New World in an undecked boat. It is 
 curious to see the periodical disuse and perishing of means and 
 machinery, which were introduced with loud laudation a few 
 years or centuries before. The great genius returns to essential 
 man. We reckoned the improvements of the art of war among 
 the triumphs of science, and yet Napoleon 2 conquered Europe 
 by the bivouac, 3 which consisted of falling back on naked valor, 
 and disencumbering it of all aids. The Emperor held it impos- 
 sible to make a perfect army, says Las Casas, 4 " without abolish- 
 ing our arms, magazines, commissaries, and carriages, until, in 
 imitation of the Roman custom, the soldier should receive his 
 
 , supply of corn, grind it in his handmill, and bake his bread him- 
 self." 
 
 ^ Society is a wave. The wave moves onward, but the water 
 of which it is composed does not. The same particle does not 
 rise from the valley to the ridge. Its unity is only phenomenal. 
 The persons who make up a nation to-day, next year die, and 
 their experience with them. 
 
 And so the reliance on Property, including the reliance on 
 governments which protect it, is the want of self-reliance. Men 
 have looked away from themselves and at things so long, that 
 they have come to esteem the religious, learned, and civil institu- 
 tions as guards of property, and they deprecate assaults on these, 
 because they feel them to be assaults on property. They meas- 
 ure their esteem of each other by what each has, and not by 
 
 1 Christopher Columbus (about 1436-1506), the discoverer of America. 
 
 2 See note 2, page 101. 
 
 3 An encampment of soldiers in the open air, without tents, each soldier 
 remaining dressed, with his weapons at hand. 
 
 4 Emmanuel Augustin Dieudonne", Comte de las Cases (1766-1842); 
 author of "Memorial de St. He"lene," and a friend of Napoleon Bonaparte's. 
 Note that Emerson's spelling of the name is wrong. He confused it with 
 that of the great Bartolome" de las Casas, the Spanish missionary. 
 
8o EMERSON. 
 
 what each is. But a cultivated man becomes ashamed of his 
 property, out of new respect for his nature. Especially he hates 
 what he has, if iie see that it is accidental, came to him by in- 
 heritance, or gift, or crime ; then he feels that it is not having ; 
 it does not belong to him, has no root in him, and merely lies 
 there, because no revolution or no robber takes it away. But 
 that which a man js does always by necessity acquire, 1 and 
 what the man acquires is living property, which does not wait 
 the beck of rulers, or mobs, or revolutions, or fire, or storm, or 
 bankruptcies, but perpetually renews itself wherever the man 
 breathes. " Thy lot or portion of life," said the Caliph Ali, 2 " is 
 seeking after thee ; therefore be at rest from seeking after it." 
 Our dependence on these foreign goods leads us to our slavish 
 respect for numbers. The political parties meet in numerous 
 conventions ; the greater the concourse, and with each new up- 
 roar of announcement, The delegation from Essex! The Dem- 
 ocrats from New Hampshire! The Whigs of Maine! The 
 young patriot feels himself stronger than before by a new thou- 
 sand of eyes and arms. In like manner the reformers summon 
 conventions, and vote and resolve in multitude. Not so, O 
 friends! will the God deign to enter and inhabit you, but by a 
 method precisely the reverse. It is only as a man puts off all 
 foreign support, and stands alone, that I see him to be strong and 
 to prevail. He is weaker by every recruit to his banner. Is 
 not a man better than a town? Ask nothing of men, and in 
 the endless mutation, thou only firm column must presently ap^ 
 pear the upholder of all that surrounds thee. He who knows 
 that power is inborn, that he is weak because he has looked for 
 good out of him and elsewhere, and so perceiving, throws him- 
 self unhesitatingly on his thought, instantly rights himself, stands 
 in the erect position, commands his limbs, works miracles ; just 
 
 1 Become his own. 
 
 2 An Arabian caliph, surnamed the " Lion of God," a cousin and follower 
 of Mohammed. He is distinguished as an author of many maxims and 
 proverbs which have been handed down and published. 
 
SELF-RE LI A NCE. 8 1 
 
 as a man who stands on his feet is stronger than a man who 
 stands on his head. 
 
 2> So use all that is called Fortune. Most men gamble with her, 
 and gain all, and lose all, as her wheel rolls. But do thou leave 
 as unlawful these winnings, and deal with Cause and Effect, the 
 chancellors of God. In the Will work and acquire, and thou 
 hast chained the wheel of Chance, 1 and shalt sit hereafter out of 
 fear from her rotations. A political victory, a rise of rents, the 
 recovery of your sick, or the return of your absent friend, or 
 some other favorable event, raises your spirits, and you think 
 good days are preparing for you. Do not believe it. Nothing 
 can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you peace 
 but the triumph of principles. 
 
 1 Fortuna, the goddess of fortune or chance in Roman mythology, was 
 represented with her eyes bound, standing on a ball or wheel to indicate that 
 luck rolls, like a ball, without choice. 
 
COMPENSATION. 
 
 THE wings of Time are black and white, 
 Pied l with morning and with night. 
 Mountain tall and ocean deep 
 Trembling balance duly keep. 
 In changing moon, in tidal wave, 
 Glows the feud of Want and Have. 
 Gauge of more and less through space 
 Electric star and pencil plays. 
 The lonely Earth amid the balls 2 
 That hurry through the eternal halls, 3 
 A makeweight 4 flying to the void, 
 Supplemental asteroid, 
 Or compensatory spark, 
 Shoots across the neutral Dark. 
 
 1 Spotted. 2 Planets. 3 Space. 
 
 4 Something added to fill a deficiency. 
 
Man's the elm, and Wealth the vine, 
 Stanch and strong the tendrils twine : 
 Though the frail ringlets thee deceive, 
 None from its stock that vine can reave. 1 
 Fear not, then, thou child infirm, 
 There's no god dare wrong a worm. 
 Laurel crowns 2 cleave to deserts, 
 And power to him who power exerts ; 
 Hast not thy share ? On winged feet, 
 Lo ! it rushes thee to meet ; 
 And all that Nature made thy own, 
 Floating in air or pent 3 in stone, 
 Will rive 4 the hills and swim the sea, 
 And, like thy shadow, follow thee. 
 
 1 Take away. 
 
 2 Honors, from the custom of the ancient Greeks to use laurel crowns 
 mark of honor. 
 
 3 Confined. 4 Rend asunder. 
 
COMPENSATION. 
 
 EVER since I was a boy, I have wished to write a discourse 
 on Compensation : for it seemed to me when very young, 
 that on this subject life was ahead of theology, and the people 
 knew more than the preachers taught. The documents, 1 too, 
 from which the doctrine is to be drawn, charmed my fancy by 
 their endless variety, and lay always before me, even in sleep ; 
 for they are the tools in our hands, the bread in our basket, the 
 transactions of the street, the farm, and the dwelling house, 
 greetings, relations, debts and credits, the influence of character, 
 the nature and endowment of all men. It seemed to me, also, 
 that in it might be shown men a ray of divinity, the present 
 action of the soul of this world, clean from all vestige of tradi- 
 tion, and so the heart of man might be bathed by an inundation 
 of eternal love, conversing with that which he knows was always 
 and always must be, because it really is now. It appeared, more- 
 over, that if this doctrine could be stated in terms with any resem- 
 blance to those bright intuitions in which this truth is sometimes 
 revealed to us, it would be a star 2 in many dark hours and 
 crooked passages in our journey that would not suffer us to lose 
 our way. 
 
 I was lately confirmed in these desires by hearing a sermon at 
 church. The preacher, a man esteemed for his orthodoxy, un- 
 folded in the ordinary manner the doctrine of the Last Judg- 
 ment. He assumed, that judgment is not executed in this world ; 
 that the wicked are successful ; that the good are miserable ; and 
 then urged from reason and from Scripture a compensation to. 
 
 1 Data. A guiding star ; hence, guide. 
 
 85 
 
86 EMERSON. 
 
 be made to both parties in the next life. No offense appeared 
 to be taken by the congregation at this doctrine. As far as I 
 could observe, when the meeting broke up, they separated with- 
 out remark on the sermon. 
 
 Yet what was the import 1 of this teaching? What did the 
 preacher mean by saying that the good are miserable in the 
 present life? Was it that houses and lands, offices, wine, horses, 
 dress, luxury, are had 2 by unprincipled men, whilst the saints are 
 poor and despised ; and that a compensation is to be made to 
 these last hereafter, by giving them the like gratifications another 
 day, bank stock and doubloons, 3 venison and champagne? 
 This must be the compensation intended ; for what else ? Is it 
 that they are to have leave to pray and praise? to love and serve 
 men? Why, that they can do now. The legitimate inference 
 the disciple would draw was, " We are to have such a good 
 time as the sinners have now;" or, to push it to its extreme 
 import, " You sin now ; we shall sin by and by ; we would sin 
 now, if we could ; not being successful, we expect our revenge 
 to-morrow." 
 
 The fallacy lay in the immense concession, that the bad are 
 successful ; that justice is not done now. The blindness of the 
 preacher consisted in deferring 4 to the base estimate of the 
 market 5 of what constitutes a manly success, instead of confront- 
 ing and convicting the world from the truth ; announcing the 
 presence of the soul ; the omnipotence of the will : and so 
 establishing the standard of good and ill, of success and false- 
 hood. 
 
 I find a similar base tone in the popular religious works of the 
 day, and the same doctrines assumed by the literary men when 
 occasionally they treat the related topics. I think that our pop- 
 ular theology has gained in decorum, and not in principle, over 
 the superstitions it has displaced. But men are better than this 
 
 l Meaning. 2 Possessed. 
 
 3 Spanish and Portuguese coins worth about $15.60 each. 
 
 * Bowing to ; accepting. 5 Those engaged in commercial life. 
 
COMPENSATION. 7 
 
 theology. Their daily life gives it the lie. 1 Every ingenuous 
 and aspiring soul leaves the doctrine behind him in his own ex- 
 perience ; and all men feel sometimes the falsehood which they 
 cannot demonstrate. For men are wiser than they know. That 
 which they hear in schools and pulpits without afterthought, if 
 said in conversation, would probably be questioned in silence. 
 If a man dogmatize in a mixed company on Providence and the 
 divine laws, he is answered by a silence which conveys well 
 enough to an observer the dissatisfaction of the hearer, but his 
 incapacity to make his own statement. 
 
 I shall attempt to record some facts that indicate the path of 
 the law of Compensation ; happy beyond my expectation, if I 
 shall truly draw the smallest arc of this circle. 
 
 POLARITY, 2 or action and reaction, we meet in every part of 
 nature; in darkness and light; in heat and cold; in the ebb 
 and flow of waters ; in male and female ; in the inspiration and 
 expiration of plants and animals ; in the equation of quantity 
 and quality in the fluids of the animal body ; in the systole 3 and 
 diastole 4 of the heart ; in the undulations of fluids, and of sound ; 
 in the centrifugal 5 and centripetal 6 gravity; in electricity, gal- 
 vanism, and chemical affinity. Superinduce 7 magnetism at one 
 end of a needle ; the opposite magnetism takes place at the other 
 end. If the south attracts, the north repels. To empty here, 
 you must condense there. An inevitable dualism bisects nature, 
 so that each thing is a half, and suggests another thing to make 
 it whole t ; as, spirit, matter ; man, woman ; odd, even ; subjec- 
 tive, objective ; in, out ; upper, under ; motion, rest ; yea, nay. 
 
 Whilst the world is thus dual, so is every one of its parts. The 
 
 1 Proves it false. 2 See Note 3, p. 33. 
 
 3 Contraction of the heart and arteries. 
 
 4 Dilatation of the heart and arteries. 
 
 5 Tending to recede from the center. 
 
 6 Tending to move towards the center. 
 1 Develop. 
 
88 EMERSON. 
 
 entire system of things gets represented in every particle. There 
 is somewhat that resembles the ebb and flow of the sea, day and 
 night, man and woman, in a single needle of the pine, in a kernel 
 of corn, in each individual of every animal tribe. The reaction, 
 so grand in the elements, is repeated within these small bounda- 
 ries. For example, in the animal kingdom the physiologist has 
 observed that no creatures are favorites, but a certain compensa- 
 tion balances every gift and every defect. A surplusage 1 given 
 to one part is paid out of a reduction from another part of the 
 same creature. If the head and neck are enlarged, the trunk 
 and extremities are cut short. 
 
 The theory of the mechanic forces is another example. What 
 we gain in power is lost in time ; and the converse. The periodic 
 or compensating errors of the planets is another instance. The 
 influences of climate and soil in political history is another. 
 The cold climate invigorates. The barren soil does not breed 
 fevers, crocodiles, tigers, or scorpions. 
 
 The same dualism underlies the nature and condition of man. 
 Every excess causes a defect ; every defect an excess. Every 
 sweet hath its sour ; every evil its good. Every faculty which 
 is a receiver of pleasure has an equal penalty put on its abuse. 
 It is to answer for its moderation with its life. For every grain 
 of wit there is a grain of folly. For everything you have missed, 
 you have gained something else ; and for everything you gain, 
 you lose something. If riches increase, they are increased 2 that 
 use them. If the gatherer gathers too much, nature takes out 
 of the man what she puts into his chest, swells the estate, but 
 kills the owner. Nature hates monopolies and exceptions. The 
 waves of the sea do not more speedily seek a level from their 
 loftiest tossing, than the varieties of condition tend to equalize 
 themselves. There is always some leveling circumstance that 
 puts down the overbearing, the strong, the rich, the fortunate, 
 substantially on the same ground with all others. Is a man too 
 
 l Excess. 2 That is, their needs or wants are increased. 
 
COM PEN SA T20N. 89 
 
 strong and fierce for society, and by temper and position a bad 
 citizen, a morose ruffian, with a d^sh of the pirate in him? 
 nature sends him a troop of pretty sons and daughters, who arc 
 getting along in the dame's 1 classes at the village school, and 
 love and fear for them smooths his grim scowl to courtesy. Thus 
 she contrives to intenerate 2 zlv. granite and felspar, takes the 
 boar out and puts the lamb in, and keeps her balance true. 
 
 The farmer imagines power and place are fine things. But 
 the President has paid dear for his White House. 3 It has com- 
 monly cost him all his peace, and the best of his manly attri- 
 butes. To preserve fcr a short time so conspicuous an appear- 
 ance before the world, he is content to eat dust 4 before the real 
 masters who stand erect behind the throne. Or do men desire 
 the more substantial and permanent grandeur of genius ? Neither 
 has this an immunity. He who by force of will or of thought is 
 great, and overlooks 5 thousands, has the charges of that emi- 
 nence. With every influx of light comes new danger. Has he 
 light? he must bear witness to the light, and always outrun that 
 sympathy which gives him such keen satisfaction, by his fidelity 
 to new revelations of the incessant soul. He must hate father 
 and mother, wife and child. . Has he all that the world loves and 
 admires and covets? he must cast behind him their admiration, 
 and afflict them by faithfulness to his truth, and become a byword 
 and a hissing. 
 
 This law writes the laws of cities and nations. It is in vain 
 to build or plot or combine against it. Things refuse to be mis- 
 managed long. Res nolunt diu male administrari? Though no 
 checks to a new evil appear, the checks exist, and will appear. 
 If the government is cruel, the governor's life is not safe. If 
 you tax too high, the revenue will yield nothing. If you make 
 the criminal code sanguinary, juries will not convict. If the law 
 
 1 Schoolmistress. 2 Soften. 
 
 3 The official residence of the President in Washington. 
 * " Eat dust," i.e., humble himself. 5 Superintends. 
 
 6 The Latin rendering of the. sentence preceding* 
 
90 EMERSON. 
 
 is too mild, private vengeance comes in. If the government is 
 a terrific democracy, the pressure is resisted by an overcharge of 
 energy in the citizen, and life glows with a fiercer flame. The 
 true life and satisfactions of man seem to elude the utmost rigors 
 or felicities of condition, and to establish themselves with great 
 indifferency l under all varieties of circumstances. Under all 
 governments the influence of character remains the same, in 
 Turkey and in New England about alike. Under the primeval 
 despots of Egypt, history honestly confesses that man must have 
 been as free as culture could make him. 
 
 These appearances indicate the fact that the universe is repre- 
 sented in every one of its particles. Everything in nature con- 
 tains all the powers of nature. Everything is made of one 
 hidden stuff ; as the naturalist sees one type under every meta- 
 morphosis, and regards a horse as a running man, a fish as a 
 swimming man, a bird as a flying man, a tree as a rooted man. 
 Each new form repeats not only the main character of the type, 
 but part for part all the details, all the aims, furtherances, 2 hin- 
 drances, energies, and whole system of every other. Every oc- 
 cupation, trade, art, transaction, is a compend of the world, and 
 a correlative of every other. Each one is an entire emblem of 
 human life ; of its good and ill, its trials, its enemies, its course 
 and its end. And each one must somehow accommodate the 
 whole man, and recite all his destiny. 
 
 The world globes itself in a drop of dew. 3 The microscope 
 cannot find the animalcule 4 which is less perfect for being little. 
 Eyes, ears, taste, smell, motion, resistance, appetite, and organs 
 of reproduction that take hold on eternity, all find room to 
 consist in the small creature. So do we put our life into every 
 act. The true doctrine of omnipresence is, that God reappears 
 with all his parts in every moss and cobweb. The value of the 
 
 1 Impartiality. 2 Things which help its progress. 
 
 3 "The world," etc., i.e., the laws which make the world a globe give 
 the same shape to a drop of dew. 
 
 4 An animal so small as to be nearly or quite invisible to the naked eye. 
 
COMPENSATION. 91 
 
 universe contrives to throw itself into every point. If the good 
 is there, so is the evil ; if the affinity, so the repulsion ; if the 
 force, so the limitation. 
 
 Thus is the universe alive. All things are moral. That soul, 
 which within us is a sentiment, outside of us is a law. We feel 
 its inspiration ; out there in history we can see its fatal strength. 
 " It is in the world, and the world was made by it." Justice is 
 not postponed. A perfect equity adjusts its balance in all parts 
 of life. Oi Kv(3oi Ato^ del evniTTrovai, 1 The dice of God are 
 always loaded. 2 The world looks like a multiplication table, or 
 a mathematical equation, which, turn it how you will, balances 
 itself. Take what figure you will, its exact value, nor 3 more nor 
 less, still returns to you. Every secret is told, every crime is 
 punished, every virtue rewarded, every wrong redressed, in silence 
 and certainty. What we call retribution is the universal neces- 
 sity by which the whole appears wherever a part appears. If 
 you see smoke, there must be fire. If you see a hand or a limb, 
 you know that the trunk to which it belongs is there behind. 
 
 Every act rewards itself, or, in other words, integrates itself, in 
 a twofold manner ; first, in the thing, or in real nature ; and sec- 
 ondly, in the circumstance, or in apparent nature. Men call the 
 circumstance the retribution. The causal retribution is in the 
 thing, and is seen by the soul. The retribution in the circum- 
 stance is seen by the understanding ; it is inseparable from the 
 thing, but is often spread over a long time, and so does not be- 
 come distinct until after many years. The specific stripes 4 may 
 follow late after the offense, but they follow because they accom- 
 pany it. Crime and punishment grow out of one stem. Punish- 
 ment is a fruit that unsuspected ripens within the flower of the 
 pleasure which concealed it. Cause and effect, means and ends, 
 
 1 Hoi koo'boi Deeos at upiptoosee the Greek of the sentence which 
 follows. 
 
 2 " The dice," etc., i.e., God does not play a game of chance. 
 
 3 Neither. 
 
 4 Blows made with a lash ; hence, punishment. 
 
92 EMERSON. 
 
 seed and fruit, cannot be severed ; for the effect already blooms 
 in the cause, the end preexists in the means, the fruit in the 
 seed. 
 
 Whilst thus the world will be whole, and refuses to be dis- 
 parted, 1 we seek to act partially, to sunder, to appropriate ; for 
 example, to gratify the senses, we sever the pleasure of the 
 senses from the needs of the character. The ingenuity of man 
 has always been dedicated to the solution of one problem, 
 how to detach the sensual sweet, the sensual strong, the sensual 
 bright, etc., from the moral sweet, the moral deep, the moral 
 fair ; that is, again, to contrive to cut clean off this upper surface 
 so thin as to leave it bottomless ; to get a one end, without an 
 other et{d. The soul says, Eat; the body would feast. The 
 soul says, The man and woman shall be one flesh and one soul ; 
 the body would join the flesh only. The soul says, Have do- 
 minion over all things to the ends of virtue ; the body would have 
 the power oyer things to its own ends. 
 
 The soul strives amain 2 to live and work through all things. 
 It would be the only fact. All things shall be added unto it, 
 power, pleasure, knowledge, beauty. The particular man aims 
 to be somebody ; to set up for himself ; to truck and higgle for 
 a private good ; and, in particulars, to ride, that he may ride ; to 
 dress, that he may be dressed ; to eat, that he may eat ; and to 
 govern, that he may be seen. Men seek to be great ; they would 
 have offices, wealth, power, and fame. They think that to be 
 great is to possess one side of nature, the sweet, without the 
 other side, the bitter. 
 
 This dividing and detaching is steadily counteracted. Up to 
 this day, it must be owned, no projector has had the smallest suc- 
 cess. The parted water reunites behind our hand. Pleasure is 
 taken out of pleasant things, profit out of profitable things, power 
 out of strong things, as .soon as we seek to separate them from 
 the whole. We can no more halve things and get the sensual 
 
 1 Divided. 2 Vigorously. 
 
COMPENSA TION. 93 
 
 good, by itself, than we can get an inside that shall have no out- 
 side, or a light without a shadow. " Drive out nature with a 
 fork, she comes running back." 1 
 
 Life invests itself with inevitable conditions, which the unwise 
 seek to dodge, which one and another brags that he does not 
 know ; that they do not touch him ; but the brag is on his lips, 
 the conditions are in his soul. If he escapes them in one part, 
 they attack him in another more vital part. If he has escaped 
 them in form, and in the appearance, it is because he has resisted 
 his life, and fled from himself, and the retribution is so much 
 death. So signal is the failure of all attempts to make this sep- 
 aration of the good from the tax, that the experiment would not 
 be tried, since to try it is to be mad, but for the circum- 
 stance, that when the disease began in the will, of rebellion and 
 separation, the intellect is at once infected, so that the man 
 ceases to see God whole in each object, but is able to see the 
 sensual allurement of an object, and not see the sensual hurt ; he 
 sees the mermaid's 2 head, but not the dragon's tail; and thinks 
 he can cut off that which he would have, from that which he 
 would not have. "How secret art thou who dwellest in the 
 highest heavens in silence, O thou only great God, sprinkling 
 with an unwearied providence certain penal blindnesses upon 
 such as have unbridled desires ! " 3 
 
 The human soul is true to these facts in the painting of fable, 
 of history, of law, of proverbs, of conversation. It finds a tongue 
 in literature unawares. Thus the Greeks called Jupiter, 4 Supreme 
 'Mind; but having traditionally ascribed to him many base ac- 
 tions, they involuntarily made amends to reason, by tying up the 
 hands 5 of so bad a god. He is made as helpless as a king of 
 
 1 A proverb, quoted by Horace, the origin of which is lost in antiquity. 
 
 2 A fabled marine being, represented as having the upper part of the body 
 like a woman and the lower part like a fish, serpent, or dragon. 
 
 3 St. Augustine, Confessions, Book I. 
 
 4 Jupiter, Jove, or Zeus, the supreme god of the Greeks and Romans. 
 
 5 Limiting the power. 
 
94 EMERSON. 
 
 England. 1 Prometheus 2 knows one secret which Jove must bar- 
 gain for ; Minerva, 3 another. He cannot get his own thunders ; 
 Minerva keeps the key of them. 
 
 " Of all the gods, I only know the keys 
 That ope the solid doors within whose vaults 
 His thunders sleep." 
 
 A plain confession of the in-working of the All, and of its 
 moral aim. The Indian mythology ends in the same ethics ; 
 and it would seem impossible for any fable to be invented and 
 get any currency which was not moral. Aurora 4 forgot to ask 
 youth for her lover, and though Tithonus is immortal, he is old. 
 Achilles 5 is not quite invulnerable ; the sacred waters did not 
 wash the heel by which Thetis held him. Siegfried, 6 in the 
 
 1 Parliament has supreme power in England. 
 
 2 Prometheus, in Greek mythology the regenerator of mankind, used 
 knowledge as a weapon to defeat evil. He stole Jupiter's fire and taught 
 mortals how to use it. Jupiter punished him by chaining him to a rock 
 where he was tortured by an eagle. There was a prophecy afloat in heaven 
 portending the fall of Jupiter, and only Prometheus knew the secret of avert- 
 ing it. Jupiter offered him his freedom if he would reveal it. For a long 
 time he steadfastly refused, and endured untold tortures ; but at length, 
 according to some traditions, he revealed the secret that if Jupiter became 
 the father of a son by Thetis, that son would deprive him of his sovereignty. 
 Prometheus was thereupon set free. According to another story he never 
 divulged the secret, but was at length released by Hercules, who killed the 
 eagle. 
 
 3 Minerva, Athena, or Pallas, a goddess in Greek and Roman mythology, 
 who sprang full-armed from the head of her father Jupiter. She was the god- 
 dess of wisdom and of war, and sometimes wielded Jupiter's thunderbolts. 
 
 4 Aurora, Roman goddess of the dawn, became enamored of Tithonus, 
 son of Laomedon, King of Troy. She stole him away and persuaded Jupiter 
 to grant him immortality, but she forgot to have youth added to the gift, and 
 soon began to discern that he was growing old. She grew angry at this and 
 finally turned him into a grasshopper. 
 
 5 Achilles is the hero of the Iliad, Homer's great epic. His mother, 
 Thetis, dipped him in the river Styx to render him immortal. 
 
 6 The Nibelungenlied is the great epic poem of the old Germans, as the 
 
COMPENSA TION. 95 
 
 Nibelungen, is not quite immortal, for a leaf fell on his back 
 whilst he was bathing in the dragon's blood, and that spot which 
 it covered is mortal. And so it must be. There is a crack in 
 everything God has made. It would seem, there is always this 
 vindictive circumstance stealing in at unawares, even into the 
 wild poesy in which the human fancy attempted to make bold 
 holiday, and to shake itself free of the old laws, this back- 
 stroke, this kick of the gun, certifying that the law is fatal ; that 
 in nature nothing can be given, all things are sold. 
 
 This is that ancient doctrine of Nemesis, 1 who keeps watch in 
 the universe, and lets no offense go unchastised. The Furies, 2 
 they said, are attendants on justice, and if the sun in heaven 
 should transgress his path, they would punish him. The poets 
 related that stone walls, and iron swords, and leathern thongs had 
 an occult sympathy with the wrongs of their owners ; that the 
 belt which Ajax gave Hector dragged the Trojan hero over the 
 field at the wheels of the car of Achilles, and the sword which 
 Hector gave Ajax was that on whose point Ajax 3 fell. They 
 recorded, that when the Thasians erected a statue to Theagenes, 4 
 a victor in the games, one of his rivals went to it by night, and en- 
 deavored to throw it down by repeated blows, until at last he moved 
 it from its pedestal, and was crushed to death beneath its fall. 
 
 Iliad is of the ancient Greeks. Siegfried is the mythical hero of the former 
 as Achilles is of the latter story. 
 
 1 In Greek mythology, a goddess personifying moral reverence for law. 
 She visited the righteous anger of the gods upon the proud and insolent. 
 
 2 The Furies were three mythological deities, Alecto, Tisiphone, and 
 Megsera, who punished crimes by their secret stings. 
 
 3 Ajax and Hector are mythological heroes in the Trojan War as related 
 in the Iliad, the former a Greek and the latter a Trojan. After a personal 
 combat, they exchanged arms, and when subsequently Ajax committed sui- 
 cide, he used the sword which had been Hector's, and when Achilles killed 
 Hector, he used the belt which had belonged to Ajax to fasten the corpse to 
 his chariot or car. 
 
 4 See Pausanias's Description of Greece, Book VI., line n. Theagenes, 
 an inhabitant of Thasos, an island in the ./Egean Sea, was renowned for his 
 strength and swiftness and his numerous victories in athletic contests. 
 
96 EMERSON. 
 
 This voice of fable has in it somewhat divine. It came from 
 thought above the will of the writer. That is the best part of 
 each writer, which has nothing private in it ; that which he does 
 not know, that which flowed out of his constitution, and not 
 from his too active invention ; that which in the study of a single 
 artist you might not easily find, but in the study of many, you 
 would abstract as the spirit of them all. Phidias 1 it is not, but 
 the work of man in that early Hellenic 2 world, that I would 
 know. The name and circumstance of Phidias, however con- 
 venient for history, embarrass when we come to the highest crit- 
 icism. We are to see that which man was tending to do in a 
 given period, and was hindered, or, if you will, modified in doing, 
 by the. interfering volitions of Phidias, of Dante, 3 of Shakespeare, 4 
 the organ whereby man at the moment wrought. 
 
 Still more striking is the expression of this fact in the proverbs 
 of all nations, which are always the literature of reason, or the 
 statements of an absolute truth, without qualification. Proverbs, 
 like the sacred books of each nation, are the sanctuary of the in- 
 tuitions. That which the droning world, chained to appearances, 
 will not allow the realist to say in his own words, it will suffer 
 him to say in proverbs without contradiction. And this law of 
 laws which the pulpit, the senate, and the college deny, is hourly 
 preached in all markets and workshops by flights of proverbs, 
 whose teaching is as true and as omnipresent as that of birds 
 and flies. 
 
 All things are double, one against another. Tit for tat ; an 
 eye for an eye ; a tooth for a tooth ; blood for blood ; measure 
 for measure ; love for love. Give and it shall be given you. 
 He that watereth shall be watered himself. What will you have? 
 quoth God ; pay for it and take it. Nothing venture, nothing 
 have. Thou shalt be paid exactly for what thou hast done, no 
 more, no less. Who doth not work shall not eat. Harm 
 watch, harm catch. Curses always recoil on the head of him 
 
 l See Note 4, p. 76. 2 Greek. 3 See Note 6, p. 76. 
 
 4 See Note 3, p. 29. 
 
COMPENSA TION. 97 
 
 who imprecates them. If you put a chain around the neck of 
 a slave, the other end fastens itself around your own. Bad 
 counsel confounds the adviser. The Devil is an ass. 
 
 It is thus written, because it is thus in life. Our action is 
 overmastered and characterized above our will by the law of 
 nature. We aim at a petty end quite aside from the public good, 
 but our act arranges itself by irresistible magnetism in a line with 
 the poles of the world. 
 
 A man cannot speak, but he judges himself. With hia will, or 
 against his will, he draws his portrait to the eye of his compan- 
 ions by every word. Every opinion reacts on him who utters it. 
 It is a thread-ball 1 thrown at a mark, but the other end remains 
 in the thrower's bag. Or, rather, it is a harpoon hurled at the 
 whale, unwinding, as it flies, a coil of cord in the boat, and if 
 the harpoon is not good, or not well thrown, it will go nigh to 
 cut the steersman in twain, or to sink the boat. 
 
 You cannot do wrong without suffering wrong. " No man 
 had ever a point of pride that was not injurious to him," said 
 Burke. 2 The exclusive in fashionable life does not see that he 
 excludes himself from enjoyment, in the attempt to appropriate 
 it. The exclusionist in religion does not see that he shuts the 
 door of heaven on himself, in striving to shut out others. Treat 
 men as pawns 3 and ninepins, and you shall suffer as well as they. 
 If you leave out their heart, you shall lose your own. The senses 
 would make things of all persons ; of women, of children, of 
 the poor. The vulgar proverb, "I will get it from his purse or 
 get it from his skin," is sound philosophy. 
 
 All infractions of love and equity in our social relations are 
 speedily punished. They are punished by fear. Whilst I stand 
 
 1 A ball of thread. 
 
 2 Edmund Burke (1729-97), Irish statesman, orator, and political writer. 
 His best known works are his Speech on American Conciliation and Reflec- 
 tions on the French Revolution. 
 
 3 A piece of lowest rank in the game of chess ; hence, a mere figure to be 
 moved about at the will of another. 
 
9 8 EMERSON. 
 
 in simple relations to my fellow-man, I have no displeasure in 
 meeting him. We meet as water meets water, or as two currents 
 of air mix, with perfect diffusion and interpenetration l of nature. 
 But as soon as there is any departure from simplicity, and attempt 
 at halfness, or good for me that is not good for him, my neighbor 
 feels the wrong ; he shrinks from me as far as I have shrunk 
 from him ; his eyes no longer seek mine ; there is war between 
 us ; there is hate in him and fear in me. 
 
 All the old abuses in society, universal and particular, all un- 
 just accumulations of property and power, are avenged in the 
 same manner. Fear is an instructor of great sagacity, and the 
 herald of all revolutions. One thing he teaches, that there is 
 rottenness where he appears. He is a carrion crow, and though 
 you see not well what he hovers for, there is death somewhere. 
 Our property is timid, our laws are timid, our cultivated classes 
 are timid. Fear for ages has boded and mowed and gibbered 2 
 over government and property. That obscene 3 bird is not 
 there for nothing. He indicates great wrongs which must be 
 revised. 
 
 Of the like nature is that expectation of change which instantly 
 follows the suspension of our voluntary activity. The terror of 
 cloudless noon, the emerald of Polycrates, 4 the awe of prosper- 
 ity, the instinct which leads every generous soul to impose on 
 itself tasks of a noble asceticism and vicarious virtue, are the 
 tremblings of the balance of justice through the heart and mind 
 of man. 
 
 1 A penetrating between other substances. 
 
 2 " Fear," etc., i.e., fear has presaged evil, made faces, and spoken inco. 
 herently. 3 Ill-omened. 
 
 4 Polycrates, a celebrated Greek tyrant of Samos, had such unvarying 
 good fortune that he was counseled to cast from him that which he valued 
 most in order to allay the jealousy of the gods. Accordingly he threw into 
 the sea an emerald ring of extraordinary beauty ; but in a few days he 
 regained it from inside a fish presented to him by a fisherman. Soon after 
 this Polycrates' prosperity deserted him and he suffered an ignominious death 
 on the cross. 
 
COM PEN SA T10N. 99 
 
 Experienced men of the world know very well that it is best 
 to pay scot and lot l as they go along, and that a man often pays 
 dear for a small frugality. The borrower runs in his own debt. 
 Has a man gained anything who has received a hundred favors 
 and rendered none ? Has he gained by borrowing, through in- 
 dolence or cunning, his neighbor's wares, or horses, or money? 
 There arises on the deed the instant acknowledgment of benefit 
 on the one part, and of debt on the other ; that is, of superiority 
 and inferiority. The transaction remains in the memory of him- 
 self and his neighbor ; and every new transaction alters, accord- 
 ing to its nature, their relation to each other. He may soon 
 come to see that he had better have broken his own bones than 
 to have ridden in his neighbor's coach, and that " the highest 
 price he can pay for a thing is to ask for it." 
 
 A wise man will extend this lesson -to all parts of life, and 
 know that it is the part of prudence to face every claimant, and 
 pay every just demand on your time, your talents, or your heart. 
 Always pay ; for, first or last, you must pay your entire debt. Per- 
 sons and events may stand for a time between you and justice, 
 but it is only a postponement. You must pay at last your own 
 debt. If you are wise, you will dread a prosperity which only 
 loads you with more. Benefit is the end of nature. But for 
 every benefit which you receive, a tax is levied. He is great 
 who confers the most benefits. He is base and that is the 
 one base thing in the universe to receive favors and render 
 none. In the order of nature we cannot render benefits to those 
 from whom we receive them, or only seldom. But the benefit 
 we receive must be rendered again, line for line, deed for deed, 
 cent for cent, to somebody. Beware of too much good staying 
 in your hand. It will fast corrupt and worm 2 worms. Pay it 
 away quickly in some sort. 3 
 
 Labor is watched over by the same pitiless laws. Cheapest, 
 
 1 Scot and lot, formerly a parish assessment laid on subjects according to 
 their ability. 
 
 2 Beget, 3 Manner. 
 
ioo EMERSON. 
 
 say the prudent, is the dearest labor. What we buy in a broom, 
 a mat, a wagon, a knife, is some application of good sense to a 
 common want. It is best to pay in your land a skillful gardener, 
 or to buy good sense applied to gardening ; in your sailor, good 
 sense applied to navigation ; in the house, good sense applied 
 to cooking, sewing, serving ; in your agent, good sense applied 
 to accounts and affairs. So do you multiply your presence, or 
 spread yourself throughout your estate. But because of the dual 
 constitution of things, in labor as in life there can be no cheat- 
 ing. The thief steals from himself. The swindler swindles him- 
 self. For the real price of labor is knowledge and virtue, whereof 
 wealth and credit are signs. These signs, like paper money, may 
 be counterfeited or stolen, but that which they represent, namely, 
 knowledge and virtue, cannot be counterfeited or stolen. These 
 ends of labor cannot be answered but by real exertions of the 
 mind, and in obedience to pure motives. The cheat, the de- 
 faulter, the gambler, cannot extort the knowledge of material and 
 moral nature which his honest care and pains yield to the opera- 
 tive. The law of nature is, Do the thing, and you shall have the 
 power : but they who do not the thing have not the power. 
 
 Human labor, through all its forms, from the sharpening of a 
 stake to the construction of a city or an epic, is one immense 
 illustration of the perfect compensation of the universe. The 
 absolute balance of Give and Take, the doctrine that everything 
 has its price, and if that price is not paid, not that thing but 
 something else is obtained, and that it is impossible to get any- 
 thing without its price, is not less sublime in the columns of a 
 leger than in the budgets of states, in the laws of light and dark- 
 ness, in all the action and reaction of nature. I cannot doubt 
 that the high laws which each man sees implicated in those pro- 
 cesses with which he is conversant, the stern ethics which sparkle 
 on his chisel edge, which are measured out by his plumb and 
 foot rule, which stand as manifest in the footing of the shop bill 
 as in the history of a state, do recommend to him his trade, 
 and though seldom named, exalt his business to his imagination. 
 
COM PENS A TION. I o I 
 
 The league between virtue and nature engages all things to 
 assume a hostile front to vice. The beautiful laws and sub- 
 stances of the world persecute and whip the traitor. He finds 
 that things are arranged for truth and benefit, but there is no den 
 in the wide world to hide a rogue. Commit a crime, and the 
 earth is made of glass. 1 Commit a crime, and it seems as if a 
 coat of snow fell on the ground, such as reveals in the woods 
 the track of every partridge and fox and squirre 1 and mole. You 
 cannot recall the spoken word, you cannot Wipe cut the foot- 
 track, you cannot draw up the ladder; so as to leave r,tf 'inlet* Or 
 clew. Some damning circumstance al ways "transpires*-' The la'wS 
 and substances of nature water, snow, wind, gravitation 
 become penalties to the thief. 
 
 On the other hand, the law holds with equal sureness for all 
 right action. Love, and you shall be loved. All love is mathe- 
 matically just, as much as the two sides of an algebraic equation. 
 The good man has absolute good, which like fire turns every- 
 thing to its own nature, so that you cannot do him any harm ; 
 but as the royal armies sent against Napoleon, 2 when he ap- 
 proached, cast down their colors and from enemies became 
 friends, so disasters of all kinds, as sickness, offense, poverty, 
 prove benefactors : 
 
 "Winds blow and waters roll 
 Strength to the brave, and power and deity, 
 Yet in themselves are nothing." 
 
 The good are befriended even by weakness and defect. As 
 no man had ever a point of pride that was not injurious to him, 
 so no man had ever a defect that was not somewhere made useful 
 
 1 There is no place where you can hide ; every spot will be transparent. 
 
 2 Napoleon Bonaparte (1769-1821), Emperor of France. For many 
 years he was one of the most successful generals the world has ever seen, 
 and he seemed destined to conquer the whole of Europe, but was finally 
 defeated at Waterloo by the English and Prussians, and exiled to St. Helena, 
 where he died. 
 
102 EMERSON. 
 
 to him. The stag in the fable 1 admired his horns and blamed 
 his feet, but when the hunter came, his feet saved him, and after- 
 wards, caught in the thicket, his horns destroyed him. Every 
 man in his lifetime needs to thank his faults. As no man thor- 
 oughly understands a truth until he has contended against it, so 
 no man has a thorough acquaintance with the hindrances or 
 talents of men, until he has suffered from the one, and seen the 
 tiianvph of 'the other, o/er his own want of the same. Has he a 
 defect of temper; that unfits him to live in society ? Thereby he 
 is -driven : to ;fcr.tertaia himself alone, and acquire habits of self- 
 help ; and thus, like the wounded oyster, he mends his shell with 
 pearl. 
 
 Our strength grows out of our weakness. The indignation 
 which arms itself with secret forces does not awaken until we 
 are pricked and stung and sorely assailed. A great man is 
 always willing to be little. Whilst he sits on the cushion of 
 advantages, he 1 goes to sleep. When he is pushed, tormented, 
 defeated, he has a chance to learn something ; he has been put 
 on his wits, on his manhood ; he has gained facts ; learns his 
 ignorance ; is cured of the insanity of conceit ; has got modera- 
 tion and real skill. The wise man throws himself on the side of 
 his assailants. It is more his interest than it is theirs to find his 
 weak point. The wound cicatrizes 2 and falls off from him like 
 a dead skin, and when they would triumph, lo! he has passed 
 on invulnerable. Blame is safer than praise. I hate to be de- 
 fended in a newspaper. As long as all that is said is said against 
 me, I feel a certain assurance of success. But as soon as 
 honeyed words of praise are spoken for me, I feel as one that 
 lies unprotected before his enemies. In general, every evil to 
 which we do not succumb is a benefactor. As the Sandwich 
 Islander believes that the strength and valor of the enemy he 
 kills passes into himself, so we gain the strength of the tempta- 
 tion we resist. 
 
 1 One of ^sop's fables. 
 
 2 Heals by forming a skin over dead flesh. 
 
COMPENSATION. 103 
 
 The same guards which protect us from disaster, defect, and 
 enmity, defend us, if we will, from selfishness and fraud. Bolts 
 and bars are not the best of our institutions, nor is shrewdness 
 in trade a mark of wisdom. Men suffer all their life long, under 
 the foolish superstition that they can be cheated. But it is as 
 impossible for a man to be cheated by any one but himself, as 
 for a thing to be and not to be at the same time. There is a 
 third silent party to all our bargains. The nature and soul of 
 things takes on itself the guaranty of the fulfillment of every con- 
 tract, so that honest service cannot come to loss. If you serve 
 an ungrateful master, serve him the more. Put God in your 
 debt. Every stroke shall be repaid. The longer the payment 
 is withholden, 1 the better for you; for compound interest on 
 compound interest is the rate and usage of this exchequer. 2 
 
 The history of persecution is a history of endeavors to cheat 
 nature, to make water run up hill, to twist a rope of sand. It 
 makes no difference whether the actors be many or one, a tyrant 
 or a mob. A mob is a society of bodies voluntarily bereaving 
 themselves of reason, and traversing its work. The mob is man 
 voluntarily descending to the nature of the beast. Its fit hour 
 of activity is night. Its actions are insane like its whole consti- 
 tution. It persecutes a principle ; it would whip a right ; it 
 would tar and feather justice, by inflicting .fire and outrage 
 upon the houses and persons of those who have these. It re- 
 sembles the prank of boys, who run with fire engines to put 
 out the ruddy aurora streaming to the stars. The inviolate 
 spirit turns their spite against the wrongdoers. The martyr 
 cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of 
 fame ; every prison, a more illustrious abode ; every burned 
 book or house enlightens the world; every suppressed or ex- 
 punged word reverberates through the earth from side to side. 
 Hours of sanity and consideration are always arriving to com- 
 munities, as to individuals, when the truth is seen, and the mar- 
 tyrs are justified. 
 
 i Old form of " withheld." 2 Treasury. 
 
104 EMERSON. 
 
 Thus do all things preach the indifferency of circumstances. 
 The man is all. Everything has two sides, a good and an evil. 
 Every advantage has its tax. I learn to be content. But the 
 doctrine of compensation is not the doctrine of indifferency. The 
 thoughtless say, on hearing these representations, What boots 1 
 it to do well? there is one event to good and evil ; if I gain any 
 good, I must pay for it; if I lose any good, I gain some other; 
 all actions are indifferent. 
 
 There is a deeper fact in the soul than compensation, to wit, 
 its own nature. The soul is not a compensation, but a life. 
 The soul is. Under all this running sea of circumstance, whose 
 waters ebb and flow with perfect balance, lies the aboriginal 2 
 abyss of real Being. Essence, or God, is not a relation, or a 
 part, but the whole. Being is the vast affirmative, excluding 
 negation, self-balanced, and swallowing up all relations, parts, 
 and times within itself. Nature, truth, virtue, are the influx from 
 thence. Vice is the absence or departure of the same. Nothing, 
 Falsehood, may indeed stand as the great Night or shade, on 
 which, as a background, the living universe paints itself forth, but 
 no fact is begotten by it ; it cannot work ; for it is not. It can- 
 not work any good ; it cannot work any harm. It is harm inas- 
 much as it is worse not to be than to be. 
 
 We feel defrauded of the retribution due to evil acts, because 
 the criminal adheres to his vice and contumacy, and does not 
 come to a crisis or judgment anywhere in visible nature. There 
 is no stunning confutation of his nonsense before men and angels. 
 Has he therefore outwitted the law? Inasmuch as he carries 
 the malignity and the lie with him, he so far deceases from 
 nature. In some manner there will be a demonstration of the 
 wrong to the understanding also ; but should we not see it, this 
 deadly deduction makes square the eternal account. 
 
 Neither can it be said, on the other hand, that the gain of 
 rectitude must be bought by any loss. There is no penalty to 
 virtue ; no penalty to wisdom ; they are proper additions of 
 i Profits. 2 See Note 2, p. 63. 
 
COM PENS A TION. I o 5 
 
 being. In a virtuo js action, I properly am; in a virtuous act, I add 
 to the world; I plant into deserts conquered from Chaos and 
 Nothing, and see the darkness receding on the limits of the hori- 
 zon. There can be no excess to love ; none to knowledge ; none 
 to beauty, when these attributes are considered in the purest 
 sense. The soul refuses limits, and always affirms an Optimism, 1 
 never a Pessimism. 
 
 His life is a progress, and not a station. His instinct is trust. 
 Our instinct uses " more " and " less " in application to man, of 
 the presence of the soul, and not of its absence ; the brave man 
 is greater than the coward ; the true, the benevolent, the wise, is 
 more a man, and not less, than the fool and knave. There is no 
 tax on the good of virtue ; for that is the incoming of God him- 
 self, or absolute existence without any comparative. Material 
 good has its tax, and if it came without desert or sweat, has no 
 root in me, and the next wind will blow it away. But all the 
 good of nature is the soul's, and may be had, if paid for in nature's 
 lawful coin, that is, by labor which the heart and the head allow. 
 I no longer wish to meet 2 a good I do not earn, for example, to 
 find a pot of buried gold, knowing that it brings with it new 
 burdens. I do not wish more external goods, neither posses- 
 sions, nor honors, nor powers, nor persons. The gain is appar- 
 ent ; the tax is certain. But there is no tax on the knowledge 
 that the compensation exists, and that it is not desirable to dig 
 up treasure. Herein I rejoice with a serene eternal peace. I 
 contract the boundaries of possible mischief. I learn the wisdom 
 of St. Bernard, 3 " Nothing can work me damage except my- 
 self ; the harm that I sustain I carry about with me, and never 
 am a real sufferer but by my own fault." 
 
 In the nature of the soul is the compensation for the inequali- 
 
 1 The doctrine that everything in nature is ordered for the best. Pessi- 
 mism is the reverse. 
 
 2 To receive, or have bestowed on me. 
 
 3 St. Bernard of Clairvaux, France (1091-1153), one of the most influen- 
 tial theologians of the middle ages. 
 
io6 EMERSON. 
 
 ties of condition. The radical tragedy of nature seems to be the 
 distinction of More and Less. How can Less not feel the pain ; 
 how not feel indignation or malevolence towards More? Look 
 at those who have less faculty, and one feels sad, and knows not 
 well what to make of it. He almost shuns their eye ; he fears 
 they will upbraid God. What should they do? It seems a 
 great injustice. But see the facts nearly, and these mountainous 
 inequalities vanish. Love reduces them, as the sun melts the 
 iceberg in the sea. The heart and soul of all men being one, 
 this bitterness of His and Mine ceases. His is mine. I am my 
 brother, and my brother is me. If I feel overshadowed and out- 
 done by great neighbors, I can yet love ; I can still receive ; and 
 he that loveth maketh his own the grandeur he loves. Thereby 
 I make the discovery that my brother is my guardian, acting for 
 me with the friendliest designs, and the estate I so admired and 
 envied is my own. It is the nature of the soul to appropriate all 
 things. Jesus and Shakespeare are fragments of the soul, and by 
 love I conquer and incorporate them in my own conscious do- 
 main. His virtue, is not that mine? His wit, if it cannot 
 be made mine, it is not wit. 
 
 Such, also, is the natural history of calamity. The changes 
 which break up at short intervals the prosperity of men are ad- 
 vertisements of a nature whose law is growth. Every soul is by 
 this intrinsic necessity quitting its whole system of things, its 
 friends, and home, and laws, and faith, as the shellfish crawls out 
 of its beautiful but stony case, because it no longer admits of its 
 growth, and slowly forms a new house. In proportion to the 
 vigor of the individual, these revolutions are frequent, until in 
 some happier mind they are incessant, and all worldly relations 
 hang very loosely about him, becoming, as it were, a transparent 
 fluid membrane through which the living form is seen, and not, 
 as in most men, an indurated 1 heterogeneous 2 fabric of many 
 dates, and of no settled character, in which the man is imprisoned. 
 Then there can be enlargement, and the man of to-day scarcely 
 
 1 Hardened. 2 Composed of differing things. 
 
COMPENSA TION. I o 7 
 
 recognizes the man of yesterday. And such should be the out- 
 ward biography of man in time, a putting off of dead circum- 
 stances day by day, as he renews his raiment day by day. But 
 to us, in our lapsed estate, resting, not advancing, resisting, not 
 cooperating with the divine expansion, this growth comes by 
 shocks. 
 
 We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angels 
 go. We do not see that they only go out, that archangels may 
 come in. We are idolaters of the old. We do not believe in 
 the riches of the soul, in its proper eternity and omnipresence. 
 We do not believe there is any force in to-day to rival or recre- 
 ate 1 that beautiful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of the old 
 tent, where once we had bread and shelter and organs, nor believe 
 that the spirit can feed, cover, and nerve us again. We cannot 
 again find aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. But we sit and 
 weep in vain. The voice of the Almighty saith, " Up and on- 
 ward f orevermore ! " We cannot stay amid the ruins. Neither 
 will we rely on the new ; and so we walk ever with reverted eyes, 
 like those monsters who look backwards. 
 
 And yet the compensations of calamity are made apparent to 
 the understanding also, after long intervals of time. A fever, 
 a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss of wealth, a loss of 
 friends, seems at the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable. But 
 the sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all 
 facts. The death of a dear friend, wife, brother, lover, which 
 seemed nothing but privation, somewhat later assumes the aspect 
 of a guide or genius ; for it commonly operates revolutions in 
 our way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of youth which 
 was waiting to be closed, breaks up a wonted 2 occupation, or a 
 household, or style of living, and allows the formation of new 
 ones more friendly to the growth of character. It permits or 
 constrains the formation of new acquaintances, and the reception 
 of new influences that prove of the first importance to the next 
 years ; and the man or woman who would have remained a 
 
 1 Create again. 2 Customary. 
 
108 EMERSON. 
 
 sunny garden flower, with no room for its roots and too much 
 sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and the neglect 
 of the gardener, is made the banian 1 of the forest, yielding shade 
 and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men. 
 
 1 Banyan, an East Indian tree of the mulberry family. Aerial roots 
 descending from the branches become fixed in the ground, and thicken into 
 supports or pillars. Thus the branches spread over an immense area, and a 
 single tree has the appearance of a whole grove. 
 
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