* 
 
*. 
 
 University of California Berkeley 
 
THE 
 
 , 
 
 k 
 
 SKETc BOOK 
 
 OF 
 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 
 
 " I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere 
 spectator of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how they play 
 their parts ; which methinks are diversely presented unto me, as from 
 a common theatre or scene." 
 
 BURTON. 
 
 
 Honbon : 
 
 JOHN MILLER, BURLINGTON ARCADE. 
 
 1820. 
 

ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following desultory papers are 
 part of a series written in this country, 
 but published in America. The author 
 is aware of the austerity with which the 
 writings of his countrymen have hitherto 
 been treated by British critics : he is con 
 scious, too, that much of the contents of 
 his papers can be interesting only in the 
 eyes of American readers. It was not 
 his intention, therefore, to have them re 
 printed in this country. He has, how 
 ever, observed several of them from time 
 to time inserted in periodical works of 
 merit, and has understood that it was 
 probable they would be republished in a 
 
 
 037 
 
VI 
 
 collective form. He has been induced, 
 therefore, to revise and bring them for 
 ward himself, that they may at least come 
 correctly before the public. Should they 
 be deemed of sufficient importance to 
 attract the attention of critics, he solicits 
 for them that courtesy and candour 
 which a stranger has some right to claim, 
 who presents himself at the threshold of 
 a hospitable nation. 
 
 February, 1820. 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Author's account of himself *<#... 1 
 
 The Voyage -. 9 
 
 Roscoe 23 
 
 The Wife 37 
 
 Rip Van Winkle 53 
 
 English Writers on America 95 
 
 Rural Life in England 117 
 
 The Broken Heart ! 135 
 
 The Art of Book Making 149 
 
 A Royal Poet 167 
 
 The Country Church *199 
 
 The Widow and her Son '. 213 
 
 The Boar's Head Tavern 231 
 
 The Mutability of Literature 259 
 
 Rural Funerals , 285 
 
 The Inn Kitchen 313 
 
 The Spectre Bridegroom 32 L 
 
THE 
 
 AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT 
 
 OF 
 
 HIMSELF. 
 
 ' I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her 
 shel was turned eftsoones into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to 
 sit on ; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short time 
 transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion 
 with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would." 
 
 Lyly's Eupheut. 
 
 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 obser 
 vations. My holiday afternoons were spent in 
 
THE AUTHOR'S 
 
 rambles about the surrounding country. I 
 made myself familiar with all its places fa 
 mous in history or fable. I knew every spot 
 where a murder or robbery had been com 
 mitted, or a ghost seen. I visited the neigh 
 bouring villages, and added greatly to my 
 stock of knowledge, by noting their habits 
 and customs, and conversing with their sages 
 and great men. I even journeyed one long 
 summer's day to the summit of the most dis 
 tant hill, from whence I stretched my eye over 
 many a mile of terra incognita, and was asto 
 nished to find how vast a globe I inhabited. 
 
 This rambling propensity strengthened with 
 my years. Books of voyages and travels be 
 came my passion, and in devouring their con 
 tents, I neglected the regular exercises of the 
 school. How wistfully would I wander about 
 the pier heads in fine weather, and watch the 
 parting ships bound to distant climes ; with 
 what longing eyes would I gaze after their 
 lessening sails, and waft myself in imagination 
 to the ends of the earth. 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 3 
 
 Farther reading and thinking, though they 
 brought this vague inclination into more rea 
 sonable 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 moun 
 tains, 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 trackless 
 forests, where vegetation puts forth all its 
 magnificence; her skies, kindling with the 
 magic of summer clouds and glorious sun 
 shine : no, never need an American look be 
 yond his own country for the sublime and 
 beautiful of natural scenery. 
 
 But Europe held forth all the charms of sto- 
 B 2 
 
THE AUTHOR'S 
 
 ried and poetical association. There were to be 
 
 seen the masterpieces of art, the refinements of 
 
 \ 
 
 highly cultivated society, the quaint peculia 
 rities of ancient and local custom. My native 
 country was full of youthful promise ; Europe 
 was rich in the accumulated treasures of age. 
 Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, 
 and every mouldering stone was a chronicle. 
 I longed to wander over the scenes of renowned 
 achievement to tread, as it were, in the foot 
 steps of antiquity to loiter about the ruined 
 castle to meditate on the falling tower to 
 escape, in short, from the commonplace reali 
 ties 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, parti- 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. / 
 
 cularly 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 Eu 
 rope, 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 com 
 parative importance and swelling magnitude 
 of many English travellers among us, who, I 
 was assured, were very little people in their 
 own country. I will visit this land of won 
 ders, thought I, and see the gigantic race from 
 which I am degenerated. 
 
 It has been either my good or evil lot to 
 have my roving passion gratified. I have wan 
 dered through different countries, and wit 
 nessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I 
 cannot say that I have studied them with the 
 eye of a philosopher, but rather with the saun 
 tering gaze with which humble lovers of the 
 picturesque stroll from the window of one print 
 shop to another; caught sometimes by the 
 
8 THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT, &c. 
 
 delineations of beauty, sometimes by the dis 
 tortions of caricature, and sometimes by the 
 loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion 
 for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, 
 and bring home their port folios filled with 
 sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the 
 entertainment of my friends. When I look 
 over, however, the hints and memorandums I 
 have taken down for the purpose, my heart 
 almost fails me at finding how my idle humour 
 has led me aside from the great objects 
 studied by every regular traveller who would 
 make a book. I fear I shall give equal disap 
 pointment with an unlucky landscape painter, 
 who had travelled on the continent, but fol 
 lowing the bent of his vagrant inclination, had 
 sketched in nooks, and corners, and bye-places. 
 His sketch book was accordingly crowded with 
 cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins ; 
 but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's, or the 
 Coliseum ; the cascade of Terni, or the bay of 
 Naples ; and had not a single glacier or vol 
 cano 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, 
 
 What's your end and aim. 
 One goes abroad for merchandize 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 prepa 
 rative. The temporary absence of worldly 
 scenes and employments produces a state of 
 mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid 
 impressions. The vast space of waters that 
 separates the hemispheres is like a blank page 
 in existence. There is no gradual transition 
 by which, as in Europe, the features and popu 
 lation of one country blend almost impercep- 
 
10 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 tibly with those of another. From the mo 
 ment 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 bus 
 tle and novelties of another world. 
 
 In travelling by land there is a continuity of 
 scene, and a connected succession of persons 
 and incidents, that carry on the story of life, 
 and lessen the effect of absence and separa 
 tion. We drag, % it is true, " a lengthening 
 chain" 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 con 
 scious of being cast loose from the secure an 
 chorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a 
 doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not 
 merely imaginary, but real, between us and 
 our homes a gulf subject to tempest, and 
 fear, and uncertainty, that makes distance 
 palpable, and return precarious. 
 
 Such, at least, was the case with myself. As 
 
THE VOYAGE. 11 
 
 I saw the last blue line of my native land fade 
 away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as 
 if I had closed one volume of the world and 
 its concerns, and had time for meditation, be 
 fore I opened another. That land, too, now 
 vanishing from my view, which contained all 
 that was most dear to me in life; what vicissi 
 tudes might occur in it what changes might 
 take place in me, before I should visit it again. 
 Who can tell when he sets forth to wander, 
 whither he may be driven by the uncertain 
 currents of existence ; or when he may return ; 
 or whether it may ever be his lot to revisit the 
 scenes of his childhood ? 
 
 I said that at sea all is vacancy : I should 
 correct the expression. To one given to day 
 dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reve 
 ries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for medi 
 tation ; but then they are the wonders of the 
 deep, and of the air, and rather tend to ab 
 stract the mind from worldly themes. I de 
 lighted to loll over the quarter railing, or 
 climb to the main top, of a calm day, and 
 
12 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom 
 of a summer's sea. To gaze upon the piles 
 of golden clouds just peering above the hori 
 zon, fancy them some fairy realms, and peo 
 ple them with a creation of my own. To 
 watch the gently undulating billows, rolling 
 their silver volumes, as if to die away on those 
 happy shores. 
 
 There was a delicious sensation of mingled 
 security and awe with which I looked down, 
 from my giddy height, on the monsters of the 
 deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of por 
 poises tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the 
 grampus slowly heaving his huge form above 
 the surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting, like 
 a spectre, through the blue waters. My ima 
 gination would conjure up all that I had heard 
 or read of the watery world beneath me ; of 
 the finny herds that roam its fathomless val 
 leys ; 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. 
 
THE VOYAGE. 13 
 
 Sometimes a distant sail,, gliding along the 
 edge of the ocean, would be another theme of 
 idle speculation. How interesting this frag 
 ment 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 earth into communion; has established an 
 interchange of blessings, pouring into the ste 
 rile regions of the north all the luxuries of the 
 south ; has diffused the light of knowledge, and 
 the charities of cultivated life ; and has thus 
 bound together those scattered portions of the 
 human race, between which nature seemed 
 to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 
 
 We one day descried some shapeless object 
 drifting at a distance. At sea, every thing 
 that breaks the monotony of the surrounding 
 expanse, attracts attention. It proved to be the, 
 mast of a ship that must have been completely 
 wrecked ; for there were the remains of hand 
 kerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fast 
 ened themselves to this spar, to prevent their 
 
14 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 being washed off by the waves. There was no 
 trace by which the name of the ship could be 
 ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted 
 about for many months ; clusters of shell fish 
 had fastened about it, and long sea- weeds 
 flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, 
 is the crew ? Their struggle has long been over 
 they have gone down amidst the roar of the 
 tempest their bones lie whitening among the 
 caverns of the deep. Silence oblivion, like 
 the waves, have closed over them, and no one 
 can tell the story of their endr 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 mo 
 ther, 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 VOYAGE. 15 
 
 The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise 
 to many dismal anecdotes. This was particu 
 larly 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 summer 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 dis 
 aster, I was particularly struck with a short 
 one related by the captain. 
 
 " As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine 
 stout ship, across the banks of Newfoundland, 
 one of those heavy fogs that prevail in those 
 parts rendered it impossible for us to see far 
 ahead, even in the day time; but at night the 
 weather was so thick that we could not dis 
 tinguish any object at twice the length of the 
 ship. I kept lights at the mast head, and a 
 constant watch forward to look out for fishing 
 smacks, whiqh are accustomed to lie at anchor 
 on the banks. The wind was blowing a smack- 
 
16 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 ing breeze, and we were going at a great rate 
 through the water. Suddenly the watch gave 
 the alarm of " a sail ahead !" it was scarcely 
 uttered, before we were upon her. She was a 
 small schooner, at anchor, with the broadside 
 toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had 
 neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just 
 a-mid-ships. The force, the size, and weight 
 of our vessel bore her down below the waves ; 
 we passed over her, and were hurried on our 
 course. As the crashing wreck was sinking 
 beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three 
 half-naked wretches, rushing from her cabin ; 
 they just started from their beds to be swal 
 lowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their 
 drowning cry mingling with the wind. The 
 blast that bore it to our ears, swept us out of 
 all farther hearing. I shall never forget that 
 cry ! It was some time before we could put the 
 ship about, she was under such headway. We 
 returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the 
 place where the smack had anchored. We 
 cruised about for several hours in the dense 
 
THE VOYAGE. 17 
 
 fog. We fired signal guns, and listened if we 
 might hear the halloo of any survivors; but 
 all was silent we never saw or heard any 
 thing of them more !" 
 
 I confess these stories, for a time, put an end 
 to all my fine fancies. The storm increased 
 with the night. The sea was lashed into tre 
 mendous confusion. There was a fearful, sul 
 len sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. 
 Deep called unto deep. At times the black 
 volume of clouds over head seemed rent asun 
 der by flashes of lightning that quivered along 
 the foaming billows, and made the succeeding 
 darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bel 
 lowed over the wild waste of waters, and 
 were echoed and prolonged by the moun 
 tain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and 
 plunging among these roaring caverns, it 
 seemed miraculous that she regained her ba 
 lance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards 
 would dip into the water; her bow was almost 
 buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an im 
 pending surge appeared ready to overwhelm 
 
18 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 her, and nothing but a dextrous movement of 
 the helm preserved her from the shock. 
 
 When I retired to my cabin the awful scene 
 still followed me. The whistling of the wind 
 through the rigging sounded like funereal wail- 
 ings. The creaking of the masts, the straining 
 and groaning of bulk heads, as the ship la 
 boured 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 
 favouring breeze, soon put all these dismal re 
 flections 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 
 
THE VOYAGE. 19 
 
 reveries of a sea voyage, for with me it is al 
 most a continual reverie but it is time to get 
 to shore. 
 
 It was a fine sunny morning when the thrill 
 ing cry of "land!" was given from the mast 
 head. None but those who have experienced 
 it, can form an idea of the delicious throng of 
 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 
 every thing 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 Mersey, 
 I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. 
 My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, 
 with their trim shrubberies and green grass 
 
 c 
 
20 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey 
 overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a 
 village church rising from the brow of a 
 neighbouring hill all were characteristic of 
 England. 
 
 The tide and wind were so favourable, that 
 the ship was enabled to come at once to the 
 pier. It was thronged with people ; some idle 
 lookers-on, others eager expectants of friends 
 or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant 
 to whom the ship was consigned. I knew him 
 by his calculating brow and restless air. His 
 hands were thrust into his pockets ; he was 
 whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro? 
 a small space having been accorded him by 
 the crowd, in deference to his temporary im 
 portance. There were repeated cheerings and 
 salutations interchanged between the shore and 
 the ship, as friends happened to recognize each 
 other. I particularly'noticed one young woman 
 of humble dress, but interesting demean 
 our. She was leaning forward from among 
 the crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it 
 
THE VOYAGE. 21 
 
 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 illess 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. 
 
 All now was hurry and bustle. The meet 
 ings of acquaintances the greetings of friends 
 c2 
 
22 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 the consultations of men of business. I 
 alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend 
 to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped 
 upon the land of my forefathers but felt that 
 I was a stranger in the land. 
 
ROSCOE. 
 
 In the service of mankind to be 
 A guardian god below ; still to employ 
 The mind's brave ardour in heroic aims, 
 Such as may raise us o'er the groveling herd, 
 And make us shine for ever that is life. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 ONE of the first places to which a stranger 
 is taken in Liverpool., is the Athenaeum. It is 
 established on a liberal and judicious plan; 
 contains a good library, and spacious reading 
 room, and is the great literary resort of the 
 place. Go there at what hour you may, you 
 are sure to find it filled with grave looking 
 personages, deeply absorbed in the study of 
 newspapers. 
 
 As I was once visiting this haunt of the 
 learned, my attention was attracted to a person 
 just entering the room. He was advanced in 
 
24 ROSCOE. 
 
 life, tall, and of a form that might once have 
 been commanding, but it was a little bowed 
 by time perhaps by care, He had a noble 
 Roman style of countenance; a head that 
 would have pleased a painter; and though 
 some slight furrows on his brow showed that 
 wasting thought had been busy there, yet his 
 eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. 
 There was something in his whole appearance 
 that indicated a being of a different order from 
 the bustling race around him. 
 
 I inquired his name, and was informed that 
 it was ROSCOE. I drew back with an involun 
 tary feeling of veneration. This, then, was an 
 author of celebrity ; this was one of those men, 
 whose voices have gone forth to the ends of 
 the earth; with whose minds I have com 
 muned even in the solitudes of America. Ac 
 customed, as we are in our country, to know 
 European writers only by their works, we can- x 
 not conceive of them, as of other men, en 
 grossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and 
 jostling with the crowd of common minds in 
 
ROSCOE. 25 
 
 the dusty paths of life. They pass before our 
 imaginations like superior beings, radiant with 
 the emanations of their own genius, and sur 
 rounded by a halo of literary glory. 
 
 To find, therefore, the elegant historian of 
 the Medici, mingling among the busy sons of 
 traffick, at first shocked my poetical ideas; but 
 it is from the very circumstances and situation 
 in which he has been placed, that Mr. Roscoe 
 derives his highest claims to admiration. It 
 is interesting to notice how some minds seem 
 almost to create themselves ; springing up 
 under every disadvantage, and working their 
 solitary but irresistible way through a thou 
 sand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in 
 disappointing the assiduities of art, with which 
 it would rear legitimate dulness to maturity ; 
 and to glory in the vigour and luxuriance of 
 her chance productions. She scatters the seeds 
 of genius to the winds, and though some may 
 perish among the stony places of the world, 
 and some be choked by the thorns and bram 
 bles of early adversity, yet others will now and 
 
26 ROSCOE. 
 
 then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, 
 struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread 
 over their steril birth-place all the beauties of 
 vegetation. 
 
 Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. 
 Born in a place apparently ungenial to the 
 growth of literary talent ; in the very market 
 place of trade ; without fortune, family con 
 nections, or patronage ; self prompted, self 
 sustained, and almost self taught, he has con 
 quered every obstacle, achieved his way to 
 eminence, and, having become one of the orna 
 ments of the nation, has turned the whole 
 force of his talents and influence to advance 
 and embellish his native town. 
 
 Indeed, it is this last trait in his character 
 which has given him the greatest interest in my 
 eyes, and induced me particularly to point him 
 out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his 
 literary merits, he is but one among the many 
 distinguished authors of this intellectual na 
 tion. They, however, in general, live but for 
 their own fame, or their own pleasures. Their 
 
ROSCOE. 27 
 
 private history presents no lesson to the world, 
 or, perhaps., a humiliating one of human frailty 
 and inconsistency. At best, they are prone 
 to steal away from the bustle and commonplace 
 of busy existence ; to indulge in the selfishness 
 of lettered ease ; and to revel in scenes of men 
 tal, but exclusive, enjoyment. 
 
 Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed 
 none of the accorded privileges of talent. He 
 has shut himself up in no garden of thought, 
 nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth into 
 the highways and thoroughfares of life ; he has 
 planted bowers by the way side, for the refresh 
 ment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, and has 
 opened pure fountains, where the labouring 
 man may turn aside from the dust and heat 
 of the day, and drink of the living streams of 
 knowledge. There is a " daily beauty in his 
 life," on which mankind may meditate and 
 grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost 
 useless, because inimitable, example of excel 
 lence; but presents a picture of active, yet 
 simple and imitable virtues, which are within 
 
28 ROSCOE. 
 
 every man's reach, but which not many exer 
 cise, or this world would be a paradise. 
 
 But his private life is peculiarly worthy the 
 attention of the citizens of our young and busy 
 country, where literature and the elegant arts 
 must grow up side by side with the coarser 
 plants of daily necessity; and must depend for 
 their culture, not on the exclusive devotion of 
 time and wealth, nor the quickening rays of 
 titled patronage, but on hours and seasons 
 snatched from the pursuit of worldly inter 
 ests, by intelligent and public spirited indivi 
 duals. 
 
 He has snown how much may be done for a 
 place in hours of leisure, by one master spirit, 
 and how completely it can give its own impress 
 to surrounding objects. Like his own Loren 
 zo De Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed 
 his eye, as on a pure model of antiquity, he 
 has interwoven the history of his life with the 
 history of his native town, and has made the 
 foundations of its fame the monuments of his 
 virtues. Wherever you go, in Liverpool, 
 
ROSCOE. 29 
 
 you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that 
 is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of 
 wealth flowing merely in the channels of traf- 
 fick ; he has diverted from it invigorating rills 
 to refresh the gardens of literature. By his 
 own example and constant exertions, he has 
 effected that union of commerce and the intel 
 lectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended 
 in one of his latest writings;* and has practi 
 cally proved how beautifully they may be 
 brought to harmonize, and to benefit each 
 other. The noble institutions for literary and 
 scientific purposes, which reflect such credit 
 on Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse 
 to the public mind, have mostly been originat 
 ed, and have all been effectively promoted, by 
 Mr. Roscoe ; arjd when we consider the rapidly 
 increasing opulence and magnitude of that 
 town, which promises to vie in commercial 
 importance with the metropolis ; it will be per 
 ceived that in awakening an ambition of men- 
 
 * Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 
 
30 ROSCOE. 
 
 tal improvement among its inhabitants, he has 
 effected a great benefit to the cause of British 
 literature. 
 
 In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as 
 the author in Liverpool he is spoken of as the 
 banker ; and I was told of his having been un 
 fortunate in business. I could not pity him, 
 as I heard some rich men do. I considered him 
 far above the reach of my pity. Those who 
 live only for the world, and in the world, may 
 be cast down by the frowns of adversity ; but 
 a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by 
 the mutations of fortune. They do but drive 
 him in upon the resources of his own mind ; to 
 the superior society of his own thoughts ; which 
 the best of men are apt sometimes to neglect, 
 and to roam abroad in search of less worthy 
 associates. He is independent of the world 
 around him . He lives with antiquity and with 
 posterity : with antiquity, in the sweet com 
 munion of studious retirement ; and with pos 
 terity, in the generous aspirings after future 
 renown. The solitude of such a mind, is its 
 
ROSCOE. 31 
 
 state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited 
 by those elevated meditations which are the 
 proper aliment of noble souls, and are like 
 manna, sent from heaven, in the wilderness 
 of this world. 
 
 While my feelings were yet alive on the sub 
 ject, it was my fortune to light oh farther traces 
 of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with a gentle 
 man, to view the environs of Liverpool, when 
 he turned off, through a gate, into some orna 
 mented grounds. After riding a short distance, 
 we came to a spacious mansion of freestone, 
 built in the Grecian style. It was not in the 
 purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and 
 the situation was delightful.. A fine lawn 
 sloped away from it, studded with clumps of 
 trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile 
 country into a variety of landscapes. The 
 Mersey was seen winding a broad quiet sheet 
 of water though an expanse of green meadow 
 land, while the Welsh mountains, blending 
 with clouds, and melting into distance, bor 
 dered the horizon. 
 
32 ROSCOE. 
 
 This was Roscoe's favourite residence during 
 the days of his prosperity. It had been the seat 
 of elegant hospitality and literary retirement. 
 The house was now silent and deserted. I saw 
 the windows of the study, which looked out 
 upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The 
 windows were closed the library was gone. 
 Two or three ill-favoured beings were loitering 
 about the place, whom my fancy pictured into 
 retainers of the law. It was like visiting some 
 classic fountain, that had once welled its pure 
 waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry 
 and dusty, with the lizard and the toad brood 
 ing over the shattered marbles. 
 
 I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's 
 library, which had consisted of scarce and 
 foreign books, from many of which he had 
 drawn the materials for his Italian histories. 
 It had passed under the hammer of the auc 
 tioneer, and was dispersed about the country. 
 The good people of the vicinity thronged like 
 wreckers to get some part of the noble vessel 
 that had been driven on shore. Did such 
 
ROSCOE. 33 
 
 a scene admit of ludicrous associations, we 
 might imagine something whimsical in this 
 strange irruption into the regions of learning. 
 Pigmies rummaging the armoury of a giant, 
 and contending for the possession of weapons 
 which they could not wield. We might pic 
 ture to ourselves some knot of speculators, 
 debating with calculating brow over the quaint 
 binding and illuminated margin of an obso 
 lete author ; or the air of intense, but baffled, 
 sagacity with which some successful purchaser 
 attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain 
 he had secured. 
 
 It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. 
 Roscoe's misfortunes, and one which cannot fail 
 to interest the studious mind, that the parting 
 with his books seems to have touched upon his 
 tenderest feelings, and to have been the only 
 circumstance that could provoke the notice of 
 his muse. The scholar only knows how dear 
 these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure 
 thoughts and innocent hours, become in the 
 season of adversity. When all that is worldly, 
 
34 ROSCOE. 
 
 turns to dross around us, these only retain 
 their steady value. When friends grow cold, 
 and the converse of intimates languishes into 
 vapid civility and common-place, these only 
 continue the unaltered countenance of happier 
 days, and cheer us with that true friendship 
 which never deceived hope, nor deserted 
 sorrow. 
 
 I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the 
 people of Liverpool had been properly sensible 
 of what was due to Mr. Roscoe and to them 
 selves, his library would never have been sold. 
 Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given 
 for the circumstance, which it would be diffi 
 cult to combat with others that might seem 
 merely fanciful ; but it certainly appears to me 
 such an opportunity as seldom occurs, of cheer 
 ing a noble mind struggling under misfortunes, 
 by one of the most delicate, but most expres 
 sive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, 
 however, to estimate a man of genius properly, 
 who is daily before our eyes. He becomes 
 mingled and confounded with other men. His 
 
ROSCOE. 35 
 
 great qualities lose their novelty, and we ^ be 
 come too familiar with the common materials 
 which form the basis even of the loftiest charac 
 ter. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may 
 regard him merely as a man of business ; 
 others as a politician ; all find him engaged 
 like themselves in ordinary occupations, and 
 surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some 
 points of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable 
 and unostentatious simplicity of character, 
 which gives the nameless grace to real excel 
 lence, may cause him to be undervalued by 
 some coarse minds, who do not know that 
 true worth is always void of glare and pre 
 tension. But the man of letters who speaks 
 of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of 
 Roscoe. The intelligent traveller who visits 
 it inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. He 
 is the literary land-mark of the place, indi 
 cating its existence to the distant scholar. 
 He is like Pompey's column at Alexandria, 
 towering alone in classic dignity. 
 
36 ROSCOE. 
 
 The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. 
 Roscoe to his books on parting with them, is 
 alluded to in the preceding article. If any 
 thing can add effect to the pure feeling and 
 elevated thought here displayed/ it is the con 
 viction, that the whole is no effusion of fancy, 
 but a faithful transcript from the writer's 
 heart : 
 
 TO MY BOOKS. 
 
 As one, who, destined from his friends to part, 
 Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
 To share their converse, and enjoy their smile, 
 
 And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart ; 
 
 Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 
 
 Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
 My tedious hours, and lighten every toil ; 
 
 I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 
 
 For pass a few rfiort years, or days, or hours, 
 
 And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
 
 And all your sacred fellowship restore ; 
 When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
 
 Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
 And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 
 
THE WIFE. 
 
 The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
 As are the concealed comforts of a man 
 Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air 
 Of blessings, when I come but near the huse. 
 What a delicious breath marriage sends forth. . . 
 The violet bed's not sweeter. 
 
 MlDDLETON. 
 
 I HAVE often had occasion to remark the for 
 titude with which women sustain the most over 
 whelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters 
 which break down the spirit of a man, and 
 prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all 
 the energies of the softer sex, and give such in 
 trepidity and elevation to their character, that 
 at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing 
 can be more touching than to behold a soft and 
 tender female, who had been all weakness and 
 dependence, and alive to every trivial rough- 
 D 2 
 
38 THE WIFE 
 
 ness while treading the prosperous paths of life, 
 suddenly rising in mental force, to be the 
 comforter and supporter of her husband under 
 misfortune,, and abiding, with unshrinking 
 firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. 
 
 As the vine which has long twined its grace 
 ful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by 
 it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is 
 rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with 
 its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shat 
 tered boughs ; so is it beautifully ordered by 
 Providence, that woman, who is the mere de 
 pendant and ornament of man in his happier 
 hours, should be his stay and solace when 
 smitten with sudden calamity ; winding her 
 self into the rugged recesses of his nature, 
 tenderly supporting the drooping head, and 
 binding up the broken heart. 
 
 I was once congratulating a friend, who had 
 around him a blooming family, knit together 
 in the strongest affection. " I can wish you no 
 better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than to 
 have a wife and children. If you are prosper- 
 
THE WIFE. 39 
 
 ous, there they are to share your prosperity ; 
 if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." 
 And; indeed, I have observed that a married 
 man falling into misfortune, is more apt to 
 retrieve his situation in the world than a sin 
 gle one ; partly because he is more stimulated 
 to exertion by the necessities of the helpless 
 and beloved beings who depend upon him for 
 subsistence; but chiefly because his spirits 
 are soothed and relieved by domestic endear 
 ments, and his self respect kept alive by find 
 ing, that though all abroad is darkness and 
 humiliation, yet there is still a little world of 
 love at home, of which he is the monarch. 
 Whereas a single man is apt to run to waste 
 and self neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and 
 abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like 
 some deserted mansion, for want of an in ha 
 bitant. 
 
 These observations call to mind a little do 
 mestic story, of which I was once a witness. 
 My intimate friend Leslie had married a 
 beautiful and accomplished girl, who had 
 
40 THE WIFE. 
 
 been brought up in the midst of fashionable 
 life. She had, it is true, no fortune,, but that 
 of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in 
 the anticipation of indulging her in every ele 
 gant pursuit, and administering to those deli 
 cate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of 
 witchery about the sex. " Her life/' said he, 
 " shall be like a fairy tale." 
 
 The very difference in their characters pro 
 duced an harmonious combination : he was of 
 a romantic and somewhat serious cast ; she 
 was all life and gladness. I have often noticed 
 the mute rapture with whicli he would gaze 
 upon her in company, of which her sprightly 
 powers made her the delight ; and how, in the 
 midst of applause, her eye would still turn to 
 him, as if there alone she sought favour and 
 acceptance. When leaning on his arm her 
 slender form contrasted finely with his tall, 
 manly person. The fond confiding air with 
 which she looked up to him, seemed to call 
 forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherish 
 ing tenderness, as if he doated on his lovely 
 
THE WIFE. 41 
 
 burthen for its very helplessness. Never did a 
 couple set forward on the flowery path of 
 early and well-suited marriage with a fairer 
 prospect of felicity. 
 
 It was the mishap of my friend, however, 
 to have embarked his fortune in large specu 
 lations; and he had not been married many 
 months, when, by a succession of sudden dis 
 asters, it was swept from him, and he found 
 himself reduced almost to penury. For a time 
 he kept his situation to himself, and went about 
 with a haggard countenance, and a breaking 
 heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; 
 and what rendered it more insupportable was 
 the necessity of keeping up a smile in the pre 
 sence of his wife ; for he could not bring him 
 self to overwhelm her with the news. She 
 saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, 
 that all was not well with him. She marked 
 his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not 
 to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts 
 at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly 
 powers and tender blandishments to win him 
 
42 THE WIFE. 
 
 back to happiness ; but' she only drove the ar 
 row deeper into his soul. The more he saw 
 cause to love her, the more torturing was the 
 thought that he was soon to make her wretch 
 ed. A little while, thought he, and the smile 
 will vanish from that cheek the song will die 
 away from those lips the lustre of those eyes 
 will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy 
 heart which now beats lightly in that bosom 
 will be weighed down, like mine, by the cares 
 and miseries of the world. 
 
 At length he came to me one day and rela 
 ted his whole situation in a tone of the deepest 
 despair. When I had heard him through, I 
 inquired, " does your wife know all this ?" At 
 the question he burst into an agony of tears. 
 " For God's sake !" cried he, " if you have any 
 pity on me, don't mention my wife ; it is the 
 thought of her that drives me almost to mad 
 ness !" 
 
 " And why not ?" said I. " She must know 
 it sooner or later : you cannot keep it long from 
 her, and the intelligence may break upon her 
 
THE WIFE. 43 
 
 in a more startling manner, than if imparted 
 by yourself; for the accents of those we love 
 soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are 
 depriving yourself of the comforts of her sym 
 pathy ; and not merely that, but also endan 
 gering the only bond that can keep hearts to 
 gether an unreserved community of thought 
 and feeling. She will soon perceive that some 
 thing is secretly preying upon your mind ; 
 and true love will not brook reserve : it feels 
 undervalued and outraged, when even the sor 
 rows of those it loves are concealed from it." 
 
 " Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow 
 I am to give to all her future prospects how I 
 am to strike her very soul to the earth, by 
 telling her that her husband is a beggar! that 
 she is to forego all the elegancies of life all 
 the pleasures of society .to shrink with me 
 into indigence and obscurity ! To tell her that 
 I have dragged her down from the sphere in 
 which she might have continued to move in 
 constant brightness the light of every eye 
 
 the admiration of every heart! How can 
 
 she bear poverty? she has been brought up in 
 
44 THE WIFE. 
 
 all the refinements of opulence. How can she 
 bear neglect ? she has been the idol of society. 
 Oh, it will break her heart it will break her 
 heart!" 
 
 I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it 
 have its flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by 
 words. When his paroxym had subsided, and 
 he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed 
 the subject gently, and urged him to break his 
 situation at once to his wife. He shook his 
 head mournfully, but positively. 
 
 " But how are you to keep it from her ? It 
 is necessary she should know it, that you may 
 take the steps proper to the alteration of your 
 circumstances. You must change your style 
 
 of living nay," observing a pang to pass 
 
 across his countenance, " don't let that afflict 
 you. I am sure you have never placed your 
 happiness in outward show you have yet 
 friends, warm friends, who will not think the 
 worse of you for being less splendidly lodged : 
 and surely it does not require a palace to be 
 happy with Mary " 
 
 " I could be happy with her," cried he con- 
 
THE WIFE. 45 
 
 vulsively, "in a hovel! I could go down with 
 her into poverty and the dust ! I could I 
 
 could God bless her ! God bless her !" 
 
 cried he., bursting into a transport of grief and 
 tenderness. 
 
 " And believe me, my friend/' said I, step 
 ping up, and grasping him warmly by the 
 hand, " believe me, she can be the same with 
 you. Aye, more: it will be a source of pride 
 and triumph to her it will call forth all the 
 latent energies and fervent sympathies of her 
 nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she 
 loves you for yourself. There is in every true 
 woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which 
 lies dormant in the broad daylight of prospe 
 rity ; but which kindles up, and beams and 
 blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man 
 knows what the wife of his bosom is HO man 
 knows what a ministering angel she is until 
 he has gone with her through the fiery trials 
 of this world." 
 
 There was something in the earnestness of 
 my manner, and the figurative style of my Ian- 
 
46 THE WIFE. 
 
 guage, that caught the excited imagination of 
 Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; 
 and following up the impression I had made, 
 I finished by persuading him to go home and 
 unburden his sad heart to his wife. 
 
 I must confess, notwithstanding all I had 
 said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. 
 Who can calculate on the fortitude of one 
 whose whole life has been a round of plea 
 sures r Her gay spirits might revolt at the 
 dark downward path of low humility sud 
 denly pointed out before her, and might cling 
 to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto 
 revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is 
 accompanied by so many galling mortifications, 
 to which, in other ranks, it is a stranger. In 
 short, I could not meet Leslie the next morn 
 ing without trepidation. He had made the 
 disclosure. 
 
 " And how did she bear it ?" 
 
 " Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be 
 a relief to her mind, for she threw her arms 
 round my neck, and asked if this was all that 
 
THE WIFE. 47 
 
 had lately made me unhappy. But, poor 
 girl/' added he,, "she cannot realize the change 
 we must undergo. She has no idea of po 
 verty but in the abstract : she has only read 
 of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She 
 feels as yet no privation : she suffers no loss 
 of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. 
 When we come practically to experience 
 its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty 
 humiliations then will be the real trial." 
 
 "But," said I, " now that you have got 
 over the severest task, that of breaking it to 
 her, the sooner you let the world into the 
 secret the better. The disclosure may be mor 
 tifying; but then it is a single misery, and 
 soon over ; whereas you otherwise suffer it, in 
 anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not 
 poverty so much as pretence, that harasses 
 a ruined man the struggle between a proud 
 mind and an empty purse the keeping up a 
 hollow show that must soon come to an end. 
 Have the courage to appear poor, and you dis 
 arm poverty of its sharpest sting." On this 
 
48 THE WIFE. 
 
 point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He 
 had no false pride himself, and as to his 
 wife, she was only anxious to conform to their 
 altered fortunes. 
 
 Some days afterwards he called upon me 
 in the evening. He had disposed of his dwel 
 ling-house, and taken a small cottage in the 
 country, a few miles from town. He had been 
 busied all day in sending out furniture. The 
 new establishment required few articles, and 
 those of the simplest kind. All the splendid 
 furniture of his late residence had been sold, 
 excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was 
 too closely associated with the idea of her 
 self; it belonged to the little story of their 
 loves ; for some of the sweetest moments of 
 their courtship were those when he had leaned 
 over that instrument, and listened to the melt 
 ing tones of her voice. I could not but smile 
 at this instance of romantic gallantry in a 
 doating husband. 
 
 He was now going out to the cottage, where 
 his wife had been all day superintending its ar- 
 
THE WIFE. 49 
 
 rangement. My feelings had become strongly 
 interested in the progress of this family story, 
 and as it was a fine evening, I offered to ac 
 company him. 
 
 He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, 
 and as we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy 
 musing. 
 
 " Poor Mary !" at length broke, with a 
 heavy sigh, from his lips. 
 
 " And what of her," asked I, " has any 
 thing happened to her ?" 
 
 " What," said he, darting an impatient 
 glance, " is it nothing to be reduced to this 
 paltry situation to be caged in a miserable 
 cottage to be obliged to toil almost in the 
 menial concerns of her wretched habitation?" 
 
 " Has she then repined at the change?" 
 
 " Repined ! she has been nothing but sweet 
 ness and good humour. Indeed, she seems in 
 better spirits than I have ever known her; she 
 has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
 comfort !" 
 
 " Admirable girl !" exclaimed I. " You call 
 
50 THE WIFE. 
 
 yourself poor, my friend ; you never were so 
 rich you never knew the boundless treasures 
 of excellence you possessed in that woman." 
 
 " Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting 
 at the cottage were over, I think I could then 
 be comfortable. But this is her first day of 
 real experience : she has been introduced into 
 a humble dwelling she has been employed all 
 day in arranging its miserable equipments- 
 she has, for the first time, known the fatigues 
 of domestic employment she has, for the first 
 time, looked around her on a home destitute of 
 every thing elegant, almost of every thing- 
 convenient ; and may now be sitting down, 
 exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a 
 prospect of future poverty." 
 
 There was a degree of probability in this 
 picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked 
 on in silence. 
 
 After turning from the main road up a nar 
 row lane, so thickly shaded by forest trees as 
 to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came 
 in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough 
 
THE WIFE. 51 
 
 in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; 
 and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild 
 vine had overrun one end with a profusion of 
 foliage; a few trees threw their branches 
 gracefully over it; and I observed several 
 pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the 
 door, and on the grass plot in front. A small 
 wicket gate opened upon a footpath that 
 wound through some shrubbery to the door. 
 Just as we approached, we heard the sound of 
 music Leslie grasped my arm; we paused 
 and listened. It was Mary's voice singing, 
 in a style of the most touching simplicity, a 
 little air of which her husband was peculiarly 
 fond. 
 
 I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He 
 stepped forward to hear more distinctly. His 
 step made a noise on the gravel walk. A 
 bright beautiful face glanced out at the win 
 dow and vanished a light footstep was heard 
 and Mary came tripping forth to meet us : 
 She was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a 
 few wild flowers were twisted in her fine 
 
52 THE WIFE. 
 
 ir^ a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her 
 whole countenance beamed with smiles 1 
 had never seen her look so lovely. 
 
 " My dear George," cried she, " I am sa 
 glad you are come ! I have been watching and 
 watching for you ; and running down the 
 lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a 
 table under a beautiful tree behind the cot 
 tage; and I've been gathering some of the 
 most delicious strawberries, for I know you 
 are fond of them and we have such excel 
 lent cream and every thing is so sweet and 
 still here Oh !" said she, putting her arm 
 within his, and looking up brightly in his 
 face, " Oh, we shall be so happy !" 
 
 Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her 
 to his boson* he folded his arms round her 
 he kissed her again and again he could 
 not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ? 
 and he has often assured me that though the 
 world has since gone prosperously with him, 
 and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, 
 yet never has he experienced a moment of 
 such unutterable felicity. 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 E 2 
 
[The following tale was found among the papers 
 of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman 
 of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch 
 history of the province, and the manners of the de 
 scendants from its primitive settlers. His historical re 
 searches, however, did not lie so much among books> 
 as among men ; for the former are lamentably scanty 
 on his favourite topics ; whereas he found the old 
 burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that le 
 gendary lore, so invaluable to true history. When 
 ever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch 
 family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farm house, 
 under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a 
 little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it 
 with the zeal of a bookworm, 
 
 The result of all these researches was a history of 
 the province, during the reign of the Dutch govern 
 ors, which he published some years since. There 
 have been various opinions as to the literary cha 
 racter of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a 
 whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its 
 scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little 
 questioned, on its first appearance, but has since 
 been completely established ; and it is now admitted 
 into all historical collections, as a book of unques 
 tionable authority. 
 
 The old gentleman died shortly after the publica 
 tion of his work, and now that he is dead and gone, 
 
it cannot do much harm to his memory to say, that 
 his time might have been much better employed in 
 weightier labours. He, however, was apt to ride his 
 hobby his own way ; and though it did now and then 
 kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neigh 
 bours, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for 
 whom he felt the truest deference and affection ; yet 
 his errors and follies are remembered " more in sor 
 row than in anger," and it begins to be suspected, 
 that he never intended to injure or offend. But how 
 ever his memory may be appreciated by critics, it 
 is still held dear among many folk, whose good opi 
 nion is well worth having ; particularly certain bis 
 cuit bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his 
 likeness on their new year cakes, and have thus 
 given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to 
 the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a 
 Queen Anne's farthing.] 
 
f^L _j3s-' XiflK* _-' : ^ 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE, 
 
 A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDR1CH KNICKERBOCKER. 
 
 By Woden, God of Saxons, 
 
 From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 
 
 Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 
 
 Unto thylke day in which I creep into 
 
 My sepulchre 
 
 CartwrigHt, 
 
 WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hud- 
 son, must remember the Kaatskill mountains^ 
 They are a dismembered branch of the great 
 Appalachian family, and are seen away to the 
 west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, 
 and lording it over the surrounding country. 
 Every change of season, every change of wea 
 ther, indeed every hour of the day, produces 
 some change in the magical hues and shapes 
 of these mountains, and they are regarded by 
 
58 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 all the good wives, far and near, as perfect 
 barometers. When the weather is fair and 
 settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, 
 and print their bold outlines on the clear 
 evening sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of 
 the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a 
 hood of grey vapours 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 
 
 A-*, j? v 
 ** v, Jr j ' . . - - - - * ? '**""*'-- 
 
 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 upland melt away into the fresh 
 green of the nearer landscape. It is a little 
 village of great antiquity, having been founded 
 by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early 
 times of the province, just about the begin 
 ning of. the government of the good Peter 
 Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace !) and there 
 were some of the houses of the original set 
 tlers standing within a few years, built of 
 small yellow bricks brought from Holland, 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 59 
 
 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 coun 
 try was yet a province of Great Britain, a 
 simple good natured fellow, of the name of 
 Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of 
 the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in 
 the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and 
 accompanied him to the siege of Fort Chris 
 tina. He inherited, however, but little of the 
 martial character of his ancestors. I have 
 observed that he was a simple, good natured 
 man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbour, 
 and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, 
 to the latter circumstance might be owing 
 that meekness of spirit which gained him such 
 universal popularity; for those men are most 
 apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, 
 who are under the discipline of shrews at 
 home. Their tempers, doubtless, are ren- 
 
60 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 dered pliant and malleable in the fiery fur 
 nace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain 
 lecture is worth all the sermons in the world 
 for teaching the virtues of patience and long- 
 suffering. A termagant wife may therefore, 
 in some respects, be considered a tolerable 
 blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was 
 thrice blessed. 
 
 Certain it is, that he was a great favourite 
 among all the good wives of the village, who, 
 as usual with the amiable sex, took his part 
 in all family squabbles ; and never failed, 
 whenever they talked those matters over in 
 their evening gossippings, to lay all the blame 
 
 on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the 
 
 f 
 
 village, too, would shout with joy when 
 ever he approached. He assisted at their 
 
 , 
 
 sports, made their play things, 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, hang 
 ing on his slqrts, clambering on his back, and 
 
ttlP VAN WINKLE. 61 
 
 playing a thousand tricks on him with impu 
 nity; and not a dog would bark at him 
 throughout the neighbourhood. 
 
 The great error in Rip's composition was an 
 insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable 
 labour. It could not be from the want of assi 
 duity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a 
 wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a 
 Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a mur 
 mur, even though he should not be encou 
 raged by a single nibble. He would carry a 
 fowling piece on his shoulder, for hours toge 
 ther, 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 neighbour even in the rough 
 est toil, and was a foremost man at all coun 
 try frolicks for husking Indian corn, or build 
 ing 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 
 
62 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 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 was the most pestilent little 
 piece of ground in the whole country ; every 
 thing about it went wrong, and would go 
 wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continu 
 ally falling to pieces ; his cow would either go 
 astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds 
 were sure to grow quicker in his fields than 
 any where else ; the rain always made a point 
 of setting in just as he had some out-door 
 work to do ; so that though his patrimonial 
 estate had dwindled away under his manage 
 ment, acre by acre, until there was little 
 more left than a mere patch of Indian corn 
 and potatoes, yet it was the worst condi 
 tioned farm in the neighbourhood. : m 
 
 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 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 63 
 
 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, 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, which ever can be got 
 with least thought or trouble, and would 
 rather starve on a penny than work for a 
 pound. If left to himself, he would have 
 whistled life away, in perfect contentment; but 
 his wife kept continually dinning in his ears 
 about his idleness, his carelessness, and the 
 ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, 
 noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly 
 going, and every thing he said or did was sure 
 to produce a torrent of household eloquence. 
 Rip had but one way of replying to all lec 
 tures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, 
 had grown into a habit. He shrugged his 
 shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes. 
 
64 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 but said nothing. This, however, always pro 
 voked a fresh volley from his wife ; so that he 
 was fain to draw off his forces, and take to 
 the outside of the house the only side which, 
 in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. 
 
 Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog 
 Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his 
 master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them 
 as companions in idleness, and even looked 
 upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of 
 his master's going so often astray. True it is, 
 in all points of spirit befitting an honorable 
 dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever 
 
 scoured the woods but SWiat courage can 
 
 i 
 withstand the ever-during and all-besetting 
 
 terrors of a woman's tongue? 'The moment 
 Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail 
 drooped to the ground or curled between his 
 legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, 
 casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van 
 Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broom 
 stick or ladle, he would fly to the door with 
 yelping precipitation. 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 65 
 
 Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van 
 Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on ; a 
 tart temper never mellows with age, and a 
 sharp tongue is the only edge tool that grows 
 keener with constant use. For a long while 
 he used to console himself, when driven from 
 home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club 
 of the sages, philosophers, and other idle per 
 sonages of the village ; which held its sessions 
 on a bench before a small inn, designated by a 
 rubicund portrait of his majesty George the 
 Third. Here they used to sit in the shade, of 
 a long lazy summer's day, talk listlessly over 
 village gossip, or tell endless sleepy stories 
 about nothing. But it would have been 
 worth any statesman's money to have heard 
 the profound discussions that sometimes took 
 place, when by chance an old newspaper fell 
 into their hands, from some passing traveller. 
 How solemnly they would listen to the con 
 tents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bum- 
 mel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little 
 man, who was not to be daunted by the most 
 
66 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 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 Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of 
 the village, and landlord of the inn, at the 
 door of which he took his seat from morning 
 till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the 
 sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree ; 
 so that the neighbours could tell the hour by 
 his movements as accurately as by a sun dial. 
 It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but 
 smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, 
 however, (for every great man has his ad 
 herents,) perfectly understood him, and knew 
 how to gather his opinions. When any thing 
 that was read or related displeased him, he 
 was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, 
 and 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 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 67 
 
 the pipe from his mouth, and letting- the fra 
 grant vapour curl about his nose, would gravely 
 nod his head in token of perfect approbation. 
 
 From even this strong hold the unlucky Rip 
 was at length routed by his termagant wife, 
 who would suddenly break in upon the tran 
 quillity of the assemblage and call the mem 
 bers all to naught; nor was that august person 
 age, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the 
 daring tongue of this terrible virago, who 
 charged him outright with encouraging her 
 husband in habits of idleness. 
 
 Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to de 
 spair; and his only alternative to escape from 
 the labour of the farm and the clamour 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 sympathised 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 
 
 F 
 
68 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 never want a friend to stand by thee !" Wolf 
 would wag- his tail, look wistfully in his mas 
 ter'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 au 
 tumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled 
 to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill 
 mountains. He was after his favourite sport 
 of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes 
 had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of 
 his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw him 
 self, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, 
 covered with mountain herbage, that crowned 
 the brow of a precipice. From an opening be 
 tween 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 ma 
 jestic course, with the reflection of a purple 
 * cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and 
 there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last 
 losing itself in the blue highlands. 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 69 
 
 On the other side he looked down into a 
 deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shag 
 ged, the bottom filled with fragments from the 
 impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the re 
 flected 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 val 
 leys ; he saw that it would be dark long be 
 fore he could reach the village, and he heaved 
 a heavy sigh when he thought of encounter 
 ing the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 
 
 As he was about to descend, he heard a 
 voice from a distance, hallooing, " Rip Van 
 Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked 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 giving a low growl, skulked to, his master's 
 F 2 
 
70 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 side., looking fearfully down into the glen. 
 Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing 
 over him ; he looked anxiously in the same 
 direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly 
 toiling up the rocks, and bending under the 
 weight of something he carried on his back. 
 He was surprised to see any human being in this 
 lonely and unfrequented place^ but supposing 
 it to be some one of the neighbourhood in need 
 of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 
 On nearer approach, he was still more sur 
 prised at the singularity of the stranger's ap 
 pearance. He was a short square built old 
 fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled 
 beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch 
 fashion a cloth jerkin strapped round the 
 waist several pair of breeches, the outer one 
 of ample volume, decorated with rows of but 
 tons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. 
 He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that 
 seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip 
 to approach and assist him with the load. 
 Though rather shy and distrustful of this new 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 71 
 
 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 rug 
 ged 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 araphi- 
 
 ' 
 
 theatre, surrounded by perpendicular preci 
 pices over the brinks of which impending 
 trees shot their branches, so that you only 
 caught glimpses of the azure sky, and the 
 bright evening cloud. During the whole 
 time Rip and his companion had laboured on 
 in silence; for though the former marvelled 
 greatly what could be the object of carrying 
 a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet 
 
72 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 there was something strange and incompre 
 hensible about the unknown, that inspired 
 awe and checked familiarity. 
 
 On entering the amphitheatre, new objects 
 of wonder presented themselves. On a level 
 spot in the centre was a company of odd look 
 ing personages playing at nine-pins. They were 
 dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion : some 
 wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long 
 knives in their belts, and most of them had 
 enormous breeches, of similar style with that of 
 the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar: 
 one had a large head, broad face, and small 
 piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to 
 consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted 
 by a white sugarloaf hat, set off with a little 
 red cockstail. They all had beards, of various 
 shapes and colours. There was one who 
 seemed to be the commander. He was a 
 stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten 
 countenance ; he wore a laced doublet, broad 
 belt and hanger, high crowned hat and feather, 
 red stockings, and high heeled shoes, with 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 73 
 
 J 
 
 roses in them. The whole group reminded 
 Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, 
 in the parlour of Dominie Van Schaick, the 
 village parson, and which had been brought 
 over from Holland at the time of the settlement./' 
 
 What seemed particularly odd to Rip, was, 
 that though these folks were evidently amusing 
 themselves, yet they maintained the gravest 
 faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, 
 withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure 
 he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted 
 the stillness of the scene, but the noise of the 
 balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed 
 along the mountains like rumbling peals of 
 thunder. 
 
 As Rip and his companion approached them, 
 they suddenly desisted from their play, and 
 stared at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, 
 and such strange, uncouth, lack lustre coun 
 tenances, that his heart turned within him, and 
 his knees smote together. His companion now 
 emptied the contents of the keg into large 
 flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon 
 
74 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 the company. 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 beverage, which he 
 found had much of the flavour of excellent 
 Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and 
 was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One 
 taste provoked another, and he reiterated his 
 visits to the flagon so often, that at length his 
 senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his 
 head, his head gradually declined, and he fell 
 into a deep sleep. 
 
 On waking, he found himself on the green 
 knoll from whence he had first seen the old 
 man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes it was 
 a bright sunny morning. The birds were 
 hopping and twittering among the bushes, 
 and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breast 
 ing the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," 
 thought Rip, " I have not slept here all night." 
 He recalled the occurrences before he fell 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 75 
 
 asleep. The strange man with a keg of 
 liquor the mountain ravine the wild re 
 treat among the rocks the wo-begone party 
 at nine-pins the flagon " Oh ! that flagon ! 
 that wicked flagon !" thought Rip " what 
 excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ?" 
 
 He looked round for his gun, but in place 
 of the clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he found 
 an old firelock lying by him, the barrel en 
 crusted 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 gambol, and if he met with any 
 of the party, to demand his dog and gun. 
 As he rose to walk he found himself stiff in 
 
76 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. 
 " These mountain beds do not agree with me/' 
 thought Rip, " and if this frolick 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 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 hazle, and sometimes tripped up or en 
 tangled by the wild grape vines that twisted 
 their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and 
 spread a kind of net work in his path. // 
 
 At length he reached to where the ravine 
 had opened through the cliffs, to the amphi 
 theatre ; but no traces of such opening re 
 mained. The rocks presented a high impene 
 trable wall, over which the torrent came turn- 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 77 
 
 bling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into 
 a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of 
 the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip 
 was brought to a stand. He again called and 
 whistled after his dog; he was only answered 
 by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sport 
 ing 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 breakfast. 
 He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he 
 dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would not do 
 to starve among the mountains. He shook 
 his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, 
 with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, 
 turned his steps homeward. 
 
 As he approached the village he met a 
 number of people, but none whom he knew, 
 which somewhat surprised him, for he had 
 thought himself acquainted with every one in 
 the country round. Their dress, too, was of 
 
78 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 a different fashion from that to which he was 
 accustomed. They all stared at him with 
 equal marks of surprise, and whenever they 
 cast eyes upon him, invariably stroked their 
 chins. The constant recurrence of this ges 
 ture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the 
 same, when, to his astonishment, he found his 
 beard had grown a foot long! 
 
 He had now entered the skirts of the vil 
 lage. A troop of strange children ran at his 
 heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his 
 gray beard. The dogs too, not one of which 
 he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked 
 at him as he passed. The very village was 
 altered : it was larger and more populous. 
 There were rows of houses which he had 
 never seen before, and those which had been 
 his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange 
 names were over the doors strange faces at 
 the windows every thing was strange. His 
 mind now misgave him ; he began to doubt 
 whether both he and the world around him 
 were not bewitched. Surely this was his na- 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 79 
 
 tive village, which he had left but the day be 
 fore. There stood the Kaatskill 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. 
 H found the house gone to decay the roof 
 fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors 
 off the hinges. A half starved dog that looked 
 like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip called 
 him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his 
 teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut 
 indeed " My very dog," sighed poor Rip, 
 " has forgotten me !" 
 
 He entered the house, which, to tell the 
 truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in 
 neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and appa 
 rently abandoned. This desolateness over- 
 
80 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 came all his connubial fears he called loudly 
 for his wife and children the lonely cham 
 bers rung for a moment with his voice, and 
 then all again was silence. 
 
 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his 
 old resort, the village inri but it too was gone. 
 A large rickety wooden building stood in its 
 place, with great gaping windows, some of them 
 broken, and mended with old hats and petti 
 coats, and over the door was painted, "The 
 Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead 
 of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet 
 little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared 
 a tall naked pole, with something on top that 
 looked like a red night cap, and from it was 
 fluttering a flag, on which was a singular 
 assemblage of stars and stripes all this was 
 strange and incomprehensible. He recognised 
 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 
 
BIP VAN WINKLE. 81 
 
 in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was 
 decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath 
 was painted in large characters, GENERAL 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about 
 the door, but none that Rip recollected. The 
 very character of the people seemed changed. 
 There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone 
 about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm 
 and drowsy tranquillity. -He looked in vain 
 for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad 
 face, double chin, and fair long pipe, utter 
 ing clouds of tobacco smoke instead of idle 
 speeches ; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, 
 doling forth the contents of an ancient news 
 paper. In place of these, a lean bilious-look 
 ing fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, 
 was haranguing vehemently about rights of 
 citizens election members of congress- 
 liberty Bunker's hill heroes of seventy-six 
 and other words, that were a perfect Baby- 
 
 h 
 
 lonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 
 The appearance of Rip, with his long griz- 
 
82 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 zled beard, his rusty fowling piece, his un 
 couth dress, and the army of women and 
 children that had gathered at his heels, soon 
 attracted the attention of the tavern politi 
 cians. They crowded round him^ eyeing 
 him from head to foot, with great curiosity. 
 /f The orator bustled up to him, and drawing 
 him partly aside, inquired " on which side he 
 voted ?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Ano 
 ther short but busy little fellow pulled him by 
 the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his 
 ear, " whether he was Federal or 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 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 83 
 
 mob at his heels, and whether he meant to 
 breed a riot in the village ?" " Alas ! gentle 
 men/' cried Rip, somewhat dismayed,, u I am 
 a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and 
 a loyal subject of the King, God bless him !" 
 
 Here a general shout burst from the by 
 standers " A tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a re 
 fugee ! 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 seek 
 ing. The poor man humbly assured him that 
 he meant no harm, but merely came there in 
 search of some of his neighbours, who used 
 to keep about the tavern. 
 
 " Well who are they? name them." 
 
 Rip bethought himself a moment, and in 
 quired, " Where's Nicholas Vedder ?" 
 
 There was a silence for a little while, when an 
 old man replied, in a thin piping voice, ef Ni 
 cholas Vedder ? why he is dead and gone these 
 
84 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 eighteen years ! There was a wooden tomb 
 stone in the church yard that used to tell all 
 about him, but that's rotted and gone too." 
 //" Where's Brom Butcher?" 
 
 " Oh, he went off to the army in the begin 
 ning of the war ; some say he was killed at 
 the storming of Stoney-Point others say he 
 was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's 
 Nose. I dont know he never came back 
 again." // 
 
 " Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ?" 
 
 jjtojT 
 
 /)?& He went off to the wars t^p., 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 find 
 ing 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 
 Stoney-Point; he had no courage to ask 
 after any more friends, but cried out in des 
 pair, '* does nobody here know Rip Van Win 
 kle?" 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE, 85 
 
 " Oh, Rip Van Winkle !" exclaimed two or 
 three, " Oh, to be sure ! that's Rip Van Win 
 kle yonder, leaning against the tree." 
 
 Rip looked, and beheld a precise counter 
 part of him&slf, as he went up the mountain: 
 apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. 
 The poor feliow was now completely con 
 founded. He doubted his own identity, and 
 whether he was hims'elf or another man. In 
 the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the 
 cocked hat demanded who he was, and what 
 was his name? 
 
 " God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's 
 end ; " I'm not myself I'm somebody else 
 that's me yonder no that's somebody else, 
 got into my shoes I was myself last night, 
 but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've 
 changed my gun, and every thing's changed, 
 and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my 
 name, or who I am !" 
 
 The bystanders began now to look at each 
 other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their 
 G 2 
 
86 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 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-impor 
 tant man in the cocked hat retired with some 
 precipitation, At this critical moment a fresh 
 likely^ looking 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 wont 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 
 
 i 
 
 mind. " What is your name, my good wo 
 man ?" 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 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 87 
 
 him ; but whether he shot himself, or was 
 carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. 
 I was then but a little girl." 
 
 Rip had but one question more to ask ; but 
 he put it with a 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 pedlar. 
 
 There was a drop of comfort, at least, in 
 this intelligence. The honest man could con 
 tain himself no longer. He caught his daugh 
 ter and her child in his arms. " I am your 
 lather !" cried he " Young Rip Van Winkle 
 once old Rip Van Winkle now ! Does no 
 body know poor Rip Van Winkle !" 
 
 All stood amazed, until an old woman, tot 
 tering 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! Wel 
 come home again, old neighbour Why, 
 where have you been these twenty long years? 
 
88 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 Rip's story was soon told, for the whole 
 twenty years had been to him but as one 
 night. The neighbours stared when they 
 heard it ; some were seen to wink at each 
 other, and put their tongues in their cheeks : 
 and the self-important man in the cocked hat, 
 who, when the alarm was over, had returned 
 to the field/ screwed down the corners of his 
 mouth, and shook his head upon which 
 there was a general shaking of the head 
 throughout the assemblage. 
 
 It was determined, however, to take the 
 opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was 
 seen slowly advancing up the road. He was 
 a descendant of the historian of that name, 
 who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the 
 province. Peter was the most ancient inha 
 bitant of the village, and well versed in all the 
 wonderful events and traditions of the neigh 
 bourhood. 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 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 89 
 
 historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had 
 always been haunted by strange beings. That 
 it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hud 
 son, the first discoverer of the river and coun 
 try, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty 
 years, with his crew of the Half-moon, being 
 permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of 
 his enterprize, and keep a guardian eye upon 
 the river, and the great city called by his 
 name. /That his father had once seen them 
 in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine 
 pins in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he 
 himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the 
 sound of their balls, like distant peals of thun 
 der. 
 
 To make a long story short, the company 
 broke upland returned to the more important 
 concerns of the election,; Rip's daughter took 
 him home to live with her : she had a snug, 
 well-furnished house, and a stout cheery far 
 mer 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 
 
90 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the 
 tree, he was employed to work on the farm ; 
 but evinced an hereditary disposition to at 
 tend to any thing else but his business. 
 
 Rip now resumed his old walks and habits : 
 he soon found many of his former cronies, 
 though all rather the worse for the wear and 
 tear of time ; and preferred making friends 
 among the rising generation, with whom he 
 soon grew into great favour. 
 
 Having nothing to do at home, and being 
 arrived at that happy age when a man can do 
 nothing with impunity, he took his place once 
 more on the bench, at the inn door, and was 
 reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the vil 
 lage, 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 
 ihe country had thrown off the yoke of old 
 England and that, instead of being a subject 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 91 
 
 of his Majesty George the Third, he was now 
 a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in 
 fact, was no politician ; the changes of states 
 and empires made but little impression on 
 him ; but their was one species of despotism 
 under which he had long groaned, and that 
 was petticoat government. Happily, that 
 was at an end ; he had got his neck out of 
 the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and 
 out whenever he pleased, without dreading 
 the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. When 
 ever 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 
 
 / f 
 
 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 re- 
 ated, and not a man, woman, or child in the 
 
92 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 neighbourhood., but knew it by heart. Some 
 always pretended to doubt the reality of it, 
 and insisted that Rip had been out of his 
 head, and that this was one point on which 
 he always remained flighty. The old Dutch 
 inhabitants, however, almost universally gave 
 it full credit. Even to this day they never 
 hear a thunder storm of a summer afternoon, 
 about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick 
 Hudson and his crew are at their game of 
 nine pins ; and it is a common wish of all 
 henpecked husbands in the neighbourhood, 
 when life hangs heavy on their hands, that 
 they might have a quieting draught out of 
 Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 
 
93 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been 
 suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German 
 superstition about the emperor Frederick der Roth- 
 bart, and the Kypphaiiser 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 incre 
 dible to many, but nevertheless I give it my full 
 belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch set 
 tlements to have been very subject to marvellous 
 events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard 
 many stranger stories than this, in the villages along 
 the Hudson ; all of which were too well authenti 
 cated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with 
 B-ip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, 
 was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly ra 
 tional and consistent on every other point, that I 
 think no conscientious person could refuse to take 
 this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a certificate 
 on the subject taken before a country justice, and 
 signed with a cross, in the justice's own hand writ 
 ing. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility 
 of doubt. 
 
 D. K." 
 
ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 AMERICA. 
 

ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 ON 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 " Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself, 
 like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks ; methinks I see her 
 as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled eyes at the 
 full mid-day beam." 
 
 Milton on the Liberty of the Press. 
 
 IT is with feelings of deep regret that I 
 observe the literary animosity daily grow 
 ing up between England and America. Great 
 curiosity has been awakened of late with re 
 spect to the United States, and the London 
 press has teemed with volumes of travels 
 through the republic ; but they seem intend 
 ed to diffuse error rather than knowledge; 
 and so successful have they been, that, not 
 withstanding the constant intercourse between 
 
98 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 the nations, there is no people concerning 
 whom the great mass of the British public 
 have less pure information, or entertain more 
 numerous prejudices. 
 
 English travellers are the best and the worst 
 in the world. Where no motives of pride or 
 interest intervene, none can equal them for 
 profound and philosophical views of society,, 
 or faithful and graphical descriptions of exter 
 nal objects ; but when either the interest or 
 reputation of their own country comes in col 
 lision with that of another, they go to the op 
 posite extreme, and forget their usual probity 
 and candour, in the indulgence of spleen, and 
 an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 
 
 Hence, their travels are more honest and 
 accurate, the more remote the country des 
 cribed. I would place implicit confidence in 
 an Englishman's description of the regions 
 beyond the cataracts of the Nile ; of unknown 
 islands in the Yellow Sea ; of the interior of 
 India; or of any other tract which other 
 travellers might be apt to picture out with 
 
ON AMERICA. 99 
 
 the illusions of their fancies ; but I would 
 cautiously receive his account of his im 
 mediate neighbours, and of those nations 
 with which he is in habits of most frequent 
 intercourse. However I might be disposed 
 to trust his probity, I dare not trust his 
 prejudices. 
 
 It has also been the peculiar lot of our 
 country to be visited by the worst kind of 
 English travellers. While men of philosophi 
 cal spirit and cultivated minds have been en 
 voys from England to ransack the poles, to 
 penetrate the deserts, and to study the man 
 ners and customs of barbarous nations, with 
 which she can have no permanent intercourse 
 of profit or pleasure ; it has been left to the 
 broken down tradesman, the scheming adven 
 turer, the wandering mechanic, the Manches 
 ter and Birmingham agent, to be her oracles 
 respecting America. From such sources she 
 is content to receive her information respect 
 ing a country in a singular state of moral and 
 physical development : a country in which 
 
 H 
 
100 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 one of the greatest political experiments in 
 the history of the world is now performing,, 
 and which presents the most profound and 
 momentous studies to the statesman and the 
 philosopher. 
 
 That such men should give prejudiced ac 
 counts of America is not a matter of surprise. 
 The themes it offers for contemplation are too 
 vast and elevated for their capacities. The 
 national character is yet in a state of fermen 
 tation ; it may have its frothiness and sedi 
 ment, but its ingredients are sound and whole 
 some ; it has already given proofs of powerful 
 and generous qualities ; and the whole pro 
 mises to settle down into something substan 
 tially excellent. But the causes which are 
 operating to strengthen and ennoble it, and 
 its daily indications of admirable properties, 
 are all lost upon these purblind observers, 
 who are only affected by the little asperities 
 incident to its present situation. They are 
 capable of judging only of the surface of 
 things ; of those matters which come in con- . 
 
ON AMERICA. 101 
 
 tact with their private interests and personal 
 gratifications. They miss some of the snug 
 conveniences and petty comforts which belong- 
 to an old, highly-finished, and over-populous 
 state of society ; where the ranks of useful 
 labour are crowded, and many earn a painful 
 and servile subsistence, by studying the very 
 caprices of appetite and self indulgence. 
 These minor comforts, however, are all-im 
 portant in the estimation of narrow minds ; 
 which either do not perceive, or will not ac 
 knowledge, that they are more than counter 
 balanced among us, by great and generally 
 diffused blessings. 
 
 They may, perhaps, have been disappointed 
 in some unreasonable expectation of sudden 
 gain. They may have pictured America to 
 themselves an El Dorado, where gold and 
 silver abounded, and the natives were lacking 
 in sagacity ; and where they were to become 
 strangely and suddenly rich, in some unfore 
 seen, but easy manner. The same weakness 
 of mind that indulges absurd expectations, 
 H 2 
 
102 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 produces petulance in disappointment. Such 
 persons become embittered against the coun 
 try on finding that there, as every where else^ 
 a man must sow before he can reap ; must win 
 wealth by industry and talent ; and must con 
 tend with the common difficulties of nature, 
 and the shrewdness of an intelligent and en 
 terprising people. 
 
 Perhaps, through mistake or ill-directed 
 hospitality, or the prompt disposition to cheer 
 and countenance the stranger, prevalent 
 among my countrymen, they may have been 
 treated with unwonted respect in America : 
 and having been accustomed all their lives to 
 consider themselves below the surface of good 
 society, and brought up in a servile feeling of 
 inferiority, they become arrogant on the com 
 mon boon of civility ; they attribute to the 
 lowliness of others their own elevation ; and 
 underrate a society where there are no artifi 
 cial distinctions, and where, by any chance, 
 such individuals as themselves can rise to 
 consequence. 
 
ON AMERICA. 103 
 
 One would suppose, however, that informa 
 tion coming from such sources, on a subject 
 where the truth is so desirable, would be re 
 ceived with caution by the censors of the 
 press. That the motives of these men, their 
 veracity, their opportunities of inquiry and 
 observation, and their 'capacities for judging 
 correctly, would be rigorously scrutinized, 
 before their evidence was admitted, in such 
 sweeping extent, against a kindred nation. 
 The very reverse, however, is the case, and it 
 furnishes a striking instance of human incon 
 sistency. Nothing can surpass the vigilance 
 with which English critics will examine the 
 credibility of the traveller who publishes an 
 account of some distant, and comparatively 
 unimportant, country. How warily will they 
 compare the measurements of a pyramid, or 
 the descriptions of a ruin, and how sternly 
 will they censure any inaccuracy in these con 
 tributions of merely curious knowledge ; while 
 they will receive, with eagerness and unhesi 
 tating faith, the gross misrepresentations of 
 

 104 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 coarse and obscure writers, concerning a 
 country with which their own is placed in the 
 most important and delicate relations. Nay, 
 they will even make these apocryphal volumes 
 text books, on which to enlarge, with a zeal 
 and an ability worthy of a more generous 
 cause. 
 
 I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome 
 and hackneyed topic ; nor should I have ad 
 verted to it, but for the undue interest appa 
 rently taken in it by my countrymen, and 
 certain injurious effects which I apprehended it 
 might produce upon the national feeling. We 
 attach too much consequence to these attacks. 
 They cannot do us any essential injury. The 
 tissue of misrepresentations attempted to be 
 woven round us, are like cobwebs woven 
 round the limbs of an infant giant. Our 
 country continually outgrows them. One 
 falsehood after another falls off of itself. We 
 have but to live on, and every day we live a 
 whole volume of refutation. All the writers 
 of England united, if we could for a moment 
 
ON AMERICA. 
 
 suppose their great minds stooping to so un 
 worthy a combination, could not conceal our 
 rapidly-growing importance and matchless 
 prosperity. They could not conceal that these 
 are owing, not merely to physical and local, 
 but also to moral causes. To the political 
 liberty, the general diffusion of knowledge, 
 the prevalence of sound moral and religious 
 principles, which give force and sustained 
 energy to the character of a people ; and in 
 fact, have been the acknowledged and wonder 
 ful supporters of their own national power 
 and glory. 
 
 But why are we so exquisitely alive to the 
 aspersions of England ? Why do we suffer 
 ourselves to be so affected by the contumely 
 she has endeavoured to cast upon us? It is 
 not in the opinion of England alone that ho 
 nour lives, and reputation has its being. The 
 world at large is the arbiter of a nation's fame : 
 with its thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's 
 deeds, and from their collective testimony is 
 
106 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 national glory or national disgrace esta 
 blished. 
 
 For ourselves,, therefore, it is comparatively 
 of but little importance whether England does 
 us justice or not : it is, perhaps, of far more 
 importance to herself. She is instilling anger 
 and resentment into the bosom of a youthful 
 nation, to grow with its growth, and strengthen 
 with its strength. If in America, as some 
 of her writers are labouring to convince her, 
 she is hereafter to find an invidious rival, and 
 a gigantic foe, she may thank those very 
 writers for having provoked rivalship, and ir 
 ritated hostility. Every one knows the all- 
 pervading influence of literature at the pre 
 sent day, and how much the opinions and 
 passions of mankind are under its control. 
 The mere contests of the sword are temporary; 
 their wounds are but in the flesh, and it is the 
 pride of the generous to forgive and forget 
 them ; but the slanders of the pen pierce to 
 the heart ; they rankle longest in the noblest 
 
ON AMERICA. 107 
 
 spirits ; they dwell ever present in the mind, 
 and render it morbidly sensitive to the most 
 trifling collision. It is but seldom that any 
 one overt act produces hostilities between two 
 nations ; there exists, most commonly,, a pre 
 vious jealousy and ill will ; a predisposition 
 to take offence. Trace these to their cause, 
 and how often will they be found to originate in 
 the mischievous effusions of mercenary writers, 
 who, secure in their closets, and for ignominous 
 bread, concoct and circulate the venom that 
 is to inflame the generous and the brave, 
 
 I am not laying too much stress upon this 
 point ; for it applies most emphatically to our 
 particular case. Over no nation does the press 
 hold a more absolute control than over the 
 people of America ; for the universal educa 
 tion of the poorest classes makes every indi 
 vidual a reader. There is nothing published 
 in England on the subject of our country, 
 that does not circulate through every part of 
 it. There is not a calumny dropt from an 
 English pen, nor an unworthy sarcasm utter- 
 
108 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 ed by an English statesman, that does not go 
 to blight good will, and add to the mass 
 of latent resentment. Possessing, then, as 
 England does, the fountain head from whence 
 the literature of the language flows, how com 
 pletely is it in her power, and how truly is it 
 her duty, to make it the medium of amiable 
 and magnanimous feeling a stream where the 
 two nations might meet together, and drink 
 in peace and kindness. Should she, however, 
 persist in turning it to waters of bitterness, the 
 time may come when she may repent her 
 folly. The present friendship of America may 
 be of but little moment to her ; but the future 
 destinies of that country do not admit of a 
 doubt: over those of England there lower 
 some shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, 
 a day of gloom arrive ; should those reverses 
 overtake her, from which the proudest em 
 pires have not been exempt ; she may look 
 back with regret at her infatuation, in re 
 pulsing from her side a nation she might have 
 grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying 
 
ON AMERICA. 109 
 
 her only chance for real friendship beyond 
 the boundaries of her own dominions. 
 
 There is a general impression in England, 
 that the people of the United States are inimi 
 cal to the parent country. It is one of the 
 errors which have been diligently propagated 
 by designing writers. There is, doubtless, 
 considerable political hostility, and a general 
 soreness at the illiberality of the English 
 press ; but, collectively speaking, the prepos 
 sessions of the people are strongly in favour of 
 England. Indeed, at one time they amount 
 ed, in many parts of the union, to an absurd 
 degree of bigotry. The bare name of English 
 man was a passport to the confidence and 
 hospitality of every family, and too often gave 
 a transient currency to the worthless and the 
 ungrateful. Throughout the country there 
 was something of enthusiam connected with 
 the idea of England. We looked to it with a 
 hallowed feeling of tenderness and veneration, 
 as the land of our forefathers the august re 
 pository of the monuments and antiquities of 
 
110 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 our race the birth-place and mausoleum of 
 the sages and heroes of our paternal history. 
 After our own country, there was none in 
 whose glory we more delighted none whose 
 good opinion we were more anxious to pos 
 sess none toward which our hearts yearned 
 with such throbbings of warm consanguin 
 ity. Even during the late war, whenever 
 there was the least opportunity for kind feel 
 ings to spring forth, it was the delight of the 
 generous spirits of our country to show that, 
 in the midst of hostilities, they still kept alive 
 the sparks of future friendship. 
 
 Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden 
 band of kindred sympathies, so rare between 
 nations, to be broken forever ? Perhaps it is 
 for the best it may dispel an illusion which 
 might have kept us in mental vassalage, in 
 terfered occasionally with our true interests, 
 and prevented the growth of proper national 
 pride. But it is hard to give up the kindred 
 tie ! arid there are feelings dearer than inte 
 rest closer to the heart than pride that will 
 
ON AMERICA, 111 
 
 still make us cast back a look of regret, as we 
 wander farther and farther from the paternal 
 roof, and lament the waywardness of the pa 
 rent, that would repel the affections of the 
 child. 
 
 Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as 
 the conduct of England may be in this sys 
 tem of aspersion, recrimination on our part 
 would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of 
 a prompt and spirited vindication of our 
 country, or the keenest castigation of her 
 slanderers but I allude to a disposition to 
 retaliate in kind, to retort sarcasm and inspire 
 prejudice, which seems to be spreading wide 
 ly among our writers. Let us guard particu 
 larly against such a temper, for it would dou 
 ble the evil, instead of redressing the wrong. 
 Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort 
 of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and 
 unprofitable contest. It is the alternative of 
 a morbid mind, fretted into petulance, rather 
 than warmed into indignation. If England is 
 willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, 
 
112 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 or the rancorous animosities of politics, to de 
 prave the integrity of her press, and poison 
 the fountain of public opinion, let us beware 
 of her example. She may deem it her interest 
 to diffuse error, and engender antipathy, for 
 the purpose of checking emigration ; we have 
 no purpose of the kind to serve. Neither 
 have we any spirit of national jealousy to gra 
 tify, for as yet, in all our rivalships with Eng 
 land, we are the rising and the gaining party. 
 There can be no end to answer, therefore, but 
 the gratification of resentment a mere spirit 
 of retaliation, and even that is impotent. Our 
 retorts are never republished in England ; 
 they fall short, therefore, of their aim ; but 
 they foster a querulous and peevish temper 
 among our writers ; they sour the sweet flow 
 of our early literature, and sow thorns and 
 brambles among its blossoms. What is still 
 worse, they circulate through our own coun 
 try, and, as far as they have effect, excite 
 virulent national prejudices. This last is the 
 evil most especially to be deprecated. Go- 
 
ON AMERICA. 113 
 
 verned, as we are, entirely by public opinion, 
 the utmost care should be taken to preserve 
 the purity of the public mind. Knowledge is 
 power, and truth is knowledge; whoever, 
 therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, 
 wilfully saps the foundation of his country's 
 strength. 
 
 The members of a republic, above all other 
 men, should be candid and dispassionate. 
 They are, individually, portions of the sove 
 reign mind and sovereign will, and should be 
 enabled to come to all questions of national 
 concern with calm and unbiased judgments. 
 From the peculiar nature of our relations with 
 England, we must have more frequent ques 
 tions of a difficult and delicate character with 
 her, than with any other nation ; questions 
 that affect the most acute and excitable feel 
 ings : and as, in the adjusting of these, our 
 national measures must ultimately be deter 
 mined by popular sentiment, we cannot be 
 too anxiously attentive to purify it .from all 
 latent passion or prepossession. 
 
 Opening too, as we do, an asylum for stran- 
 
114 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 gers from every portion of the earth, we 
 should receive all with impartiality. It should 
 be our pride to exhibit an example of one 
 nation at least, destitute of national antipa 
 thies, and exercising, not merely the overt 
 acts of hospitality, but those more rare and 
 noble courtesies which spring from liberality 
 of opinion. 
 
 What have we to do with national preju 
 dices? They are the inveterate diseases of 
 old countries, contracted in rude and igno 
 rant ages, when nations knew but little of 
 each other, and looked beyond their own 
 boundaries with distrust and hostility. We, 
 on the contrary, have sprung into national ex 
 istence in an enlightened and philosophic age, 
 when the different parts of the habitable world, 
 and the various branches of the human family, 
 have been indefatigably studied and made 
 known to each other; and we forego the ad 
 vantages of our birth, if we do not shake off 
 the national prejudices, as we would the local 
 superstitions of the old world. 
 But above all, let us not be influenced by 
 
ON AMERICA. 115 
 
 any angry feelings, so far as to shut our eyes 
 to the perception of what is really excellent 
 and amiable in the English character. We 
 are a young people, necessarily an imitative 
 one, and must take our examples and models, 
 in a great degree, from the existing nations of 
 Europe. There is no country more worthy of 
 our study than England. The spirit of her 
 constitution is most analogous to ours. The 
 manners of her people their intellectual ac 
 tivity their freedom of opinion their habits 
 of thinking on those subjects which concern 
 the dearest interests and most sacred charities 
 of private life, are all congenial to the Ame 
 rican character ; and, in fact, are all intrinsi 
 cally excellent ; for it is in the moral feeling 
 of the people that the deep foundations of 
 British prosperity are laid ; and however the 
 superstructure may be time-worn, or overrun 
 by abuses, there must be something solid in 
 the basis, admirable in the materials, and 
 stable in the structure of an edifice, that so 
 
 i 
 
116 ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 
 
 long has towered unshaken amidst the tem 
 pests of the world. 
 
 Let it be the pride of our writers,, therefore, 
 discarding all feelings of irritation, and dis 
 daining to retaliate the illiberality of British 
 authors, to speak of the English nation with 
 out prejudice, and with determined candour. 
 While they rebuke the indiscriminating bi 
 gotry with which some of our countrymen ad 
 mire and imitate every thing English, merely 
 because it; is English, let them frankly point 
 out what is really worthy of approbation. We 
 may thus place England before us as a per 
 petual volume of reference, wherein are re 
 corded sound deductions from ages of experi- 
 emse ; and while we avoid the errors and ab- 
 feurdities which may have crept into the page, 
 ute may draw thence golden maxims of prac 
 tical wisdom, wherewith to strengthen and 
 to embellish our national character. 
 
RURAL LIFE 
 
 IN 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 
 
 Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
 Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
 Domestic life in rural pleasure pass'd ! 
 
 Cowpcr. 
 
 THE stranger who would form a correct 
 opinion of the English character, must not 
 confine his observations to the metropolis. He 
 must go forth into the country ; he must so 
 journ in villages and hamlets ; he must visit 
 castles, villas, farm houses, cottages ; he must 
 wander through parks and gardens; along 
 hedges and green lanes ; he must loiter about 
 country churches; attend wakes and fairs, 
 and other rural festivals ; and cope with the 
 people in all their conditions, and all their 
 habits and humours. 
 
120 RURAL LIFE 
 
 In some countries,, the large cities absorb 
 the wealth and fashion of the nation; they are 
 the only fixed abodes of elegant and intelli 
 gent society, and the country is inhabited al 
 most entirely by boorish peasantry. In Eng 
 land, on the contrary, the metropolis is a mere 
 gathering place, or general rendezvous, of the 
 polite classes, where they devote a small por 
 tion of the year to a hurry of gaiety and dis 
 sipation, and having indulged this kind of car 
 nival, return again to the apparently more 
 congenial habits of rural life. The various 
 orders of society are therefore diffused over 
 the whole surface of the kingdom, and the 
 most retired neighbourhoods afford specimens 
 of the different ranks. 
 
 The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with 
 the rural feeling. They possess a quick sen 
 sibility to the beauties of nature, and a keen 
 relish for the pleasures and employments of 
 the country. This passion seems inherent in 
 them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born 
 and brought up among brick walls and bust- 
 
IN ENGLAND. 121 
 
 ling streets, enter with facility into rural ha 
 bits, and evince a tact for rural occupation. 
 The merchant has his snug retreat in the vici 
 nity of the metropolis, where he often displays 
 as much pride and zeal in the cultivation of 
 his flower garden, and the maturing of his 
 fruits, as he does in the conduct of his busi 
 ness, and the success of a commercial enter 
 prise. Even those less fortunate individuals, 
 who are doomed to pass their lives in the 
 midst of din and traffick, contrive to have 
 something that shall remind them of the green 
 aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy 
 quarters of the city, the drawing room window 
 resembles frequently a bank of flowers ; every 
 spot capable of vegetation, has its grass plot 
 and flower bed ; and every square its mimic 
 park, laid out with picturesque taste, and 
 gleaming with refreshing verdure. 
 
 Those who see the Englishman only in 
 town, are apt to form an unfavourable opinion 
 of his social character. He is either absorbed 
 in business, or distracted by the thousand en- 
 
122 RURAL LIFE 
 
 gagements that dissipate time, thought, and 
 feeling, in this huge metropolis. He has, 
 therefore, too commonly, a look of hurry and 
 abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he 
 is on the point of going somewhere else ; at 
 the moment he is talking on one subject, his 
 mind is wandering to another ; and while pay 
 ing a friendly visit, he is calculating how he 
 shall economize time so as to pay the other 
 visits allotted to the morning. An immense 
 metropolis, like London, is calculated to make 
 men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual 
 and transient meetings, they can but deal 
 briefly in common places. They present but 
 the cold superficies of character its rich and 
 genial qualities have no time to be warmed 
 into a flow. 
 
 It is in the country that the Englishman 
 gives scope to his natural feelings. He breaks 
 loose gladly from the cold formalities and ne 
 gative civilities of town ; throws off his habits 
 of shy reserve, and become joyous and free 
 hearted. He manages to collect round him 
 
 
IN ENGLAND. 123 
 
 all the conveniences and elegancies of polite 
 life, and to banish its restraints. His country 
 seat abounds with every requisite., either for 
 studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or 
 rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, 
 horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all 
 kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint, 
 either upon his guests or himself, but in the 
 true spirit of hospitality, provides the means 
 of enjoyment, and leaves every one to partake 
 according to his inclination. 
 
 The taste of the English in the cultivation of 
 land, and in what is called landscape garden 
 ing, is unrivalled. They have studied nature 
 intently, and discover an exquisite sense of 
 her beautiful forms and harmonious combina 
 tions. Those charms, which in other coun 
 tries she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here 
 assembled round the haunts of domestic life. 
 They seem to have caught her coy and furtive 
 graces, and spread them, like witchery, about 
 their rural abodes. 
 
 Nothing can be more imposing than the 
 
124 RURAL LIFE 
 
 magnificence of English park scenery. Vast 
 lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, 
 with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, 
 heaping up rich piles of foliage. The solemn 
 pornp of groves and woodland glades, with the 
 deer trooping in silent herds across them ; the 
 hare, bounding away to the covert; or the 
 pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing. 
 The brook, taught to wind in the most natural 
 meanderings, or expand into a glassy lake 
 the sequestered pool, reflecting the' quivering 
 trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bo 
 som and the trout roaming fearlessly about its 
 limpid waters : while some rustic temple, or 
 sylvan statue, grown green and dank with 
 age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the 
 seclusion. 
 
 These are but a few of the features of park 
 scenery; but what most delights me, is the 
 creative talent with which the English deco 
 rate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. 
 The rudest habitation, the most unpromising 
 and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an 
 
IN ENGLAND. 125 
 
 Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. 
 With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at 
 once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his, 
 mind the future landscape. The sterile spot 
 grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet 
 the operations of art which produce the effect 
 are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing 
 and training of some trees ; the cautious pru 
 ning of others ; the nice distribution of flowers 
 and plants of tender and graceful foliage; the 
 introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; 
 the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, 
 or silver gleam of water ; all these are man 
 aged with a delicate tact, a pervading yet 
 quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with 
 which a painter finishes up a favourite picture. 
 The residence of people of fortune and re 
 finement in the country has diffused a degree 
 of taste and elegance in rural economy, that 
 descends to the lowest class. The very la 
 bourer, with his thatched cottage and narrow 
 slip of ground, attends to their embellishment. 
 
I 2() RURAL LIFE 
 
 The trim hedge, the grass plot before the door, 
 the little flower bed bordered with snug box, 
 the woodbine trained up against the wall, and 
 hanging its blossoms about the lattice ; the 
 pot of flowers in the window, the holly pro 
 vidently planted about the house, to cheat 
 winter of its dreariness, and throw in a sem 
 blance of green summer to cheer the fire 
 side : all these bespeak the influence of taste, 
 flowing down from high sources, and pervad 
 ing the lowest levels of the public mind. If 
 ever love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cot 
 tage, it must be the cottage of an English pea 
 sant. 
 
 The fondness for rural life among the high 
 er classes of the English, has had a great and 
 salutary effect upon the national character. 
 I do not know a finer race of men than the 
 English gentlemen. Instead of the softness 
 and effeminacy which characterize the men of 
 rank in most countries, they exhibit a union 
 of elegance and strength, a robustness of 
 
IN ENGLAND. 127 
 
 frame and freshness of complexion, which I 
 am inclined to attribute to their living so 
 much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly 
 the invigorating recreations of the country. 
 These hardy exercises produce also a healthful 
 tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and 
 simplicity of manners, which even the follies 
 and dissipations of the town cannot easily 
 pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the 
 country, too, the different orders of society 
 seem to approach more freely, to be more dis 
 posed to blend and operate favourably upon 
 each other. The distinctions between them 
 do not appear to be so marked and impassa 
 ble as in the cities. The manner in which 
 property has been distributed into small es 
 tates and farms, has established a regular 
 gradation from the nobleman, through the 
 classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, 
 and substantial fanners, down to the labour 
 ing peasantry ; and while it has thus banded 
 the extremes of society together, has infused 
 into each intermediate rank a spirit of inde- 
 
128 RURAL LIFE 
 
 pendence. This, it must be confessed, is not 
 so universally the case at present as it was 
 formerly ; the larger estates having, in late 
 years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, 
 in some parts of the country, almost annihi 
 lated the sturdy race of small farmers. These 
 however, I believe, are but casual breaks in 
 the general system I have mentioned. 
 
 In rural occupation there is nothing mean 
 and debasing. It leads a man forth among 
 scenes of natural grandeur and beauty; it 
 leaves him to the workings of his own mind, 
 operated upon by the purest and most elevat 
 ing of external influences. Such a man may 
 be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. 
 The man of refinement, therefore, finds no 
 thing revolting in an intercourse with the 
 lower orders in rural life, as he does when he 
 casually mingles with the lower orders of 
 cities. He lays aside his distance and re 
 serve, and is glad to wave the distinctions of 
 rank, and to enter into the honest heartfelt 
 enjoyments of common life. Indeed, the very 
 
IN ENGLAND. 129 
 
 amusements of the country bring men more 
 and more together; and the sound of hound 
 and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I 
 believe this is one great reason why the nobility 
 and gentry are more popular among the inferior 
 orders in England than they are in any other 
 country ; and why the latter have endured so 
 many excessive pressures and extremities, 
 without repining more generally at the un 
 equal distribution of fortune and privilege. 
 
 To this mingling of cultivated and rustic 
 society may also be attributed the rural feel 
 ing that runs through British literature ; the 
 frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; 
 those incomparable descriptions of nature, 
 that abound in the British poets that have 
 continued down from " the flower and the 
 leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought into our 
 closets all the freshness and fragrance of the 
 dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of 
 other countries appear as if they had paid 
 nature an occasional visit, and become ac 
 quainted with her general charms ; but the 
 
130 RURAL LIFE 
 
 British poets have lived and revelled with her, 
 they have wooed her in her most secret 
 haunts, they have watched her minutest ca 
 prices. A spray could not tremble in the 
 breeze a leaf could not rustle to the ground 
 a diamond drop could not patter in the 
 stream a fragrance could not exhale from 
 the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crim 
 son tints to the morning ; but it has been no 
 ticed by these impassioned and delicate ob 
 servers, and wrought up into some beautiful 
 morality. 
 
 The effect of this devotion of elegant minds 
 to rural occupations has been wonderful on 
 the face of the country. A great part of the 
 island is level, and would be monotonous, 
 were it not for the charms of culture ; but it 
 is studded and gemmed, as it were, with cas 
 tles and palaces, and embroidered with parks 
 and gardens. It does not abound in grand 
 and sublime prospects, but rather in little 
 home scenes of rural repose and sheltered 
 quiet. Every antique farm house and moss- 
 
IN ENGLAND. 131 
 
 grown cottage is a picture ; and as the roads 
 are continually winding, and the view is shut 
 in by groves and hedges,, the eye is delighted 
 by a continual succession of small landscapes 
 of captivating loveliness. 
 
 The great charm, however, of English 
 scenery is the moral feeling that seems to 
 pervade it. It is associated in the mind with 
 ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well establish 
 ed principles, of hoary usage and reverend 
 custom. Every thing seems to be the growth 
 of ages of regular and peaceful existence. 
 The old church of remote architecture, with 
 its low massive portal ; its gothic tower ; its 
 windows rich with tracery and painted glass, 
 in scrupulous preservation ; its stately monu 
 ments of warriors and worthies of the olden 
 time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil ; 
 its tombstones, recording successive genera 
 tions of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still 
 plough the same fields, and kneel at the same 
 altar. The parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, 
 partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in 
 
 K 
 
132 RURAL LIFE 
 
 the tastes of various ages and occupants. The 
 stile and footpath leading from the churchyard., 
 across pleasant fields, and along shady hedg- 
 rows, according to an immemorial right of 
 way. The neighbouring village, with its ve 
 nerable cottages, its public green, sheltered by 
 trees, under which the forefathers of the pre 
 sent race have sported. The antique family 
 mansion, standing apart in some little rural 
 domain, but looking down with a protecting 
 air on the surrounding scene. All these com 
 mon features of English landscape, evince 
 a calm and settled security, an hereditary 
 transmission of home-bred virtues and local 
 attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly 
 for the moral character of the nation. 
 
 It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, 
 when the bell is sending its sober melody across 
 the quiet fields, to behold the peasantry in their 
 best finery, with ruddy faces and modest cheer 
 fulness, thronging tranquilly along the green 
 lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing 
 to see them in the evenings, gathering about 
 
IN ENGLAND. 133 
 
 their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in 
 the humble comforts and embellishments 
 which their own hands have spread around 
 them. 
 
 It is this sweet home feeling, this settled re 
 pose of affection in the domestic scene, that is, 
 after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues 
 and purest enjoyments; and I cannot close 
 these desultory remarks better, than by quot 
 ing the words of a modern English poet, who 
 has depicted it with remarkable felicity : 
 
 Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 
 The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, 
 But chief from modest mansions numberless, 
 In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 
 Down to the cottag'd vale, and straw-roofd shed ; 
 This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 
 Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling place : 
 Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 
 (Honour and sweet endearment keeping guard,) 
 Can centre in a little quiet nest 
 All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 
 That can, the world eluding, be itself 
 A world enjoy'd ; that wants no witnesses 
 But its own sharers, and approving heaven. 
 That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, 
 Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky. * 
 
 * From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the 
 Reverend Rann Kennedy, A. M. 
 
 K2 
 
THE 
 
 BROKEN HEART. 
 
THE 
 
 BROKEN HEART. 
 
 I never heard 
 
 Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
 With care that, like the caterpillar, eats 
 The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 
 
 Middleton. 
 
 IT is a common practice with those who 
 have outlived the susceptibility of early feel 
 ing, or have been brought up in the gay 
 heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all 
 love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic 
 passion as mere fictions of novellists and poets. 
 My observations on human nature have in 
 duced me to think otherwise. They have 
 convinced me, that however the surface of the 
 character maybe chilled and frozen by the 
 cares of the world, or cultivated into mere 
 smiles by the arts of society, still there are 
 
138 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 dormant fires lurking in the depths of the 
 coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, 
 become impetuous and are sometimes desola 
 ting in their effects. Indeed, I am a true be 
 liever in the blind deity, and go to the full ex 
 tent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it r I be 
 lieve in broken hearts, and the possibility of 
 dying of disappointed love! I do not, how 
 ever, consider it a malady often fatal to my 
 own sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers 
 down many a lovely woman into an early 
 grave. 
 
 Man is the creature of interest and ambi 
 tion. His nature leads him forth into the 
 struggle and bustle of the world. Love is 
 but the embellishment of his early life, or a 
 song piped in the intervals of the acts. He 
 seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the 
 world's thought, and dominion over his fellow 
 men. But a woman's whole life is a history 
 of the affections. The heart is her world; it 
 is there her ambition strives for empire ; it is 
 there her avarice seeks for hidden trea- 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 139 
 
 sures. She sends forth her sympathies on ad 
 venture ; she embarks her whole sonl in the 
 traffick of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her 
 case is hopeless for it is a bankruptcy of the 
 heart. 
 
 To a man the disappointment of love may 
 occasion some bitter pangs : it wounds some 
 feelings of tenderness it blasts some pros 
 pects of felicity ; but he is an active being he 
 can dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of vari 
 ed occupation, or plunge into the tide of plea 
 sure ; or, if the scene of disappointment be too 
 full of painful associations, he can shift his 
 abode at will, and taking as it were the 
 wings of the morning, can fly to the utter 
 most parts of the earth, and be at rest. 
 
 But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a 
 secluded, and a meditative life. She is more 
 the companion of her own thoughts and feel 
 ings ; and if they are turned to ministers of 
 sorrow, where shall she look for consolation ! 
 Her lot is to be wooed and won ; and if un 
 happy in her love, her heart is like some for- 
 
140 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 tress that has been captured, and sacked, and 
 abandoned, and left desolate. 
 
 How many bright eyes grow dim how 
 many soft cheeks grow pale how many love 
 ly forms fade away into the tomb, and none 
 can tell the cause that blighted their loveli 
 ness. As the dove will clasp its wings to its 
 side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is 
 preying on its vitals, so it is the nature of wo 
 man, to hide from the world the pangs of 
 wounded affection. The love of a delicate fe 
 male is always shy and silent. Even when 
 fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself ; 
 but when otherwise, she buries it in the re 
 cesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower 
 and brood among the ruins of her peace. 
 With her the desire of the heart has failed. 
 The great charm of existence is at an end. 
 She neglects all the cheerful exercises which 
 gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and 
 send the tide of life in healthful currents 
 through the veins. Her rest is broken the 
 sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by me- 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 141 
 
 lancholy dreams u dry sorrow drinks her 
 blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under 
 the slightest external injury. Look for her, 
 after a little while, and you find friendship 
 weeping over her untimely grave, and won 
 dering that one, who but lately glowed with 
 all the radiance of health and beauty, should 
 so speedily be brought down to " darkness and 
 the worm." You will be told of some wintry 
 chill, some casual indisposition, that laid her 
 low ; but no one knows the mental malady 
 that previously sapped her strength, and made 
 her so easy a prey to the spoiler. 
 
 She is like some tender tree, the pride and 
 beauty of the grove ; graceful in its form, 
 bright in its foliage, but with the worm prey 
 ing at its heart. We find it suddenly wither 
 ing, when it should be most fresh and luxu 
 riant. We see it drooping its branches to the 
 earth, and shedding leaf by leaf ; until, wasted 
 and perished away, it falls even in the stillness 
 of the forest ; and as we muse over the beau 
 tiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the 
 
142 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten 
 it with decay. 
 
 I have seen many instances of women run 
 ning to waste and self neglect, and disappear 
 ing gradually from the earth, almost as if they 
 had been exhaled to heaven ; and have repeat 
 edly fancied, that I could trace their deaths 
 through the various declensions of consump 
 tion, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, un 
 til I reached the first symptom of disappointed 
 love. But an instance of the kind was lately 
 told to me ; the circumstances are well known 
 in the country where they happened, and I 
 shall but give them in the manner in which 
 they were related. 
 
 Every one must recollect the tragical story 
 
 of young E , the Irish patriot, it was too 
 
 touching to be soon forgotten. During the 
 troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, 
 and executed, on a charge of treason. His 
 fate made a deep impression on public sym 
 pathy. He was so young so intelligent so 
 generous so brave so every thing that we 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 143 
 
 are apt to like in a young man. His conduct 
 under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. 
 The noble indignation with which he repelled 
 the charge of treason against his country the 
 eloquent vindication of his name and his pa 
 thetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour 
 of condemnation all these entered deeply into 
 every generous bosom, and even his enemies 
 lamented the stern policy that dictated his 
 execution. 
 
 But there was one heart, whose anguish it 
 would be impossible to describe. In happier 
 days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affec 
 tions of a beautiful and interesting girl, the 
 daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. 
 She loved him with the disinterested fervour 
 of a woman's first and early love. When 
 every worldly maxim arrayed itself against 
 him ; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and 
 danger darkened around his name, she loved 
 him the more ardently for his very sufferings. 
 If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy, 
 even of his foes, what must have been the 
 
144 , THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 agony of her whose whole soul was occupied 
 by his image ! Let those tell who have had 
 the portals of the tomb suddenly closed be 
 tween them and the being they most loved on 
 earth who have sat at its threshold, as one 
 shut out in a cold and lonely world,, from 
 whence all that was most lovely and loving 
 had departed. 
 
 But then the horrors of such a grave ! so 
 frightful, so dishonoured ! There was nothing 
 for memory to dwell on that could sooth the 
 the pang of separation none of those tender, 
 though melancholy circumstances, that en 
 dear the parting scene nothing to melt sor 
 row into those blessed tears, sent, like the 
 dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the 
 parching hour of anguish. 
 
 To render her widowed situation more de 
 solate, she had incurred her father's displea 
 sure by her unfortunate attachment, and was 
 an exile from the paternal roof. But could the 
 sympathy and kind offices of friends have 
 reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 145 
 
 horror, she would have experienced no want 
 of consolation, for the Irish are a people of 
 quick and generous sensibilities. The most 
 delicate and cherishing attentions were paid 
 her by families of wealth and distinction. 
 She was led into society, and they tried by all 
 kinds of occupation and amusement to dissi 
 pate her grief, and wean her from the tragical 
 story of her loves. But it was all in vain. 
 There are some strokes of calamity that 
 scathe and scorch the soul that penetrate 
 to the vital seat of happiness and blast it, 
 never again to put forth bud or blossom. She 
 never objected to frequent the haunts of plea 
 sure, but she was as much alone there as in 
 the depths of solitude. She walked about in 
 a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the 
 world around her. She carried with her an 
 inward woe that mocked at all the blandish 
 ments of friendship, and "heeded not the 
 song of the charmer, charm he never so 
 wisely." 
 
 The person who told me her story had seen 
 
146 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 her at a masquerade. There can be no exhi 
 bition of far-gone wretchedness more striking 
 and painful than to meet it in such a scene. 
 To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and 
 joyless, where all around is gay to see it 
 dressed out in the trappings of mirth,, and look 
 ing so wan and wo-begone, as if it had tried 
 in vain to cheat the poor heart into a moment 
 ary forgetfulness of sorrow* After strolling 
 through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd 
 with an air of utter abstraction, she sat her 
 self down on the steps of an orchestra, and 
 looking about for some time with a vacant air, 
 that shewed her insensibility to the garish 
 scene, she began with the capriciousness of a 
 sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She 
 had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion it 
 was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth 
 such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a 
 crowd mute and silent around her, and melted 
 every one into tears. 
 
 The story of one so true and tender, could 
 not but excite great interest in a country re- 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 147 
 
 markable for enthusiasm. It completely won 
 the heart of a brave officer, who paid his ad 
 dresses to her, and thought that one so true to 
 the dead, could not but prove affectionate to 
 the living. She declined his attentions, for her 
 thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the 
 memory of her former lover. He, however 
 persisted in his suit. He solicited not her ten 
 derness, but her esteem. He was assisted by 
 her conviction of his worth, and her sense of 
 her own destitute and dependent situation, for 
 she was existing on the kindness of friends. 
 In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining 
 her hand, though with the solemn assurance, 
 that her heart was unalterably another's. 
 
 He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that 
 a change of scene might wear out the remem 
 brance of early woes. She was an amiable 
 and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be 
 a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent 
 and devouring melancholy that had entered 
 into her very soul. She wasted away in ^ 
 
 L 
 
148 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk 
 into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. 
 
 It was on her that Moore, the distinguished 
 Irish poet, composed the following lines: 
 
 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 
 
 And lovers around her are sighing : 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 
 
 For her heart in his grave is lying. 
 
 She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 
 
 Every note which he lov'd awaking 
 Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 
 
 How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 
 
 He had liv'd for his love for his country he died, 
 They were all that to life had entwin'd him 
 
 Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
 Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 
 
 Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 
 
 When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
 They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 
 
 From her own lov'd island of sorrow! 
 
THE 
 
 ART OF BOOK MAKING. 
 
THE 
 
 ART OF BOOK MAKING. 
 
 ** If that severe doom of Synesius he true' It is a greater offence to steal 
 tlead men's labours, than their clothes,' what shall become of most writers ?" 
 
 Burton's Anal, of Melancholy. 
 
 I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fe 
 cundity of the press, and how it comes to pass 
 that so many heads, on which nature seems 
 to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, yet 
 teem with voluminous productions. As a 
 man travels on, however, in the journey of 
 life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and 
 and he is continually finding out some very 
 simple cause for some great matter of mar 
 vel. Thus have I chanced, in my pere 
 grinations about this great metropolis, to 
 blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me 
 
152 THE ART OF 
 
 some of the mysteries of the book-making 
 craft, and at once put an end to my astonish 
 ment. 
 
 I was one summer's day loitering through 
 the great saloons of the British Museum, with 
 that listlessness with which one is apt to saun 
 ter about a museum in warm weather ; some 
 times lolling over the glass cases of minerals, 
 sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an 
 Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, with 
 nearly equal success, to comprehend the alle 
 gorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. Whilst I 
 was gazing about in this idle way, my attention 
 was attracted to a distant door, at the end of a 
 suite of apartments. It was closed, but every 
 now and then it would open, and some strange- 
 favoured being, generally clothed in black, 
 would steal forth, and glide through the 
 rooms, without noticing any of the surround 
 ing objects. There was an air of mystery 
 about this that piqued my languid curiosity, 
 and I determined to attempt the passage of 
 that strait, and to explore the unknown regi 
 ons that lay beyond. The door yielded to my 
 
BOOK MAKING. 153 
 
 hand, with all that facility with which the por 
 tals of enchanted castles yield to the adventur 
 ous knight errant. I found myself in a spacious 
 chamber, surrounded with great cases of ve 
 nerable books. Above the cases, and just 
 under the cornice, were arranged a great num 
 ber of quaint black looking portraits of ancient 
 authors. About the room were placed long 
 tables, with stands for reading and writing, 
 at which sat many pale, cadaverous person 
 ages, poring intently over dusty volumes, 
 rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and 
 taking copious notes of their contents. The 
 most hushed stillness reigned through this 
 mysterious apartment, excepting that you 
 might hear the racing of pens over sheets of 
 paper, or, occasionally, the deep sigh of one 
 of these sages, as he shifted his position to turn 
 over the page of an old folio ; doubtless ari 
 sing from that hollowness and flatulency inci 
 dent to learned research. 
 
 Now and then one of these personages 
 would write something on a small slip of 
 
154 THE ART OF 
 
 paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar 
 would appear, take the paper in profound 
 silence, glide out of the room, and return 
 shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon 
 which the other would fall tooth and nail with 
 famished voracity. I had no longer a doubt 
 that I had happened upon a body of magi, 
 deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. 
 The scene reminded me of an old Arabian 
 tale of a philosopher, who was shut up in an 
 enchanted library, in the bosom of a moun 
 tain, that opened only once a year ; where he 
 made the spirits of the place obey his com 
 mands, and bring him books of all kinds of 
 dark knowledge, so that at the end of the 
 year, when the magic portal once more swung 
 open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed 
 in forbidden lore, as to be able to soar above 
 the heads of the multitude, and to control the 
 powers of nature. 
 
 My curiosity being now fully aroused, I 
 whispered to one of the familiars, as he was 
 about to leave the room, and begged an inter- 
 
BOOK MAKING. 155 
 
 pretation of the strange scene before me. A 
 few words were sufficient for the purpose. I 
 found that these mysterious personages, whom 
 I had mistaken for magi, were principally au 
 thors, and were in the very act of manufactu 
 ring books. I was, in fact, in the reading- 
 room of the great British Library an immense 
 collection of volumes of all ages and lan 
 guages, many of which are now forgotten, and 
 most of which are seldom read. To these se 
 questered pools of obsolete literature, there 
 fore, do many modern authors repair, and 
 draw buckets full of classic lore, or " pure 
 English, undented," wherewith to swell their 
 own scanty rills of thought. 
 
 Being now in possession of the secret, I sat 
 down in a corner, and watched the process of 
 this book manufactory. I noticed one lean, 
 bilious looking wight, who sought none but 
 the most worm-eaten volumes, printed in 
 black letter. He was evidently constructing 
 some work of profound erudition, that would 
 be purchased by every man who wished to be 
 
156 THE ART OF 
 
 thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous 
 shelf of his library, or laid open upon his table; 
 but never read. I observed him, now and 
 then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of 
 his pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his din 
 ner, or whether he was endeavouring to keep 
 off that exhaustion of the stomach produced 
 by much pondering over dry works, I leave 
 to harder students than myself to determine. 
 There was one dapper little gentleman in 
 bright coloured clothes, with a chirping, gos- 
 sipping expression of countenance, who had all 
 the .appearance of an author on good terms 
 with his bookseller. After considering him 
 attentively, I recognised in him a diligent get 
 ter up of miscellaneous works, which bustled 
 off well with the trade. I was curious to see 
 how he manufactured his wares. He made 
 more stir and show of business than any of 
 the others ; dipping into various books, flut 
 tering over the leaves of manuscripts, taking 
 a morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, 
 " line upon line, precept upon precept, here a 
 
BOOK MAKING. 157 
 
 little and there a little." The contents of his 
 book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those 
 of the witches' cauldron in Macbeth. It was 
 here a finger and there a thumb, toe of frog 
 and blind worm's sting, with his own gossip 
 poured in like " baboon's blood," to make the 
 medley " slab and good." 
 
 After all, thought I, may not this pilfering 
 disposition be implanted in authors for wise 
 purposes ; may it not be the way in which pro 
 vidence has taken care that the seeds of know 
 ledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age 
 to age, in spite of the inevitable decay of the 
 works in which they were first produced. We 
 see that nature has wisely, though whimsi 
 cally, provided for the conveyance of seeds 
 from clime to clime, in the maws of certain 
 birds ; so that animals, which, in themselves, 
 are little better than carrion, and apparently 
 the lawless plunderers of the orchard and the 
 corn field, are, in fact, nature's carriers to 
 disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In 
 like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts 
 
158 THE ART OF 
 
 of ancient and obsolete writers, are caught up 
 by these flights of predatory authors, and cast 
 forth, again to flourish and bear fruit in a re 
 mote and distant tract of time. Many of 
 their works, also, undergo a kind of metempsy 
 chosis, and spring up under new forms. What 
 was formerly a ponderous history, revives in 
 the shape of a romance an old legend changes 
 into a modern play and a sober philosophi 
 cal treatise furnishes the body for a whole 
 series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus 
 it is in the clearing of our American wood 
 lands ; where we burn down a forest of stately 
 pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in 
 their place ; and we never see the prostrate 
 trunk of a tree, mouldering into soil, but it 
 gives birth to a whole tribe of fungi. 
 
 Let us not, then, lament over the decay and 
 oblivion into which ancient writers descend ; 
 they do but submit to the great law of nature, 
 which declares that all sublunary shapes of 
 matter shall be limited in their duration, but 
 which decrees also, that their elements shall 
 
BOOK MAKING. 159 
 
 never perish. Generation after generation, 
 both in animal and vegetable life, pass away, 
 but the vital principle is transmitted to pos 
 terity, and the species continues to flourish. 
 Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and 
 having produced a numerous progeny, in a 
 good old age they sleep with their fathers, 
 that is to say, with the authors who preceded 
 them and from whom they had stolen. 
 
 Whilst I was indulging in these rambling 
 fancies, I had leaned my head against a pile 
 of reverend folios. Whether it was owing to 
 the soporific emanations from these works ; 
 or to the profound quiet of the room ; or to 
 the lassitude arising from much wandering ; 
 or to an unlucky habit of napping at improper 
 times and places, with which I am grievously 
 afflicted ; so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, 
 however, my imagination continued busy, and 
 indeed the same scene remained before my 
 mind's eye, only a little changed in some of 
 the details. I dreamt that the chamber was 
 still decorated with the portraits of ancient 
 
lf)0 THE ART OF 
 
 authors, but that the number was increased. 
 The long tables had disappeared, and in place 
 of the sage nlagi, I beheld a ragged, thread- 
 bare throng, such as may be seen plying about 
 that great repository of cast-off clothes, Mon- 
 mouth Street. Whenever they seized upon a 
 book, by one of those incongruities common 
 to dreams, methought it turned into a gar 
 ment of foreign or antique fashion, with which 
 they proceeded to equip themselves. I notic 
 ed, however, that no one pretended to clothe 
 himself from any particular suit, but took a 
 sleeve from one, a cape from another, a skirt 
 from a third, thus decking himself out piece 
 meal, while some of his original rags would 
 peep out from among his borrowed finery. 
 
 There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, 
 whom I observed ogling several mouldy pole 
 mical writers through an eyeglass. He sooncon- 
 trivedto slip on the voluminous mantle of one'of 
 the old fathers, and having purloined the gray 
 beard of another, endeavoured to look exceed 
 ingly wise ; but the smirking commonplace of 
 
BOOK MAKING. 161 
 
 his countenance set at nought all the trap 
 pings of wisdom. One sickly looking gentle 
 man was busied embroidering a very flimsy 
 garment with gold thread drawn out of several 
 old court dresses of the reign of Queen Eliza 
 beth. Another had trimmed himself magnifi 
 cently from an illuminated manuscript, had 
 stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from 
 " The Paradise of dainty Devices/' and having 
 put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his 
 head, strutted off with an exquisite air of vul 
 gar elegance. A third, who was but of puny 
 dimensions, had bolstered himself out bravely 
 with the spoils from several obscure tracts of 
 philosophy, so that he had a very imposing 
 front ; but he was lamentably tattered in rear, 
 and I perceived that he had patched his small 
 clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin 
 author. 
 
 There were some well-dressed gentlemen, 
 it is true, who only helped themselves to a gem 
 or so, which sparkled among their own orna 
 ments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, 
 seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old 
 
162 THE ART OF 
 
 writers, merely to imbibe their principles of 
 taste, and catch their air and spirit ; but I 
 grieve to say, that too many were apt to array 
 themselves, from top to toe, in the patchwork 
 manner I have mentioned. I should not omit 
 to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and 
 gaiters, and an arcadian hat, who had a vio 
 lent propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural 
 wanderings had been confined to the classic 
 haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of the 
 Regent's Park. He had decked himself in 
 wreaths and ribbands from all the old pastoral 
 poets, and hanging his head on one side, went 
 about with a fantastical, lack-a-daisical air, 
 " babbling about green fields." But the per 
 sonage that most struck my attention, was a 
 pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes, 
 with a remarkably large and square, but bald 
 head. He entered the room wheezing and puff 
 ing, elbowed his way through the throng, with 
 a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having 
 laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped 
 it upon his head, and swept majestically away 
 in a formidable frizzled wig. 
 
BOOK MAKING. 163 
 
 In the height of this literary masquerade, a 
 cry suddenly resounded from every side, of 
 " thieves ! thieves I" I looked,, and lo ! the 
 portraits about the walls became animated ! 
 The old authors thrust out, first a head, then 
 a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down 
 curiously, for an instant, upon the motley 
 throng, and then descended, with fury in 
 their eyes, to claim their rifled property. 
 The scene of scampering and hubbub that en 
 sued, baffles all description. The unhappy 
 culprits endeavoured in vain to escape with 
 their plunder. On one side might be seen 
 half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern 
 professor ; on another, there was sad devasta 
 tion carried into the ranks of modern drama 
 tic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by 
 side, raged round the field like Castor and 
 Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more 
 wonders than when a volunteer with the array 
 in Flanders. As to the dapper little compiler 
 of farragos, mentioned some time since, he 
 had arrayed himself in as many patches and 
 
 M 
 
164 THE ART OF 
 
 colours as Harlequin, and there was as fierce 
 a contention of claimants about him, as about 
 the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to 
 see many men, to whom I had been accus 
 tomed to look up with awe and reverence, 
 fain to steal off with scarce a rag to cover 
 their nakedness. Just then my eye was 
 caught by the pragmatical old gentleman in 
 the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling 
 away in sore affright with half a score of 
 authors in full cry after him. They were 
 close upon his haunches ; in a twinkling off 
 went his wig; at every turn some strip of 
 raiment was peeled away; until in a few 
 moments, from his domineering pomp, he 
 shrunk into a little, pursy, " chopp'd bald 
 shot," and made his exit with only a few tags 
 and rags fluttering at his back. 
 
 There was something so ludicrous in the ca 
 tastrophe of this learned Theban, that I burst 
 into an immoderate fit of laughter, which 
 broke the whole illusion. The tumult and 
 the scuffle were at an end. The chamber 
 
BOOK MAKING. 165 
 
 resumed its usual appearance. The old au 
 thors shrunk back into their picture frames, 
 and hung in shadowy solemnity along the 
 walls. In short, I found myself wide awake 
 in my corner, with the whole assemblage 
 of bookworms gazing at me with astonish 
 ment. Nothing of the dream had been real 
 but my burst of laughter, a sound never be 
 fore heard in that grave sanctuary, and so 
 abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as to elec 
 trify the fraternity. 
 
 The librarian now stepped up to me, and 
 demanded whether I had a card of admission. 
 At first I did not comprehend him, but I soon 
 found that the library was a kind of literary 
 " preserve," subject to game laws, and that 
 no one must presume to hunt there without 
 special license and permission. In a word, I 
 stood convicted of being an arrant poacher, 
 and was glad to make a precipitate retreat, 
 lest I should have a whole pack of authors 
 let loose upon me. 
 
 M2 
 
A ROYAL POET, 
 
A ROYAL POET. 
 
 Though your body be confin'd, 
 
 And soft love a prisoner bound, 
 Yet the beauty of your mind, 
 
 Neither check nor chain hath found. 
 Look out nobly, then, and dare 
 Even the fetters that you wear. 
 
 Fletcher. 
 
 ON a soft sunny morning in the genial 
 month of May, I made an excursion to Wind 
 sor castle. It is a place full of storied and 
 poetical associations. The very external as 
 pect of the proud old pile is enough to inspire 
 high thought. It rears its irregular walls and 
 massive towers, like a mural crown, round the 
 brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal banner 
 in the clouds, and looks down, with a lordly 
 
 i 
 
 air, upon the surrounding world. 
 
 On this morning the weather was of that 
 voluptuous vernal kind, which calls forth all 
 
170 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 the latent romance of a man's temperament, 
 filling his mind with musick, and disposing 
 him to quote poetry and dream of beauty. 
 In wandering through the magnificent saloons, 
 and long echoing galleries of the castle, I pass 
 ed with indifference by whole rows of portraits 
 of warriors and statesmen, but lingered in the 
 chamber, where hang the likenesses of the 
 beauties that graced the gay court of Charles 
 the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, de 
 picted with amorous, half dishevelled tresses, 
 and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil 
 of Sir Peter Lely which had thus enabled me to 
 bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In tra 
 versing also the " large green courts," with 
 sunshine beaming on the gray walls, and 
 glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was 
 engrossed with the image of the tender, the 
 gallant, but hapless Surrey, and his account of 
 his loiterings about them in his stripling days 
 when enamoured of the Lady Geraldine 
 
 " With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
 With eagie sighs, such as men draw in love." v _ r T 8 ] 
 
A ROYAL POET. 171 
 
 In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I 
 visited the ancient Keep of the Castle, where 
 James the First of Scotland, the pride and 
 theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for 
 many years of his youth detained a prisoner 
 of state. It is a huge gray tower, that has 
 stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good 
 preservation. It stands on a mound, which 
 elevates it above the other parts of the castle, 
 and a great flight of steps leads to the interior. 
 In the armoury, which is a gothic hall fur 
 nished with weapons of various kinds and 
 ages, I was shewn a coat of armour hanging 
 against the wall, which I was told had once 
 belonged to James. From hence I was con 
 ducted up a staircase to a suite of apartments 
 of faded magnificence, hung with storied 
 tapestry, which formed his prison, and the 
 scene of that passionate and fanciful amour, 
 which has woven into the web of his story the 
 magical hues of poetry and fiction. 
 
 The whole history of this amiable but un 
 fortunate prince is highly romantic. At the 
 
172 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 tender age of eleven he was sent from home 
 by his father, Robert III. and destined for the 
 French court, to be reared under the eye of 
 the French monarch, secure from the treachery 
 and danger that surrounded the royal house 
 of Scotland. It was his mishap in the course 
 of his voyage to fall into the hands of the 
 English, and he was detained prisoner by 
 Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce ex 
 isted between the two countries. 
 
 The intelligence of his capture, coming in 
 the train of many sorrows and disasters, 
 proved fatal to his unhappy father. " The 
 news," we are told, " was brought to him 
 while at supper, and did so overwhelm him 
 with grief, that he was almost ready to give 
 up the ghost into the hands of the servants 
 that attended him. But being carried to his 
 bed chamber, he abstained from all food, and 
 in three days died of hunger and grief, at 
 Rothesay."* 
 
 James was detained in captivity above 
 
 * Buchanan. 
 
A ROYAL POET. 733 
 
 eighteen years ; but, though deprived of per 
 sonal liberty, he was treated with the respect 
 due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct 
 him in all the branches of useful knowledge 
 cultivated at that period, and to give him those 
 mental and personal accomplishments deemed, 
 proper for a prince. Perhaps, in this respect, his 
 imprisonment was an advantage, as it enabled 
 him to apply himself the more exclusively to his 
 improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich 
 fund of knowledge, and to cherish those ele 
 gant tastes, which have given such a lustre 
 to his memory. The picture drawn of him in 
 early life, by the Scottish historians, is highly 
 captivating, and seems rather the description 
 of a hero of romance, than of a character in 
 real history. He was well learnt, we are told, 
 " to fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, 
 to wrestle, to sing and dance ; he was an ex 
 pert mediciner, right crafty in playing both of 
 lute and harp and sundry other instruments 
 of musick, and was expert in grammar, ora 
 tory, and poetry." * 
 
 * Ballenden's Translation of Hector Boyce. 
 
174 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 With this combination of manly and deli 
 cate accomplishments, fitting him to shine both 
 in active and elegant life, and calculated to 
 give him an intense relish for joyous existence, 
 it must have been a severe trial, in an age of 
 bustle and chivalry, to pass the spring time of 
 his years in monotonous captivity. It was 
 the good fortune of James, however, to be 
 gifted with a powerfully poetic fancy, and to 
 be visited in his prison by the choicest inspi 
 rations of the muse. Some minds corrode 
 and grow inactive, under the loss of personal 
 liberty ; others, morbid and irritable ; but it 
 is the nature of the poet to become tender and 
 imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. 
 He banquets upon the honey of his own 
 thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours 
 forth his soul in melody. 
 
 Have you not seen the nightingale 
 
 A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
 How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
 
 In that her lonely hermitage ! 
 Even there her charming melody doth prove 
 That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove. 
 
 * Roger 1'Estrange. 
 
A ROYAL POET. 175 
 
 Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the ima 
 gination, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable.. 
 That when the real world is shut out, it can 
 create a world for itself, and with a necro 
 mantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes 
 and forms, and brilliant visions, to make soli 
 tude populous, and irradiate the gloom of the 
 prison house. 
 
 The subject of the poem is his love for the 
 Lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl 
 of Somerset, and a princess of the blood royal 
 of England, of whom he became enamoured 
 in the course of his captivity. What gives it 
 peculiar value is, that it may be considered a 
 transcript of the royal bard's true feelings, 
 and the story of his real loves and fortunes. 
 It is not often that sovereigns write poetry, or 
 that poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to the 
 pride of a common man, to find a monarch 
 thus suing, as it were, for admission into his 
 closet, and seeking to win his favour by ad 
 ministering to his pleasures. It is a proof of 
 the honest equality of intellectual competition, 
 
176 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 which strips off all the trappings of factitious 
 dignity, brings the candidate down to a level 
 with his fellow men, and obliges him to depend 
 on his own native powers for distinction. It 
 is curious, too, to get at the history of a mo 
 narch's heart, and to find the simple affections 
 of human nature throbbing under the ermine. 
 But James had learnt to be a poet before he 
 was a king : he was schooled in adversity, 
 and reared in the company of his own thoughts. 
 Monarchs have seldom time to parley with 
 their hearts, or meditate their minds into 
 poetry ; and had James been brought up 
 amidst the adulation and gaiety of a court, 
 we should never, in all probability, have had 
 such a poem as the Quair. 
 
 I have been particularly interested by those 
 parts of the poem which breathe his imme 
 diate thoughts concerning his situation, or 
 which are connected with the apartment in 
 the tower. They have thus a personal and 
 local charm, and are given with such circum 
 stantial truth, as to make the reader present 
 
A ROYAL POET. 177 
 
 with the captive in his prison, and the com 
 panion of his meditations. 
 
 Such is the account which he gives of his 
 weariness of spirit, and of the incident that first 
 suggested the idea of writing the poem. It 
 was the still mid-watch of a clear moonlight 
 night ; the stars, he says, were twinkling as 
 the fire in the high vault of heaven; and 
 " Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in Aqua 
 rius." He lay in bed, wakeful and restless, 
 and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. 
 The book he chose was Boetius' Consolations 
 of Philosophy, a work popular among the 
 writers of that day, and which had been trans 
 lated. by his great prototype Chaucer. From 
 the high eulogium in which he indulges, it is 
 evident this was one of his favourite volumes 
 while in prison ; and indeed it is an admir 
 able text-book for meditation under adversity. 
 It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, 
 purified by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing 
 to its successors in calamity, the maxims of 
 sweet morality, and the trains of eloquent but 
 
178 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to 
 bear up against the various ills of life. It is a 
 talisman, which the unfortunate may treasure 
 up in his bosom, or like the good King James, 
 lay upon his nightly pillow. 
 
 After closing the volume, he turns its con 
 tents over in his mind, and gradually falls 
 into a fit of musing on the fickleness of for 
 tune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and the 
 evils that had overtaken him even in his ten 
 der youth. Suddenly he hears the bell ring 
 ing to matins ; but its sound chiming in with 
 his melancholy fancies, seems to him like a 
 voice exhorting him to write his story. In the 
 spirit of poetic errantry he determines to com 
 ply with this intimation ; he therefore takes 
 pen in hand, makes with it a sign of the cross 
 to implore a benediction, and sallies forth into 
 the fairy land of poetry. There is something 
 extremely fanciful in all this, and it is interest 
 ing as furnishing a striking and beautiful in 
 stance of the simple manner in which whole 
 trains of poetical thought are sometimes awak- 
 
A ROYAL POET. 179 
 
 ened, and literary enterprises suggested to the 
 mind. 
 
 In the course of his poem he more than 
 once bewails the peculiar hardness of his fate ; 
 thus doomed to lonely and inactive life, and 
 shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the 
 world, in which the meanest animal indulges 
 unrestrained. There is a sweetness however 
 in his very complaints ; they are the lamenta 
 tions of an amiable and social spirit at being 
 denied the indulgence of its kind and gene 
 rous propensities; there is nothing in them 
 harsh or exaggerated ; they flow with a natu 
 ral and touching pathos, and are perhaps ren 
 dered more touching by their simple brevity. 
 They contrast finely with those elaborate and 
 iterated repinings, which we sometimes meet 
 with, in poetry ; the effusions of morbid 
 minds, sickening under miseries of their own 
 creating, and venting their bitterness upon an 
 unoffending world. James speaks of his pri 
 vations with acute sensibility, but having men 
 tioned them passes on, as if his manly mind 
 
 N 
 
180 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 disdained to brood over unavoidable calami 
 ties. When such a spirit breaks forth into 
 complaint, however brief, we are aware how 
 great must be the suffering that extorts the 
 murmur. We sympathize with James, a ro 
 mantic, active, and accomplished prince, cut 
 off in the lustihood of youth from all the en 
 terprise, the noble uses, and vigorous delights 
 of life; as we do with Milton, alive to all the 
 beauties of nature and glories of art, when he 
 breathes forth brief, but deep toned lamenta 
 tions, over his perpetual blindness. 
 
 Had not James evinced a deficiency of 
 poetic artifice, we might almost have suspect 
 ed that these lourings of gloomy reflection 
 were meant as preparative to the brightest 
 scene of his story ; and to contrast with that 
 effulgence of light and loveliness, that exhili- 
 arating accompaniment of bird and song, and 
 foliage and flower, and all the revel of the 
 year, with which he ushers in the lady of his 
 heart. It is this scene in particular, which 
 throws all the magic of romance about the 
 
A ROYAL POET. 181 
 
 old castle keep. He had risen, he says, at 
 day break, according to custom, to escape 
 from the dreary meditations of a sleepless pil 
 low. " Bewailing in his chamber thus alone," 
 despairing of all joy and remedy, " for-tired 
 of thought and wo-begone," he had wandered 
 to the window, to indulge the captive's mise 
 rable solace of gazing wistfully upon the 
 world from which he is excluded. The win 
 dow looked forth upon a small garden which 
 lay at the foot of the tower. It was a quiet, 
 sheltered spot, adorned with arbours and 
 green alleys, and protected from the passing 
 gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges. 
 
 Now was there made fast by the tower's wall, 
 
 A garden faire, and in the corners set, 
 An arbour green with wandis long and small 
 
 Railed about, and so with leaves beset 
 Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 
 
 That lyf* was none, walkyng there forbye, 
 
 That might within scarce any wight espye. 
 
 So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
 Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 
 
 And midst of every arbour might be seen 
 The sharpe, grene, sweet juniper, 
 
 Growing so fair, with branches here and there, 
 That as it seemed to a lyf without, 
 The boughs did spread the arbour all about, 
 
 * I^yft person. 
 N 2 
 
182 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 And on the small grene twistisf set 
 
 The lytel swete nightingales and sung 
 So loud and clere, the hymnis consecrate 
 
 Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 
 That all the garden and the wallis rung 
 Right of their song 
 
 It was the month of May, when every thing- 
 was in bloom ; and he interprets the song of 
 the nightingale into the language of his ena 
 moured feeling : 
 
 Worship all ye that lovers be this May, 
 
 For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 
 
 And sing with us, away, winter away, 
 
 Come, summer come, the sweet season and sun, 
 
 As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the 
 notes of the birds, he gradually lapses into 
 one of those tender and undefinable reveries, 
 which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious 
 season. He wonders what this love may be, 
 of which he has so often read, and which thus 
 seems breathed forth in the quickening breath 
 of May, and melting all nature into ecstacy 
 and song. If it really be so great a felicity, 
 and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed to 
 
 f- Twistis, small boughs or twigs. 
 Not.~ The language of th quotations is generally modernized. 
 
A ROYAL POET. 183 
 
 the most insignificant of beings, why is he 
 alone cut off from its enjoyments ? 
 
 Oft would I think, O Lord, what, may this be 
 
 That love is of such noble myght and kynde ? 
 
 Loving his folk, and such prosperitee 
 
 Is it of him, as we in books do find : 
 
 May he oure hertes setten* and unbynd : 
 
 Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye ? 
 
 Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? 
 
 For gitf he be of so grete excellence, 
 
 That he of every wight hath care and charge, 
 
 What have I giltf to him, or done offense ? 
 That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large. 
 
 In the midst of his musing, as he casts his 
 eyes downward, he beholds " the fairest and 
 the freshest young floure," that ever he had 
 seen. It is the lovely lady Jane walking in 
 the garden to enjoy the beauty of that "fresh 
 May morrowe." Breaking thus suddenly 
 upon his sight in the moment of loneliness 
 and excited susceptibility, she at once cap 
 tivates the fancy of the romantic prince, and 
 becomes the object of his wandering wishes, 
 the sovereign of his ideal world. 
 
 There is, in this charming scene, an evi- 
 
 Setten, incline. f Gilt, what injury have I done, Ac. 
 
184 
 
 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 dent resemblance to the early part of Chaucer's 
 Knight's Tale ; where Palamon and Arcite fall 
 in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in 
 the garden of their prison. Perhaps the simi 
 larity of the actual fact to the incident which 
 he had read in Chaucer, may have induced 
 James to dwell on it in his poem. His de 
 scription of the Lady Jane is given in the pic 
 turesque and minute manner of his master ; 
 and being doubtless taken from the life, is a 
 perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He 
 dwells, with the fondness of a lover, on every 
 article of her apparel, from the net of pearl, 
 splendant with emeralds and sapphires, that 
 confined her golden hair, even to the " goodly 
 chaine of small orfeverye*" about her neck, 
 whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a 
 heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of 
 fire burning upon her white bosom. Her dress 
 of white tissue was looped up to enable her to 
 walk with more freedom. She was accompa* 
 
 * Wrought gold. 
 
A ROYAL POET. 185 
 
 nied by two female attendants, and about her 
 sported a little hound decorated with bells ; 
 probably the small Italian hound of exquisite 
 symmetry, which was a parlour favourite and 
 pet among the fashionable dames of ancient 
 times. 'James closes his description by a 
 burst of general eulogium. 
 
 In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 
 Bountee, richesse, and womanly feature; 
 
 God better knows than my pen can report, 
 
 Wisdom, largesse,* estate,f and cunningj sure, 
 
 In every point so guided her mesure, 
 
 In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 
 That nature might no more her child advance. 
 
 The departure of the lady Jane from the gar 
 den, puts an end to this transient riot of the 
 heart. With her departs the amorous illusion 
 that had shed a temporary ciiarm over the 
 scene of his captivity, and he relapses into 
 loneliness, now rendered tenfold more irjtol- 
 erable by this passing beam of unattainble 
 beauty. Through the long and weary day he 
 repines at his unhappy lot, and when evening 
 
 * Largesse, bounty. f State, dignity. 
 
 J Cunning, discretion. 
 
186 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully ex 
 presses it, had " bad farewell to every leaf and 
 flower," he still lingers at the window, and lay 
 ing his head upon the cold stone,! gives vent 
 a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until gra 
 dually lulled by the mute melancholy of the 
 twilight hour, he lapses " half sleeping, half 
 swoon," into a vision which occupies the re 
 mainder of the poem, and in which is allego- 
 rically shadowed out the history of his pas 
 sion. 
 
 When he wakes from his trance, he rises 
 from his stony pillow, and, pacing his apart 
 ment, full of dreary reflections, questions his 
 spirit whither it has been wandering; whe 
 ther, indeed, all that has passed before his 
 dreaming fancy, has been conjured up by pre 
 ceding circumstances ; or whether it is a 
 vision, intended to comfort and assure him in 
 his despondency. If the latter, he prays that 
 some token may be sent to confirm the pro 
 mise of happier days, given him in his slum 
 bers. Suddenly a turtle dove, of the purest 
 
A ROYAL POET. 187 
 
 whiteness, comes flying in at the window and 
 alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a 
 branch of red gilliflower, on the leaves of 
 which are written, in letters of gold, the fol 
 lowing sentence : 
 
 Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 
 The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 
 
 Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
 For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 
 
 He receives the branch with mingled hope 
 and dread ; reads it with rapture : and this, 
 he says, was the first token of his succeeding 
 happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic 
 fiction, or whether the Lady Jane did actually 
 send him a token of her favour in this roman 
 tic way, remains to be determined according 
 to the faith or fancy of the reader. He con 
 cludes his poem, by intimating that the pro 
 mise conveyed in the vision and by the flower, 
 is fulfilled, by his being restored to liberty, 
 and made happy in the possession of the sove 
 reign of his heart. 
 
 Such is the poetical account given by James 
 
188 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 of his love adventures in Windsor Castle. 
 How much of it is absolute fact, and how 
 much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruit 
 less to conjecture : do not, however, let us 
 always consider whatever is romantic as in 
 compatible with real life; but let us some 
 times take a poet at his word. I have noticed 
 merely such parts of the poem as were imme 
 diately connected with the Tower, and have 
 passed over a large part, which was in the al 
 legorical vein, so much cultivated at that day. 
 The language, of course, is quaint and anti 
 quated, so that the beauty of many of its 
 golden phrases will scarcely be perceived at 
 the present day ; but it is impossible not to be 
 charmed with the genuine sentiment, the de 
 lightful artlessness and urbanity, which pre 
 vail throughout it. The descriptions of na 
 ture, tob, with which it is embellished, are 
 given with a truth, a discrimination, and a 
 freshness, worthy of the most cultivated pe 
 riods of the art. 
 
 As an amatory poem it is edifying, in these 
 
A ROYAL POET. 189 
 
 days of coarser thinking, to notice the nature, 
 refinement, and exquisite delicacy which per 
 vade it ; banishing every gross thought or im 
 modest expression, and presenting female 
 loveliness, clothed in all its chivalrous attri 
 butes of almost supernatural purity and grace. 
 James flourished nearly about the time of 
 Chaucer and Gower, and was evidently an 
 admirer and studier of their writings. Indeed 
 in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them 
 as his masters ; and in some parts of his poem 
 we find traces of similarity to their produc 
 tions, more especially to those of Chaucer. 
 There are always, however, general features 
 of resemblance in the works of contemporary 
 authors, which are not so much borrowed from 
 each other as from the times. Writers, like 
 bees, toll their sweets in the wide world ; they 
 incorporate with their own conceptions the 
 anecdotes and thoughts which are current in 
 society ; and thus each generation has some 
 features in common, characteristic of the age 
 in which it lived. 
 
190 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 James in fact belongs to one of the most 
 brilliant eras of our literary history, and es 
 tablishes the claims of his country to a parti 
 cipation in its primitive honours. Whilst a 
 small cluster of English writers are constantly 
 cited as the fathers of our verse, the name of 
 their great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed 
 over in silence ; but he is evidently worthy of 
 being enrolled in that little constellation of 
 remote but never-failing luminaries, who 
 shine in the highest firmament of literature, 
 and who, like morning stars, sang together at 
 the bright dawning of British poesy. 
 
 Such of my readers as may not be familiar 
 with Scottish history (though the manner in 
 which it has of late been woven with captivat 
 ing fiction, has made it a universal study), 
 may be curious to learn something of the sub 
 sequent history of James, and the fortunes of 
 his love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it 
 was the solace of his captivity, so it facili 
 tated his release, it being imagined by the 
 court that a connection with the blood royal 
 
A ROYAL POET. 191 
 
 of England would attach him to its interests. 
 He was ultimately restored to his liberty and 
 crown, having previously espoused the Lady 
 Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, 
 and made him a most tender and devoted 
 wife. 
 
 He found his kingdom in great confusion, 
 the feudal chieftains having taken advantage 
 of the troubles and irregularities of a long 
 interregnum to strengthen themselves in their 
 possessions, and place themselves above the 
 power of the laws. James sought to found 
 the basis of his power in the affections of his 
 people. He attached the lower orders to him 
 by the reformation of abuses, the temperate 
 and equable administration of justice, the en 
 couragement of the arts of peace, and the 
 promotion of every thing that could diffuse 
 comfort, competency, and innocent enjoy 
 ment through the humblest ranks of society. 
 He mingled occasionally among the common 
 people in disguise; visited their fire sides; en 
 tered into their cares, their pursuits, and 
 
192 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 their amusements; informed himself of the me 
 chanical arts, and how they could best be 
 patronized and improved; and was thus an 
 all pervading spirit, watching with a benevo 
 lent eye over the meanest of his subjects. 
 Having in this generous manner, made him 
 self strong in the hearts of the common peo 
 ple, he turned himself to curb the power of the 
 factious nobility; to strip them of those danger 
 ous immunities which they had usurped ; to 
 punish such as had been guilty of flagrant 
 offences; and to bring the whole into proper 
 obedience to the crown. For some time they 
 bore this with outward submission, but secret 
 impatience and brooding resentment. A con 
 spiracy was at length formed against his life, 
 at the head of which was his own uncle, Ro 
 bert Stewart Earl of Athol, who, being too 
 old himself for the perpetration of the deed of 
 blood, instigated his grandson Sir Robert 
 Stewart, Sir Robert Graham, and others of 
 less note, to commit the deed. They brake 
 into his bed chamber at the Dominican Con- 
 
A ROYAL POET. 193 
 
 vent near Perth, where he was residing, and 
 barbarously murdered him by oft repeated 
 wounds. His faithful queen rushing to throw 
 her tender body between him and the sword, 
 was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt 
 to shield him from the assassin, and it was 
 not until she had been forcibly torn from his 
 person, that the murder was accomplished. 
 
 It was the recollection of this romantic tale 
 of former times, and of the golden little poem 
 which had its birth place in this tower, that 
 made me visit the old pile with more than com 
 mon interest. The suit of armour hanging up 
 in the hall, richly gilt and embellished as if to 
 figure in the tournay, brought the image of the 
 gallant and romantic prince vividly before my 
 imagination. I paced the deserted chambers 
 where he had composed his poem ; I leaned 
 upon the window and endeavoured to per 
 suade myself it was the very one where he 
 had been visited by his vision ; I looked out 
 upon the spot where he had first seen the 
 Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joy- 
 
194 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 ous month ; the birds were again vying with 
 each other in strains of liquid melody ; every 
 thing was bursting into vegetation, and bud 
 ding forth the tender promise of the year. 
 1 ime, which delights to obliterate the stern 
 er memorials of human pride, seems to 
 have passed lightly over this little scene of 
 poetry and love, and to have withheld his 
 desolating hand. Several centuries have gone 
 by, yet the garden still flourishes at the 
 foot of the tower. It occupies what was 
 once the moat of the keep ; and though some 
 parts have been separated by dividing walls, 
 yet others have still their arbours and 
 shaded walks, as in the days of James, and 
 the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. 
 There is a charm about a spot that has been 
 printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, 
 and consecrated by the inspirations of the 
 poet, which is heightened, ralher than impair 
 ed, by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift 
 of poetry to hallow every place in which it 
 moves; to breathe round nature an odour 
 
A ROYAL POET. 195 
 
 more exquisite than the perfume of the rose, 
 and to shed over it a tint more magical than 
 the blush of morning. 
 
 Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds 
 of James as a warrior and a legislator ; but 
 I have delighted to view him merely as the 
 companion of his fellow man, the benefactor 
 of the human heart, stooping from his high 
 estate to sow the sweet flowers of poetry and 
 song in the paths of common life. He was the 
 first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant 
 of Scottish genius, which has since become so 
 prolific of the most wholesome and highly fla 
 voured fruit. He carried with him into the 
 sterner regions of the north, all the fertilizing 
 arts of southern refinement. He did every 
 thing in his power to win his countrymen to 
 the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts, which 
 soften and refine the character of a people, 
 and wreathe a grace round the loftiness of a 
 proud and warlike spirit. He wrote many 
 poems, which, unfortunately for the fullness 
 of his fame, are now lost to the world ; one 
 
 o 
 
196 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 which is still preserved, called " Christ's Kirk 
 of the Green," shews how diligently he had 
 made himself acquainted with the rustic sports 
 and pastimes, which constitute such a source 
 of kind and social feeling among the Scottish 
 peasantry ; and with what simple and happy 
 humour he could enter into their enjoyments. 
 He contributed greatly to improve the nation 
 al music ; and traces of his tender sentiment, 
 and elegant taste, are said to exist in those 
 witching airs, still piped among the wild 
 mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He 
 has thus connected his image with what 
 ever is most gracious and endearing in the 
 national character ; he has embalmed his 
 memory in song, and floated his name to 
 after ages in the rich stream of Scottish me 
 lody. The recollection of these things was 
 kindling at my heart, as I paced the silent 
 scene of his imprisonment. I have visited 
 Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm as a pil 
 grim would visit the shrine at Loretto ; but I 
 have never felt more poetical devotion than 
 
A ROYAL POET. 197 
 
 when contemplating the old tower and the 
 little garden at Windsor, and musing over the 
 romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the 
 Royal Poet of Scotland. 
 
 
 o V 
 

THE 
 
 COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
THE 
 
 COUNTRY CHURCH, 
 
 A gentleman ? 
 
 What, o' the woolpack ? or the sugar chest ? 
 Or lists of velvet ? which is't, pound, or yard, 
 You vend your gentry by ? 
 
 Beggar's Bush. 
 
 THERE are few places more favourable to 
 the study of character than an English coun 
 try Church. I was once passing a few weeks 
 at the seat of a friend, who resided in the vi 
 cinity of one, the appearance of which particu 
 larly struck my fancy. It was one of those 
 rich morsels of quaint antiquity which give 
 such a peculiar charm to English landscape. 
 
202 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 It stood in the midst of a county filled with 
 ancient families, and contained, within its cold 
 and silent aisles, the congregated dust of 
 many noble generations. The interior walls 
 were encrusted with monuments of every age 
 and style. The light streamed through win 
 dows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly 
 emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts 
 of the church were tombs of knights, and 
 high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, 
 with their effigies in coloured marble. On 
 every side the eye was struck with some in 
 stance of aspiring mortality; some haughty 
 memorial which human pride had erected 
 over its kindred dust, in this temple of the 
 most humble of all religions. 
 
 The congregation was composed of the 
 neighbouring people of rank, who sat in pews 
 sumptuously lined and cushioned, furnished 
 with richly-gilded prayer books, and decorat 
 ed with their arms upon the pew doors; of the 
 villagers and peasantry, who filled the back 
 seats, and a small gallery beside the organ ; 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 203 
 
 and of the poor of the parish, who were rang 
 ed on benches in the aisles. 
 
 The service was performed by a snuffling, 
 well fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near 
 the church. He was a privileged guest at 
 all the tables of the neighbourhood, and had 
 been the keenest fox-hunter in the county ; 
 until age and good living, had disabled him 
 from doing any thing more than ride to see 
 the hounds throw off, and make one at the 
 hunting dinner. 
 
 Under the ministry of such a pastor, I 
 found it impossible to get into the train of 
 thought suitable to the time and place ; so, 
 having, like many other feeble Christians, 
 compromised with my conscience, by laying 
 the sin of my own delinquency at another 
 person's threshold, I occupied myself by mak 
 ing observations on my neighbours. 
 
 I was as yet a stranger in England, and 
 curious to notice the manners of its fashiona 
 ble classes. I found, as usual, that there was 
 the least pretension where there was the most 
 
204 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 acknowledged title to respect. I was parti 
 cularly struck, for instance, with the family of 
 a nobleman of high rank, consisting of several 
 sons and daughters. Nothing could be more 
 simple and unassuming than their appearance. 
 They generally came to church in the plainest 
 equipage, and often on foot. The young la 
 dies would stop and converse, in the kindest 
 manner, with the peasantry, caress the child 
 ren, and listen to the stories of the humble 
 cottagers. Their countenances were open and 
 beautifully fair, with an expression of high 
 refinement, but, at the same time, a frank 
 cheerfulness, and an engaging affability. Their 
 brothers were tall, and elegantly formed. 
 They were dressed fashionably, but simply ; 
 with strict neatness and propriety, but without 
 any mannerism or foppishness. Their whole 
 demeanour was easy and natural, with that 
 lofty grace, and noble frankness, which be 
 speak free-born souls that have never been 
 checked in their growth by feelings of inferio 
 rity. There is a healthful hardiness about 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 205 
 
 real dignity, that never dreads contact and 
 communion with others, however humble. It 
 is only spurious pride that is morbid and sen 
 sitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was 
 pleased to see the manner in which they would 
 converse with the peasantry about those rural 
 concerns and field sports, in which the gentle 
 men of this country so much delight. In these 
 conversations, there was neither haughtiness 
 on the one part, nor servility on the other ; 
 and you were only reminded of the difference 
 of rank by the habitual respect of the peasant. 
 In contrast to these, was the family of a 
 wealthy citizen, who had amassed a vast for 
 tune ; and, having purchased the estate and 
 mansion of a ruined noblemen in the neigh 
 bourhood, was endeavouring to assume all the 
 style and dignity of an hereditary lord of the 
 soil. The family always came to church en 
 prince. They were rolled majestically along 
 in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The 
 crest glittered in silver radiance from every 
 part of the harness where a crest could possi- 
 
206 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 bly be placed. A fat coachman in a three- 
 cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen wig-, 
 curling close round his rosy face, was seated 
 on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside 
 him. Two footmen in gorgeous liveries, with 
 huge bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled 
 behind. The carriage rose and sunk on its 
 long springs with peculiar stateliness of mo 
 tion. The very horses champed their bits, 
 arched their necks, and glanced their eyes 
 more proudly than common horses ; either be 
 cause they had got a little of the family feel 
 ing, or were reined up more tightly than 
 ordinary. 
 
 I could not but admire the style with which 
 this splendid pageant was brought up to the 
 gate of the church yard. There was a vast 
 effect produced at the turning of an angle of 
 the wall. A great cracking of the whip; 
 straining and scrambling of the horses ; glis 
 tening of harness, and flashing of wheels 
 through gravel. This was the moment of tri 
 umph and vain glory to the coachman. The 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 207 
 
 horses were urged and checked until they 
 were fretted into a foam. They threw out 
 their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about 
 pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers 
 sauntering quietly to church, opened precipi 
 tately to the right and left, gaping in vacant 
 admiration. On reaching the gate, the horses 
 were pulled up with a suddenness that pro 
 duced an immediate stop, and almost threw 
 them on their haunches. 
 
 There was an extraordinary hurry of the 
 footmen to alight, open the door, pull down 
 the steps, and prepare every thing for the de 
 scent on earth of this august family. The 
 old citizen first emerged his round red face 
 from out the door, looking about him with the 
 pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on 
 change, and shake the stock market with a 
 nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable 
 dame, followed him. There seemed, I must 
 confess, but little pride in her composition. 
 She was the picture of broad, honest, vulgar 
 enjoyment. The world went well with her ; 
 
208 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, 
 a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, 
 every thing was fine about her : it was nothing 
 but driving about, and visiting and feasting. 
 Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one 
 long lord mayor's day. 
 
 Two daughters succeeded to this goodly 
 couple. They certainly were handsome ; but 
 had a supercilious air, that chilled admiration, 
 and disposed the spectator to be critical. 
 They were ultra-fashionables in dress ; and, 
 though no one could deny the richness of their 
 decorations, yet their appropriateness might be 
 questioned amidst the simplicity of a country 
 church. They descended loftily from the car 
 riage, and moved up the line of peasantry with 
 a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. 
 They cast an excursive glance around, that 
 passed coldly over the burly faces of the pea 
 santry, until they met the eyes of the noble 
 man's family, when their countenances imme 
 diately brightened into smiles, and they made 
 the most profound and elegant courtesies ; 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 209 
 
 which were returned in a manner that showed 
 they were but slight acquaintances. 
 
 I must not forget the two sons of this aspi 
 ring citizen, who came to church in a dashing 
 curricle, with outriders. They were arrayed 
 in the extremity of the mode, with all that 
 pedantry of dress which marks the man of 
 questionable pretensions to style. They kept 
 entirely by themselves, eyeing every one 
 askance that came near them, as if measuring 
 his claims to respectability ; yet they were 
 without conversation, except the exchange of 
 an occasional cant phrase. They even moved 
 artificially; for their bodies, in compliance 
 with the caprice of the day, had been disci 
 plined into the absence of all ease and free 
 dom. Art had done every thing to accomplish 
 them as men of fashion, but nature had denied 
 them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly 
 shaped, like men formed for the common pur 
 poses of life, and had that air of supercilious 
 assumption which is never seen in the true 
 gentleman. 
 
210 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 I have been rather minute in drawing the 
 pictures of these two families, because I con 
 sidered them specimens of what is often to be 
 met with in this country the unpretending 
 great, and the arrogant little. I have no re 
 spect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied 
 by true nobility of soul ; but I have remark 
 ed, in all countries where artificial distinc 
 tions exist, the very highest classes are always 
 the most courteous and unassuming. Those 
 who are well assured of their own standing, 
 are least apt to trespass on that of others ; 
 whereas, nothing is so offensive as the aspir 
 ings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate it 
 self by humiliating its neighbour. 
 
 As I have brought these families into con 
 trast, I must notice their behaviour in church. 
 That of the nobleman's family was quiet, se 
 rious, and attentive. Not that they appeared 
 to have any fervour of devotion, but rather a 
 respect for sacred things, and sacred places, 
 inseparable from good breeding. The others, 
 on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 211 
 
 and whisper ; they betrayed a continual con 
 sciousness of finery/ and a sorry ambition of 
 being the wonders of a rural congregation. 
 
 The old gentleman was the only one really 
 attentive to the service. He took the whole 
 burden of family devotion upon himself, stand 
 ing bolt upright, and uttering the responses 
 with a loud voice that might be heard all over 
 the church. It was evident that he was one 
 of those thorough church and king men, who 
 connect the idea of devotion and loyalty ; who 
 consider the deity, some how or other, of the 
 government party, and religion " a very ex 
 cellent sort of thing, that ought to be counte 
 nanced and kept up." 
 
 When he joined so loudly in the service, it 
 seemed more by way of example to the lower 
 orders, to show them, that though so great 
 and wealthy, he was not above being reli 
 gious ; as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman 
 swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, 
 smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pro 
 nouncing it " excellent food for the poor." 
 
 p 
 
212 ?HE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 When the service was at an end,, I was cu 
 rious to witness the several exits of my groups. 
 The young noblemen and their sisters,, as the 
 day was fine, preferred strolling home across 
 the fields, chatting with the country people as 
 they went. The others departed as they ce me, 
 in grand parade. Again were the equipages 
 wheeled up to the gate. There was again the 
 smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, 
 and the glittering of harness. The horses 
 started off almost at a bound ; the villagers 
 again hurried to right and left; the wheels 
 threw up a cloud of dust ; and the aspiring 
 family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind, 
 
THE 
 
 WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
THE 
 
 WIDOW AND HER SON, 
 
 Piltic olde age, within whose silver haires 
 Honour and reverence evermore have raign'd. 
 
 Marlowe's Tamburlainc. 
 
 DURING my residence in the country, I used 
 frequently to attend at the old village church. 
 Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monu 
 ments, its dark oaken pannelling, all rever 
 end with the gloom of departed years, seemed 
 to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. 
 A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy in its 
 repose : such a pensive quiet reigns over the 
 face of nature, that every restless passion is 
 
216 THE WIDOW 
 
 charmed down, and we feel all the natural 
 religion of the soul gently springing up within 
 us. 
 
 " Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky!" 
 
 I do not pretend to be what is called a devout 
 man ; but there are feelings that visit me in a 
 country church, amid the beautiful serenity 
 of nature, which I experience no where else; 
 and if not a more religious, I think I am a 
 better man on Sunday, than on any other day 
 of the seven. 
 
 But in this church I felt myself continually 
 thrown back upon the world by the frigidity 
 and pomp of the poor worms around me. 
 The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel 
 the humble and prostrate piety of a true Chris 
 tian, was a poor decrepid old woman, bending 
 under the weight of years and infirmities. 
 She bore the traces of something better than 
 abject poverty. The lingerings of decent 
 pride were visible in her appearance. Her 
 dress, though humble in the extreme, was 
 
AND HER SON. 217 
 
 scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, 
 had been awarded her, for she did not take 
 her seat among the village poor, but sat alone 
 on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have 
 survived all love, all friendship, all society; 
 and to have nothing left her but the hopes of 
 heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and 
 bending her aged form in prayer habitually 
 conning her prayer book, which her palsied 
 hand and failing eyes would not permit her to 
 read, but which she evidently knew by heart 
 I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that 
 poor woman a/ose to heaven far before the 
 responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, 
 or the chanting of the choir. 
 
 I am fond of loitering about country churches, 
 and this was so delightfully situated, that it fre 
 quently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, 
 round which a small stream made a beautiful 
 bend, and then wound its way through a long 
 reach of soft meadow scenery. The church 
 was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed 
 almost coeval with itself. Its tall gothic 
 
218 THE WIDOW 
 
 spire shot up lightly from among them, with 
 rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. 
 I was seated there one still sunny morning, 
 watching two labourers who were digging a 
 grave. They had chosen one of the most re 
 mote and neglected corners of the church 
 yard ; where, from the number of nameless 
 graves around, it would appear that the indi 
 gent and friendless were huddled into the 
 earth. I was told that the new made grave 
 was for the only son of a poor widow. While 
 I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly 
 rank, which extend thus down into the very 
 dust, the toll of the bell announced the ap 
 proach of the funeral. They were the obse 
 quies of poverty, with which pride had no 
 thing to do. A coffin of the plainest materi 
 als, without pall or other covering, was borne 
 by some of the villagers. The sexton walked 
 before with an air of cold indifference. There 
 . were no mock mourners in the trappings of 
 affected woe; but there was one real mourner 
 who feebly tottered after the corpe. It was the 
 
AND HER SON. 219 
 
 aged mother of the deceased the poor old 
 woman whom I had seen seated on the steps 
 of the altar. She was supported by a humble 
 friend, who was endeavouring to comfort her. 
 A few of the neighbouring poor had joined the 
 train, and some children of the village were 
 running hand in hand, now shquting with un 
 thinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, 
 with childish curiosity, on the grief of the 
 mourner. 
 
 As the funeral train approached the grave, 
 the parson issued from the church porch, 
 arrayed in the surplice, with prayer book in 
 hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, 
 however, was a mere act of charity. The deceas 
 ed had been destitute, and the survivor was 
 pennyless. It was shuffled through, therefore, 
 in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The 
 well-fed priest moved but a few steps from 
 the church door; his voice could scarcely be 
 heard at the grave ; and never did I hear the 
 funeral service, that sublime and touching 
 
220 THE WIDOW 
 
 ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery 
 of words. 
 
 I approached the grave. The coffin was 
 placed on the ground. On it were inscribed 
 the name and age of the deceased " George 
 Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother 
 had been assisted to kneel down at the head 
 of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as 
 if in prayer, but I could perceive, by a feeble 
 rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion 
 of the lips, that she was gazing on the last 
 relics of her son, with the yearnings of a 
 mother's heart. 
 
 The service being ended, preparations were 
 made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There 
 was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly 
 on the feelings of grief and affection : direc 
 tions given in the cold tones of business ; the 
 striking of spades into sand and gravel; which, 
 at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, 
 the most withering. The bustle around 
 seemed to waken the mother from a wretch- 
 
AND HER SON. 221 
 
 ed reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and 
 looked about with a faint wildness. As the 
 men approached with cords to lower the cof 
 fin into the grave, she wrung her hands and 
 broke into an agony of grief. The poor wo 
 man who attended her took her by the arm, 
 endeavouring to raise her from the earth, and 
 to whisper something like consolation " Nay, 
 now nay, now don't take it so sorely to 
 heart." She could only shake her head, and 
 wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. 
 
 As they lowered the body into the earth, the 
 creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her ; 
 but when, on some accidental obstruction, 
 there was a justling of the coffin, all the ten 
 derness of the mother burst forth ; as if any 
 harm could come to him who was far beyond 
 the reach of worldly suffering. 
 
 I could see no more my heart swelled into 
 my throat my eyes filled with tears I felt as 
 if I were acting a barbarous part in standing 
 by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal 
 anguish. I wandered to another part of the 
 
222 THE WIDOW 
 
 church yard., where I remained until the fune 
 ral train had dispersed. 
 
 When I saw the mother slowly and pain 
 fully quitting the grave, leaving behind her 
 the remains of all that was dear to her on 
 earth, and returning to silence and destitu 
 tion, my heart ached for her. What, thought 
 I, are the distresses of the rich ! they have 
 friends to soothe pleasures to beguile a 
 world to divert and dissipate their griefs. 
 What are the sorrows of the young ! Their 
 growing rninds soon close above the wound 
 their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pres 
 sure their green and ductile affections soon 
 twine round new objects. But the sorrows of 
 the poor, who have no outward appliances to 
 soothe the sorrows of the aged, with whom 
 life at best is but as a wintry day, and who 
 can look for no after-growth of joy the sor 
 rows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, 
 mourning over an only son, the last solace of 
 her years ; these are indeed sorrows which 
 make us feel the impotency of consolation. 
 
AND HER SON. 223 
 
 It was some time before I left the church 
 yard. On my way homeward, I met with the 
 woman who had acted as comforter : she was 
 just returning from accompanying the mother 
 to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her 
 some particulars connected with the affecting 
 scene I had witnessed. 
 
 The parents of the deceased had resided in 
 the village from childhood. They had inha 
 bited one of the neatest cottages, and by vari 
 ous rural occupations, and the assistance of a 
 small garden, had supported themselves cre 
 ditably and comfortably, and led a happy and 
 a blameless life. They had one son, who had 
 grown up to be the staff and pride of their age. 
 " Oh, sir !" said the good woman, " he was 
 such a likely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind 
 to every one round him,, so dutiful to his pa 
 rents ! It did one's heart good, to see him of 
 a Sunday, drest out in his best, so tall; so 
 straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother 
 to church for she was always fonder of lean 
 ing on George's arm, than on her good man's; 
 
224 THE WIDOW 
 
 and, poor soul, she might well be proud of 
 him, for a finer lad there was not in the coun 
 try round." 
 
 Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during 
 a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, 
 to enter into the service of one of the small 
 craft that plied on a neighbouring river. Fie 
 had not been long in this employ, when he 
 was entrapped by a press-gang, and carried 
 off to sea. His parents received tidings of 
 his seizure, but beyond that they could learn 
 nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. 
 The father, who was already infirm, grew 
 heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his 
 grave. The widow, left lonely in her age and 
 feebleness, could no longer support herself, 
 and came upon the parish. Still there was a 
 kind feelingtoward her throughout the village, 
 and a certain respect as being one of the old 
 est inhabitants. As no one applied for the 
 cottage in which she had passed so many 
 happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, 
 where she lived solitary and almost helpless. 
 
AND HER SON. 225 
 
 The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied 
 from the scanty productions of her little gar 
 den, which the neighbours would now and 
 then cultivate for her. It was but a few days 
 before the time at which these circumstances 
 were told me, that she was gathering some 
 vegetables for her repast, when she heard the 
 cottage door which faced the garden suddenly 
 opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to 
 be looking eagerly and wildly around. He 
 was dressed in seamen's clothes, was emacia 
 ted and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one 
 broken by sickness and hardships. He saw 
 her, and hastened toward her, but his steps 
 were faint and faltering ; he sank on his knees 
 before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor 
 woman gazed upon him with a vacant and 
 wandering eye " Oh my dear, dear mother ! 
 don't you know your son ! your poor boy 
 George !" It was, indeed, the wreck of her 
 once noble lad ; who, shattered by wounds, 
 by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had, 
 at length, dragged his wasted limbs home- 
 
226 THE WIDOW 
 
 ward, to repose among the scenes of his child 
 hood. 
 
 I will not attempt to detail the particulars 
 of such a meeting, where joy and sorrow were 
 so completely blended : still he was alive ! he 
 was come home ! he might yet live to comfort 
 and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, 
 was exhausted in him ; and if any thing had 
 been wanting to finish the work of fate, the de 
 solation of his native cottage would have been 
 sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet 
 on which his widowed mother had passed 
 many a sleepless night, and he never rose 
 from it again. 
 
 The villagers, when they heard that George 
 Somers had returned, crowded to see him, 
 offering every comfort and assistance that 
 their humble means afforded. He was too 
 weak, however, to talk he could only look his 
 thanks. His mother was his constant attend 
 ant ; and he seemed unwilling to be helped by 
 any other hand. 
 
 There is something in sickness that breaks 
 
AND HER SON. 227 
 
 down the pride of manhood*; that softens the 
 heart, and brings it back to the feelings of in 
 fancy. Who that has languished, even in ad 
 vanced life, in sickness and despondency ; who 
 that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect 
 and loneliness of a foreign land ; but has 
 thought on the mother " that looked on his 
 childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and ad 
 ministered to his helplessness. Oh ! there is 
 an enduring tenderness in the love of a mo 
 ther to a son that transcends all other affec 
 tions of the heart. It is neither to be chilled 
 by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor 
 weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by in 
 gratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort 
 to his convenience ; she will surrender every 
 pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in 
 his fame, and exult in his prosperity : and, if 
 adversity overtake him, he will be the dearer 
 to her by misfortune ; and if disgrace settle 
 upon his name, she will still love and cherish 
 him ; and if all the world beside cast him off, 
 she will be all the world to him. 
 Q 
 

 228 THE WIDOW 
 
 Poor George Somers had known well what 
 it was to be in sickness, and none to soothe 
 lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. 
 He could not endure his mother from his 
 sight ; if she moved away, his eye would fol 
 low her. She would sit for hours by his bed, 
 watching him as he slept. Sometimes he 
 would start from a feverish dream and look 
 anxiously up until he saw her venerable form 
 bending over him; when he would take her 
 hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with 
 the tranquillity of a child. In this way he 
 died. 
 
 My first impulse on hearing this humble 
 tale of affliction, was to visit the cottage of the 
 mourner, and administer pecuniary assistance, 
 and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, 
 on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villa 
 gers had prompted them to do every thing 
 that the case admitted : and as the poor know 
 best how to console each other's sorrows, I 
 did not venture to intrude. 
 
 The next Sunday I was at the village 
 
AND HER SON. 229 
 
 church ; when, to my surprise, I saw the poor 
 old woman tottering down the aisle to her ac 
 customed seat on the steps of the altar. 
 
 She had made an effort to put on something 
 like mourning for her son ; and nothing could 
 be more touching than this struggle between 
 pious affection and utter poverty : a black ri 
 band or so a faded black handkerchief, and 
 one or two more such humble attempts to ex 
 press by outward signs that grief which passes 
 show. When I looked round upon the storied 
 monuments ; the stately hatchments ; the cold 
 marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned 
 magnificently over departed pride ; and turn 
 ed to this poor widow bowed down by age and 
 sorrow at the altar of her God, and offering up 
 the prayers and praises of a pious, though a 
 broken heart, I felt that this living monu 
 ment of real grief was worth them all. 
 
 I related her story to some of the wealthy 
 members of the congregation, and they were 
 moved by it. They exerted themselves to ren 
 der her situation more comfortable, and to 
 
 Q 2 
 
230 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but 
 smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the 
 course of a Sunday or two after, she was miss 
 ed from her usual seat at church, and before I 
 left the neighbourhood, I heard, with a feeling 
 of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed 
 her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, 
 in that world where [sorrow is never known, 
 and friends are never parted. 
 
THE 
 
 BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN. 
 
THE 
 
 BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, 
 
 EASTCHEAP. 
 
 A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH. 
 
 " A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. I 
 have heard my great grandfather tell, how his great great grandfather should say, 
 that it was an old proverb when his great grandfather was a child, that ' it was a 
 good wind that blew a man to the wine.' " 
 
 Mother Bombie. 
 
 IT is a pious custom, in some Catholic coun 
 tries, to honour the memory of saints by vo 
 tive lights burnt before their pictures. The 
 popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known 
 by the number of these offerings. One, per 
 haps, is left to moulder in the darkness of his 
 little chapel ; another may have a solitary 
 lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his 
 
234 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 effigy ; while the whole blaze of adoration is 
 lavished at the shrine of some beatified father 
 of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his 
 huge luminary of wax ; the eager zealot his 
 seven branched candlestick, and 'even the 
 mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied 
 that sufficient light is thrown upon the de 
 ceased, unless he hangs up his little lamp of 
 smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the 
 eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to 
 obscure ; and I have occasionally seen an un 
 lucky saint almost smoked out of counte 
 nance by the officiousness of his followers. 
 
 In like manner has it fared with the immor 
 tal Shakspeare. Every writer considers it 
 his bounden duty to light up some portion of 
 his character or works, and to rescue some 
 merit from oblivion. The commentator, opu 
 lent in words, produces vast tomes of disser 
 tations ; the common herd of editors send up 
 mists of obscurity from their notes at the bot 
 tom of each page ; and every casual scribbler 
 brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy or re- 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 235 
 
 search, to swell the cloud of incense and of 
 smoke. 
 
 As I honour all established usages of my 
 brethren of the quill, I thought it but proper 
 to contribute my mite of homage to the me 
 mory of the illustrious bard. I was for some 
 time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I 
 should discharge this duty. I found myself 
 anticipated in every attempt at a new reading; 
 every doubtful line had been explained a dozen 
 different ways, and perplexed beyond the reach 
 of elucidation ; and as to fine passages, they 
 had all been amply praised by previous ad 
 mirers ; nay, so completely had the bard, of 
 late, been overlarded with panegyric by a 
 great German critic, that it was difficult now 
 to find even a fault that had not been argued 
 into a beauty. 
 
 In this perplexity, I was one morning turn 
 ing over his pages, when I casually opened 
 upon the comic scenes of Henry IV. and was, 
 in a moment, completely lost in the mad cap 
 revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly 
 
236 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 and naturally are these scenes of humour de 
 picted, and with such force and consistency 
 are the characters sustained, that they become 
 mingled up in the mind with the facts and 
 personages of real life. To few readers does 
 it occur, that these are all ideal creations of 
 a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, no such 
 knot of merry roysters ever enlivened the dull 
 neighbourhood of Eastcheap. 
 
 For my part, I love to give myself up to the 
 illusions of poetry. A hero of fiction that 
 never existed, is just as valuable to me as a 
 hero of history that existed a thousand years 
 since : and, if I may be excused such an in 
 sensibility to the common ties of human na 
 ture, I would not give up fat Jack for half 
 the great men of ancient chronicle. What 
 have the heroes of yore done for me, or men 
 like me ? They have conquered countries of 
 which I do not enjoy an acre ; or they have 
 gained laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf; 
 or they have furnished examples of hair brain 
 ed prowess, which I have neither the oppor- 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 237 
 
 tunity nor the inclination to follow. But, old 
 Jack Falstaffl kind Jack Falstaff! sweet 
 JackFalstaff! has enlarged the boundaries of 
 human enjoyment ; he has added vast regions 
 of wit and good humour, in which the poorest 
 man may revel; and has bequeathed a never 
 failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make 
 mankind merrier and better to the latest pos 
 terity. 
 
 A thought suddenly struck me : " I will 
 make a pilgrimage to Eastcheap," said I, clos 
 ing the book, " and see if the old Boar's 
 Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I 
 may light upon some legendary traces of Dame 
 Quickly and her guests ; at any rate, there 
 will be a kindred pleasure in treading the halls 
 once vocal with their mirth, to that the toper 
 enjoys, in smelling to the empty cask once 
 filled with generous wine." 
 
 The resolution was no sooner formed than 
 put in execution. I forbear to treat of the 
 various adventures and wonders I encountered 
 in my travels ; of the haunted regions of 
 
238 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 Cock-lane ; of the faded glories of Little Bri 
 tain, and the parts adjacent ; what perils I 
 ran in Cateaton Street and Old Jewry ; of the 
 renowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, 
 the pride and wonder of the city, and the ter 
 ror of all unlucky urchins ; and how I visited 
 London Stone, and struck my staff upon it, in 
 imitation of that arch rebel, Jack Cade. 
 
 Let it suffice to say, that I at length 
 arrived in merry Eastcheap, that ancient 
 region of wit and wassail, where the very 
 names of the streets relished of good cheer, as 
 Pudding-lane bears testimony even at the 
 present day. For Eastcheap, says old Stow, 
 " was always famous for its convivial doings. 
 The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef rosted, 
 pies well baked, and other victuals : there was 
 clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and 
 sawtrie." Alas! howsadly is the scene changed 
 since the roaring days of Falstaff and old 
 Stow. The mad cap royster has given place 
 to the plodding tradesman ; the clattering of 
 pots and the sound of " harpe and sawtry," to 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 239 
 
 the din of carts and the accursed dinging of 
 the dustman's bell ; and no song is heard, 
 save, haply, the strain of some syren from 
 Billingsgate, chaunting the eulogy of deceased 
 mackerel. 
 
 I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of 
 Dame Quickly. The only relique of it is a 
 Boar's head, carved in relief in stone, which 
 formerly served as the sign ; but, at present, is 
 built into the parting line of two houses, 
 which stand on the scite of the renowned old 
 tavern. 
 
 For the history of this little empire of good 
 fellowship, I was referred to a tallow-chand 
 ler's widow, opposite, who had been born and 
 brought up on the spot, and was looked up to 
 as the indisputable chronicler of the neigh 
 bourhood. I found her seated in a little back 
 parlour, the window of which looked out upon 
 a yard about eight feet square, laid out as a 
 flower-garden ; while a glass door opposite, 
 afforded a distant peep of the street, through 
 a vista of soap and tallow candles : the two 
 
340 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 views, which comprised, in all probability, her 
 prospects in life, and the little world in which 
 she had lived, and moved, and had her being, 
 for the better part of a century. 
 
 To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, 
 great and little, from London Stone even unto 
 the Monument, was, doubtless, in her opinion, 
 to be acquainted with the history of the uni 
 verse. Yet, with all this, she possessed the 
 simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal, 
 communicative disposition, which I have 
 generally remarked in intelligent old ladies, 
 knowing in the concerns of their neighbour 
 hood. 
 
 Her information, however, did not extend 
 far back into antiquity. She could throw no 
 light upon the history of the Boar's Head, 
 from the time that Dame Quickly espoused 
 the valiant Pistol, until the great fire of Lon 
 don, when it was unfortunately burnt down. 
 It was soon rebuilt, and continued to flourish 
 under the old name and sign, until a dying 
 landlord, struck with remorse for double 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 241 
 
 scores, bad measures, and other iniquities 
 which are incident to the sinful race of Publi 
 cans, endeavoured to make his peace with 
 heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St. 
 Michael's Church, Crooked-lane, toward the 
 supporting of a chaplain. For some time the 
 vestry meetings were regularly held there; 
 but it was observed that the old Boar never 
 held up his head under church government. 
 He gradually declined, and finally gave his 
 last gasp about thirty years since. The tavern 
 was then turned into shops ; but she informed 
 me, that a picture of it was still preserved in 
 St. Michael's Church, which stood just in the 
 rear. To get a sight of this picture was now 
 my determination ; so, having informed my 
 self of the abode of the sexton, I took my 
 leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, 
 my visit having doubtless raised greatly her 
 opinion of her legendary lore, and furnished 
 an important incident in the history of her 
 life. 
 
 It cost me some difficulty, and much cu- 
 
242 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 rious inquiry, to ferret out the humble hanger- 
 on to the church. I had to explore Crooked 
 Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, and 
 dark passages, with which this old city is per 
 forated, like an ancient cheese, or a worm- 
 eaten chest of drawers. At length I traced 
 him to a corner of a small court, surrounded 
 by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy 
 about as much of the face of heaven, as a 
 community of frogs at the bottom of a well. 
 The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little 
 man, of a bowing, lowly habit ; yet he had 
 a pleasant twinkle in his eye, and if encourag 
 ed, would now and then hazard a small plea 
 santry ; such as a man of his low estate might 
 venture to make in the company, of high 
 church wardens, and other mighty men of the 
 earth. I found him in company with the de 
 puty organist, seated apart, like Milton's 
 angels ; discoursing, no doubt, on high doctri 
 nal points, and settling the affairs of the 
 church over a friendly pot of ale for the 
 lower classes of English seldom deliberate on 
 
TAVERN, EA8TCHEAP. 248 
 
 any weighty matter without the assistance of 
 a cool tankard to clear their understandings. 
 I arrived at the moment when they had 
 finished their ale and their argument, and 
 were about to repair to the church to put it in 
 order ; so, having made known my wishes, I 
 received their gracious permission to accom 
 pany them. 
 
 The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, 
 standing at a short distance from Billings 
 gate, is enriched with the tombs of many fish 
 mongers of renown ; and as every profession 
 has its galaxy of glory, and its constellation 
 of great men, I presume the monument of a 
 mighty fishmonger of the olden time is re 
 garded with as much reverence by succeed 
 ing generations of the craft, as poets feel on 
 contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers 
 the monument of a Marlborough or a Tu- 
 renne. 
 
 I cannot but turn aside, while thus speak 
 ing of illustrious men, to observe that St. Mi 
 chael's, Crooked Lane, contains also the ashes 
 
 R 
 
244 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 of that doughty champion, William Walworth,, 
 Knight, who so manfully clove down the 
 sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero 
 worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the 
 only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds 
 of arms : the sovereigns of Cockney being 
 generally renowned as the most pacific of all 
 potentates.* 
 
 * The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of 
 this worthy; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagra- 
 gration. 
 
 Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
 Ailliam Walworth callyd by name : 
 Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, 
 And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere; 
 Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 
 Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
 For which act done, and trew entent, 
 The Kyng made him knyght incontinent ; 
 And gave him armes, as here you see, 
 To declare his fact and chivaldrie. 
 He left this lyff the yere of our God 
 Thirteen hondred fourscore and three odd. 
 
 An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the ve 
 nerable Stow. " Whereas," saith he, " it hath been far spread abroad 
 by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir Wil 
 liam Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, 
 and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash conceived 
 doubt by such testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The 
 principal leaders, or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as 
 the first man; the second was John, or Jack, Straw, &c. &c." 
 
 Stow's London. 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 245 
 
 Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, 
 immediately under the back windows of what 
 was once the Boar's Head, stands the tomb 
 stone of Robert Preston, whilome drawer at 
 the tavern. It is now nearly a century since 
 this trusty drawer of good liquor closed his 
 bustling career, and was thus quietly depo 
 sited within call of his customers. As I was 
 clearing away the weeds from his epitaph, the 
 little sexton drew me on one side with a mys 
 terious air, and informed me in a low voice, 
 that once upon a time, on a dark wintry 
 night ; when the wind was unruly, howling, 
 and whistling, banging about doors and win 
 dows, and twirling weathercocks, so that the 
 living were frightened out of their beds, and 
 even the dead could not sleep quietly in their 
 graves ; the ghost of honest Preston, which 
 happened to be airing itself in the church 
 yard, was attracted by the well-known call of 
 " waiter" from the Boar's Head, and made its 
 sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring 
 club, just as the parish clerk was singing a 
 
 R2 
 
246 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 stave from the " mirrie garland of Captain 
 Death ;" to the discomfiture of sundry train 
 band captains, and the conversion of an infi 
 del attorney, who became a zealous Christian 
 on the spot, and was never known to twist 
 the truth afterwards, except in the way of 
 business. 
 
 I beg it may be remembered, that I do not 
 pledge myself for the authenticity of this 
 anecdote ; though it is well known that the 
 church yards and bye corners of this old me 
 tropolis are very much infested with perturbed 
 spirits ; and every one must have heard of the 
 Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that 
 guards the regalia in the Tower, which has 
 frightened so many bold sentinels almost out 
 of their wits. 
 
 Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston 
 seems to have been a worthy successor to the 
 nimble-tongued Francis, who attended upon 
 the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally 
 prompt with his " anon, anon, sir;" and to have 
 transcended his predecessor in honesty; tor 
 
247 
 
 Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no man 
 will venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis 
 of putting lime in his sack ; whereas, honest 
 Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of 
 his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and 
 the fairness of his measure.* The worthy dig 
 nitaries of the church, however, did not appear 
 much captivated by the sober virtues of the 
 tapster ; the deputy organist, who had a moist 
 look out of the eye, made some shrewd re 
 mark on the abstemiousness of a man brought 
 up among full hogsheads ; and the little sex 
 ton corroborated his opinion by a significant 
 wink, and a dubious shake of the head. 
 Thus far my researches, though they threw 
 
 * As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it 
 for the admonition of delinquent Tapsters. It is, no doubt, the pro 
 duction of some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's Head. 
 
 Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
 Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
 Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd 
 The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
 O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, 
 Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
 He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
 Had sundry virtues that excus'd his faults. 
 You that on Bacchus have the like dependance, 
 Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 
 

 248 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 much light on the history of tapters, fishmon 
 gers., and Lord Mayors, yet disappointed me 
 in the great object of rny quest; the picture of 
 the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting 
 was to be found in the church of St. Michael. 
 " Marry and amen !" said I, " here endeth my 
 research !" So I was giving the matter up, 
 with the air of a baffled antiquary ; when my 
 friend the sexton, perceiving me to be curious 
 in every thing relative to the old tavern, of 
 fered to show me the choice vessels of the ves 
 try, which had been handed down from remote 
 times, when the parish meetings were held at 
 the Boar's Head. These were deposited in 
 the parish club room, which had been trans 
 ferred, on the decline of the ancient establish 
 ment, to a tavern in the neighbourhood. 
 
 A few steps brought us to the house, which 
 stands No. 12, Mile Lane, bearing the title of 
 The Mason's Arms, and is kept by Master 
 Edward Honeyball, the " bully-rock" of the 
 establishment. It is one of those little taverns 
 which abound in the heart of the city, and 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHfiAP. 249 
 
 form the centre of gossip and intelligence of 
 the neighbourhood. We entered the bar 
 room, which was narrow and darkling; for 
 in these close lanes but few rays of. reflected 
 light are enabled to struggle down to the in 
 habitants, whose broad day is at best but a to 
 lerable twilight. The room was partitioned into 
 boxes, each containing a table spread with a 
 a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This 
 showed that the guests were of the good old 
 stamp, and divided their day equally, for it 
 was but just one o'clock. At the lower end 
 of the room was a clear coal fire, before 
 which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row 
 of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs 
 glistened along the mantle piece, and an old 
 fashioned clock ticked in one corner. There 
 was something primitive in this medley of 
 kitchen, parlour, and hall, that carried me 
 back to earlier times, and pleased me. The 
 place, indeed, was humble, but every t.iing 
 had that look of order and neatness, which 
 bespeaks the superintendence of a notable 
 
250 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 English housewife. A group of amphibious 
 looking beings, who might be either fishermen 
 or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of 
 the boxes. As I was a visiter of rather higher 
 pretensions, I was ushered into a little mis 
 shapen back room, having at least nine cor 
 ners. It was lighted by a sky-light, furnished 
 with antiquated leathern chairs, and orna 
 mented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was 
 evidently appropriated to particular custo 
 mers, and I found a shabby gentleman, in a 
 red nose, and oil-cloth hat, seated in one 
 corner, meditating on a half-empty pot of por 
 ter. 
 
 The old sexton had taken the landlady 
 aside, and with an air of profound importance 
 imparted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball 
 was a likely, plump, bustling, little woman, 
 and no bad substitute for that paragon of hos 
 tesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted 
 with an opportunity to oblige ; and hurrying 
 up stairs to the archives of her house, where the 
 precious vessels of the parish club were depo- 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 251 
 
 sited, she returned, smiling and courtesying, 
 with them in her hands. 
 
 The first she presented me was a japanned 
 iron tobacco box, of gigantic size, out of 
 which, I was told, the vestry had smoked at 
 their stated meetings, since time immemorial ; 
 and which was never suffered to be profaned 
 by vulgar hands, or used on common occa 
 sions. I received it with becoming reverence; 
 but what was my delight, at beholding on its 
 cover the identical painting of which I was in 
 quest. There was displayed the outside of the 
 Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was 
 to be seen the whole convivial group, at table, 
 in full revel ; pictured with that wonderful 
 fidelity and force, with which the portraits of 
 renowned generals and commodores are illus 
 trated on tobacco boxes, for the benefit of 
 posterity. Lest, however, there should be any 
 mistake, the cunning limner had warily in 
 scribed the names of Prince Hal and Falstaff 
 on the bottoms of their chairs. 
 
 On the inside of the cover was an inscrip- 
 
252 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 tion, nearly obliterated, recording that this 
 box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the 
 use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head 
 Tavern, and that it was " repaired and beau 
 tified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 
 1767." Such is a faithful description of this 
 august and venerable relique ; and I question 
 whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated 
 his Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round 
 Table the long-sought san-greal, with more 
 exultation. 
 
 While I was meditating on it with enrap 
 tured gaze, Dame Honeyball, who was highly 
 gratified by the interest it excited, put in my 
 hands a drinking cup or goblet, which also be 
 longed to the vestry, and was descended from 
 the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription 
 of having been the gift of Francis Wythers, 
 Knight, and was held, she told me, in exceed 
 ing great value, being considered very " an- 
 tyke." This last opinion was strengthened by 
 the shabby gentleman in the red nose and oil 
 cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspect to be 
 
TAVERN^ BASTCHEAP. 253 
 
 a lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph. 
 He suddenly aroused from his meditation on 
 the pot of porter, and casting a knowing look 
 at the goblet, exclaimed,, " aye,, aye ! the head 
 don't ache now that made that there ar 
 ticle r 
 
 The great importance attached to this me 
 mento of ancient revelry by modern church 
 wardens, at first puzzled me; but there is 
 nothing sharpens the apprehension so much 
 as antiquarian research ; for I immediately 
 perceived that this could be no other than the 
 identical " parcel gilt goblet" on which Fal- 
 staff made his loving, but faithless vow to 
 Dame Quickly ; and which would, of course,, 
 be treasured up with care among the regalia 
 of her domains, as a testimony of that solemn 
 contract. * 
 
 Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long his- 
 
 * Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my 
 Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday 
 in Whitsun-week, when the prince broke thy head for likening his 
 father to a singing man of Windsor j thou didst swear to me then, as 
 I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy 
 wife. Canst thou deny it ? Henry IV, part 2. 
 
254 THE BOARS HEAD 
 
 tory how the goblet had been handed down 
 from generation to generation. She also en 
 tertained me with many particulars concern 
 ing the worthy vestrymen who have seated 
 themselves thus quietly on the stools of the 
 ancient roysters of Eastcheap, and, like so 
 many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in 
 honour of Shakspeare. These I forbear to 
 relate, lest my readers should not be as curious 
 in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, 
 the neighbours, one and all, about Eastcheap, 
 believe that Falstaff and his merry crew ac 
 tually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are 
 several legendary anecdotes concerning him 
 still extant among the oldest frequenters of 
 the Masons' Arms, which they give, as trans 
 mitted down from their forefathers ; and Mr. 
 M'Kash, an Irish hair dresser, whose shop 
 stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, has 
 several dry jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid down 
 in the books, with which he makes his custo 
 mers ready to die of laughter. 
 
 I now turned to my friend the sexton to 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHKAP. 55*2 
 
 make some farther inquiries, but I found him 
 sunk in pensive meditation. His head had 
 declined a little on one side ; a deep sigh 
 heaved from the very bottom of his stomach ; 
 and, though I could not see a tear trembling 
 in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently steal 
 ing from a corner of his mouth. I followed 
 the direction of his eye through the door 
 which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully 
 on the savoury breast of lamb, roasting in 
 dripping richness before the fire. 
 
 I now called to mind, that in the eagerness 
 of my recondite investigation, I was keeping 
 the poor man from his dinner. My bowels 
 yearned with sympathy, and putting in his 
 hand a small token of my gratitude and good 
 will, I departed with a hearty benediction on 
 him, Dame Honeyball, and the parish club of 
 Crooked Lane ; not forgetting my shabby, 
 but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and 
 copper nose. 
 
 Thus have I given a * c tedious brief account 
 of this interesting research, for which, if it 
 
256 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 prove too short and unsatisfactory, I can 
 only plead my inexperience in this branch of 
 literature, so deservedly popular at the pre 
 sent day. I am aware that a more skilful 
 illustrator of the immortal bard would have 
 swelled the materials I have touched upon, to 
 a good merchantable bulk ; comprising the 
 biographies of William Wai worth, Jack Straw, 
 and Robert Preston ; some notice of the emi 
 nent fishmongers of St. Michael's ; the his 
 tory of Eastcheap, great and little ; private 
 anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty 
 daughter, whom I have not even mentioned ; 
 to say nothing of a damsel tending the breast 
 of lamb, (and whom, by the way, I remarked 
 to be a comely lass, with a neat foot and 
 ancle ;) the whole enlivened by the riots of 
 Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire 
 of London. 
 
 All this I leave as a rich mine, to be worked 
 by future commentators ; nor do I despair of 
 seeing the tobacco box, and the " parcel-gilt 
 goblet," which I have thus brought to light, 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 267 
 
 the subjects of future engravings, and almost 
 as fruitful of voluminous dissertations and dis 
 putes as the shield of Achilles, or the far-famed 
 Portland vase. 
 
THE 
 
 MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 
 
 A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
THE 
 
 MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 
 
 A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
 And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
 In time's great periods shall return to nought. 
 
 I know that all the muse's heavenly layes, 
 With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
 As idle sounds of few or none are sought, 
 
 That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 
 
 Drummond of Hawthornden. 
 
 THERE are certain half-dreaming moods of 
 mind, in which we naturally steal away from 
 noise and glare, and seek some quiet haunt, 
 where we may indulge our reveries and build 
 our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood I 
 was loitering about the old gray cloisters of 
 
 Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of 
 
 s2 
 
262 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 wandering thought which one is apt to dig 
 nify with the name of reflection ; when sud 
 denly an irruption of madcap boys from West 
 minster school, playing at foot-ball, broke in 
 upon the monastic stillness of the place, mak 
 ing the vaulted passages and mouldering 
 tombs echo with their merriment. I sought 
 to take refuge from their noise by penetrating 
 still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and 
 applied to one of the vergers for admission to 
 the library. He conducted me through a por 
 tal rich with the crumbling sculpture of for 
 mer ages, which opened upon a gloomy pas 
 sage leading to the chapter house and the 
 chamber in which doomsday book is deposited. 
 Just within the passage is a small door on the 
 left. To this the verger applied a key ; it 
 was double locked, and opened with some 
 
 difficulty, as if seldom used. We now as- 
 
 i 
 
 cended a dark narrow staircase, and passing 
 through a second door, entered the library. 
 
 I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the 
 roof supported by massive joists of old English 
 
OF LITERATURE. 263 
 
 oak. It was soberly lighted by a row of Go 
 thic windows at a considerable height from 
 the floor, and which apparently opened upon 
 the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture 
 of some reverend dignitary of the church in 
 his robes hung over the fire place. Around 
 the hall and in a small gallery were the books, 
 arranged in carved oaken cases. They con 
 sisted principally of old polemical writers, and 
 were much more worn by time than use. In 
 the centre of the library was a solitary table 
 with two or three books on it ; an inkstand 
 without ink, and a few pens parched by long 
 disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet 
 study and profound meditation. It was bu 
 ried deep among the massive walls of the 
 abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the 
 world. I could only hear now and then the 
 shouts of the schoolboys faintly swelling from 
 the cloister, and the sound of a bell tolling for 
 prayers, that echoed soberly along the roofs of 
 the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merri 
 ment grew fainter and fainter, and at length 
 
264 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 died away. The bell ceased to toll, and a 
 profound silence reigned through the dusky 
 hall. 
 
 I had taken down a little thick quarto, cu 
 riously bound in parchment, with brass clasps, 
 and seated myself at the table in a venerable 
 elbow chair. Instead of reading, however, I 
 was beguiled by the solemn monastic air, and 
 lifeless quiet of the place, into a train. of mus 
 ing. As I looked around upon the old vo 
 lumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged 
 on the shelves, and apparently never disturbed 
 in their repose, I could not but consider the 
 library a kind of literary catacomb, where au 
 thors, like mummies, are piously entombed, 
 and left to blacken and moulder in dusty ob 
 livion. 
 
 How much, thought I, has each of these 
 volumes, now thrust aside with such indiffer 
 ence, cost some aching head ; how many 
 weary days ; how many sleepless nights ! How 
 have their authors buried themselves in the 
 solitude of cells and cloisters; shut them- 
 
 
OF LITERATURE. 265 
 
 selves up from the face of man, and the still 
 more blessed face of nature; and devoted them 
 selves to painful research and intense reflec 
 tion. And all for what ! to occupy an inch 
 of dusty shelf to have the title of their works 
 read now and then in a future age, by some 
 drowsy churchman or casual straggler like 
 myself; and in another age to be lost, even 
 to remembrance. Such is the amount of this 
 boasted immortality. A mere temporary ru 
 mour, a local sound ; like the tone of that bell 
 which has just tolled among these towers, fill 
 ing the ear for a moment lingering transient 
 ly in echo and then passing away, like a 
 thing that was not ! 
 
 While I sat half murmuring, half meditating 
 these unprofitable speculations, with my head 
 resting on my hand, I was thrumming with the 
 other hand upon the quarto, until I accident 
 ally loosened the clasps ; when, to my utter 
 astonishment, the little book gave two or 
 three yawns, like one awaking from a deep 
 sleep ; then a husky hem ; and at length began 
 
266 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse 
 and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb 
 which some studious spider had woven across 
 it; and having probably contracted a cold 
 from long exposure to the chills and damps 
 of the abbey. In a short time, however, it 
 became more distinct, and I soon found it an 
 exceedingly fluent conversable little tome. 
 Its language, to be sure, was rather quaint 
 and obsolete, and its pronunciation, what, in 
 the present day, would be deemed barbarous ; 
 but I shall endeavour, as far as I am able, to 
 render it in modern parlance. 
 
 It began with railings about the neglect of 
 the world about merit being suffered to lan 
 guish in obscurity, and other such common 
 place topics of literary repining, and complain 
 ed bitterly that it had not been opened for 
 more than two centuries. That the Dean 
 only looked now and then into the library, 
 sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled 
 with them for a few moments, and then re 
 turned them to their shelves. " What a 
 
6P LITERATURE. 267 
 
 plague do they mean," said the little quarto, 
 which I began to perceive was somewhat cho 
 leric, " what a plague do they mean by keep 
 ing several thousand volumes of us shut up 
 here, and watched by a set of old vergers, like 
 so many beauties in a harem, merely to be 
 looked at no\v and then by the Dean ? Books 
 were written to give pleasure and to be en 
 joyed ; and I would have a rule passed that 
 the Dean should pay each of us a visit at least 
 once a year ; or if he is not equal to the task, 
 let them once in a while turn loose the whole 
 school of Westminster among us, that at 
 any rate we may now and then have an air 
 ing." $^t^ 
 
 " Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, " you 
 are not aware how much better you are off 
 than most books of your generation. By 
 being stored away in this ancient library, you 
 are like the treasured remains of those saints 
 and monarchs which lie enshrined in the 
 adjoining chapels ; while the remains of their 
 contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary 
 
268 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 course of nature, have long since returned to 
 dust." 
 
 " Sir," said the little tome., ruffling his 
 leaves and looking big, " I was written for all 
 the world, not for the bookworms of an abbey. 
 I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, 
 like other great contemporary works; but 
 here have I been clasped up for more than 
 two centuries, and might have silently fallen 
 a prey to these worms that are playing the 
 very vengeance with my intestines, if you had 
 not by chance given me an opportunity of 
 uttering a few last words before I go to 
 pieces." 
 
 " My good friend," rejoined I, " had you 
 been left to the circulation of which you speak, 
 you would long ere this have been no more. 
 To judge from your physiognomy, you are 
 now well stricken in years : very few of your 
 contemporaries can be at present in existence ; 
 and those few owe their longevity to being 
 immured like yourself in old libraries; which, 
 suffer me to add, instead of likening to ha- 
 
OF LITERATURE. 269 
 
 rems, you might more properly and gratefully 
 have compared to those infirmaries attached 
 to religious establishments, for the benefit of 
 the old and decrepid, and where, by quiet fos 
 tering and no employment, they often endure 
 to an amazingly good for nothing old age. 
 You talk of your contemporaries as if in cir 
 culation where do we meet with their works? 
 what do we hear of Robert Grosteste of Lin 
 coln ? No one could have toiled harder than 
 he for immortality. He is said to have writ-, 
 ten nearly two hundred volumes. He built 
 as it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate 
 his name: but, alas! the pyramid has long 
 since fallen, and only a few fragments are 
 scattered in various libraries, where they are 
 scarcely disturbed even by the antiquarian. 
 What do we hear of Gyraldus Cambrensis, the 
 historian, antiquary, philosopher, theologian, 
 and poet ? He declined two bishoprics that 
 he might shut himself up and write for pos 
 terity ; but posterity never inquires after his 
 labours. What of Henry of Huntingdon, who, 
 
270 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 beside a learned history of England, wrote a 
 treatise on the contempt of the world, which 
 the world has revenged by forgetting him. 
 What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled 
 the miracle of his age in classical composi 
 tion ? Of his three great heroic poems one is 
 lost for ever, excepting a mere fragment ; the 
 others are known only to a few of the curious 
 in literature ; and as to] his love verses and 
 epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. 
 What is in current use of John Wallis, the 
 franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree 
 of life ? Of William of Malmsbury ; of Si 
 meon of Durham ; of Benedict of Petersbo- 
 
 rough ; of John Hanvill of St. Albans ; of 
 
 ? 
 
 " Prithee, friend," cried the quarto in a 
 testy tone, " how old do you think me ? You 
 are talking of authors that lived long before 
 my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, 
 so that they in a manner expatriated them 
 selves, and deserved to be forgotten ;* but I, 
 
 * In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte 
 to endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes there ben 
 
OF LITERATURE. 271 
 
 sir, was ushered into the world from the press 
 of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was 
 written in my own native tongue at a time 
 when the language had become fixed ; and in 
 deed I was considered a model of pure and 
 elegant English." 
 
 (I should observe that these remarks were 
 couched in such intolerably antiquated terms, 
 that I have had infinite difficulty in rendering 
 them into modern phraseology.) 
 
 " I cry your mercy," said I, " for mistak 
 ing your age ; but it matters little ; almost all 
 the writers of your time have likewise passed 
 into forgetfulness ; and De Worde's publica 
 tions are mere literary rarities among book- 
 collectors. The purity and stability of lan 
 guage, too, on which you found your claims 
 to perpetuity, have been the fallacious de 
 pendence of authors of every age, even back 
 to the times of the worthy Robert of Glouces 
 ter, who wrote his history in rhymes of mon- 
 
 some that speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the French 
 men have as good a fantasye as we have in hearyng of Frenchmen's 
 Englishe. 
 
 Chaucer's Testament tfLove. 
 
272 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 grel Saxon. * Even, now, many talk of 
 Spenser s " well of pure English undented," 
 as if the language ever sprang from a well or 
 fountain head, and was not rather a mere con 
 fluence of various tongues, perpetually subject 
 to changes and intermixtures. It is this 
 which has made English literature so ex 
 tremely mutable, and the reputation built 
 upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be 
 committed to something more permanent and 
 unchangeable than such a medium, even 
 thought must share the fate of every thing 
 else, and fall into decay. This should serve 
 as a check upon the vanity and exultation of 
 the most popular writer. He finds the Ian 
 guage in which he has embarked his fame 
 gradually altering, and subject to the dilapi- 
 
 * Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, " afterwards, also, by 
 diligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and John Gowre, in the time of 
 Richard the second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, 
 monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, not 
 withstanding that it never came unto the type of perfection until the 
 time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John 
 Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished 
 the ornature of the same, to their great praise and immortal com 
 mendation." 
 
OF LITERATURE. 273 
 
 dations of time and the caprice of fashion. 
 He looks back and beholds the early authors 
 of his country, once the favourites of their 
 day, supplanted by modern writers. A few 
 short ages have covered them with obscurity, 
 and their merits can only be relished by the 
 quaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he 
 anticipates, will be the fate of his own work, 
 which, however it may be admired in its day, 
 and held up as a model of purity, will in the 
 course of years grow antiquated and obsolete ; 
 until it shall become almost as unintelligible 
 in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, 
 or one of those Runic inscriptions said to 
 exist in the deserts of Tartary. " I declare," 
 added I with some emotion, " when I con 
 template a modern library, filled with new 
 works in all the bravery of rich gilding and 
 binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep; 
 like the good Xerxes when he surveyed his 
 army, pranked out in all the splendour of 
 military array, and reflected that in one 
 
274 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 hundred years not one of them would be in 
 existence !" 
 
 " Ah/' said the little quarto with a heavy 
 sigh, " I see how it is ; these modern scrib 
 blers have superseded all the good old au 
 thors. I suppose nothing is read now-a-days 
 but Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, Sackville's 
 stately plays, and Mirror for Magistrates, or 
 the fine-spun euphuisms of the " unparalelled 
 John Lyly." 
 
 " There you are again mistaken," said I, 
 " the writers whom you suppose in vogue, be 
 cause they happened to be so when you were 
 last in circulation, have long since had their 
 day. Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, the immor 
 tality of which was so fondly predicted by his 
 admirers,* and which, in truth, is full of 
 
 * Live ever sweete booke ; the silver image of his gentle witt, and 
 the golden pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto the 
 world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of 
 the muses, the honey bee of the dayntiest flowers of witt and arte, the 
 pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the 
 field, the tongue of Suada in the chamber, the spirite of Practise in 
 esse, and the paragon of excellency in print. 
 
 Harvey's Pierce 1 * Supererogation. 
 
OF LITERATURE. 275 
 
 noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful 
 turns of language, is now scarcely ever men 
 tioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity; 
 and even Lyly, though his writings were once 
 the delight of a court, and apparently perpe 
 tuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known 
 even by name. A whole crowd of authors 
 who wrote and wrangled at the time, have 
 likewise gone down, with all their writings and 
 their controversies. Wave after wave of suc 
 ceeding literature has rolled over them, until 
 they are buried so deep, that it is only now 
 and then that some industrious diver after the 
 fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen 
 for the gratification of the curious." 
 
 " For my part," I continued," I consider this 
 mutability of language a wise precaution of 
 Providence for the benefit of the world at 
 large, and of authors in particular. ' To reason 
 from analogy; we daily behold the varied and 
 beautiful tribes of vegetables springing up, 
 flourishing, adorning the fields for a short 
 time, and then, fading into dust, to make way 
 
 T 
 
276 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 for their successors. Were not this the case, 
 the fecundity of nature would be a grievance 
 instead of a blessing. The earth would groan 
 with rank and excessive vegetation, and its 
 surface become a tangled wilderness. In like 
 manner, the works of genius and learning de 
 cline and make way for subsequent produc 
 tions. Language gradually varies, and with 
 it fade away the writings of authors who have 
 flourished their allotted time ; otherwise, the 
 creative powers of genius would overstock the 
 world, and the mind would be completely be 
 wildered in the endless mazes of literature. 
 Formerly there were some restraints on this 
 excessive multiplication. Works had to be 
 transcribed by hand, which was a slow and 
 laborious operation : they were written either 
 on parchment, which was expensive, so that 
 one work was often erased to make way for 
 another ; or on papyrus, which was fragile and 
 extremely perishable. Authorship was a limit 
 ed and unprofitable craft, and pursued chiefly 
 by monks in the leisure and solitude of their 
 
OF LITERATURE. 277 
 
 cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts 
 was slow and costly, and confined almost en 
 tirely to monasteries. To these circumstances 
 it may, in some measure, be owing that we 
 have not been inundated by the intellect of 
 antiquity ; that the fountains of thought have 
 not been broken up, and modern genius 
 drowned in the deluge. But the inventions 
 of paper and the press have put an end to all 
 these restraints. They have made every one 
 a writer, and enabled every mind to pour 
 itself into print, and diffuse itself over the 
 whole intellectual world. The consequences 
 are alarming. The stream of literature has 
 swoln into a torrent augmented into a river 
 expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, 
 five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a 
 great library; but what would you say to 
 libraries, such as actually exist, containing 
 three and four hundred thousand volumes ; 
 legions of authors at the same time busy ; and 
 the press going on with fearfully increasing 
 activity, to double and quadruple the number? 
 T 2 
 
278 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 Unless some unforeseen mortality should break 
 out among the progeny of the muse, now that 
 she has become so prolific, I tremble for pos 
 terity. I fear the mere fluctuation of lan 
 guage will not be sufficient. Criticism may 
 do much. It increases with the increase of lite 
 rature, and resembles one of those salutary 
 checks on population spoken of by econo 
 mists. All possible encouragement, therefore, 
 should be given to the growth of critics, good 
 or bad. But I fear all will be in vain; let 
 criticism do what it may, writers will write, 
 printers will print, and the world will inevita 
 bly be overstocked with good books. It will 
 soon be the employment of a life time merely 
 to learn their names. Many a man of pass 
 able information, at the present day, reads 
 scarcely any thing but reviews ; and before 
 long a man of erudition will be little better 
 than a mere walking catalogue." 
 
 " My very good sir," said the little quarto, 
 yawning most drearily in my face, " excuse 
 my interrupting you, but I perceive you are 
 
OF LITERATURE. 279 
 
 rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of 
 an author who was making some noise just as 
 I left the world. His reputation, however, 
 was considered quite temporary. The learned 
 shook their heads at him, for he was a poor 
 half educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, 
 and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged 
 to run the country for deer stealing. I think 
 his name was Shakspeare. I presume he 
 soon sunk into oblivion." 
 
 " On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to 
 that very man that the literature of his period 
 has experienced a duration beyond the ordi 
 nary term of English literature. There rise 
 authors now and then, who seem proof against 
 the mutability of language, because they have 
 rooted themselves in the unchanging princi 
 ples of human nature. They are like gigantic 
 trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a 
 stream ; which by their vast and deep roots, 
 penetrating through the mere surface, and 
 laying hold on the very foundations of the 
 earth, preserve the soil around them from 
 
280 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 being swept away by the everflowing current, 
 and hold up many a neighbouring plant, and, 
 perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such 
 , is the case with Shakspeare, whom we be 
 hold, defying the encroachments of time, re 
 taining in modern use the language and litera 
 ture of his day, and giving duration to many 
 an indifferent author, merely from having flou 
 rished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve 
 to say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, 
 and his whole form is overrun by a profusion 
 of commentators, who, like clambering vines 
 and creepers, almost bury the noble plant that 
 upholds them." 
 
 Here the little quarto began to heave his 
 sides and chuckle, until at length he broke 
 out into a short plethoric fit of laughter that 
 had well nigh choked him, by reason of his 
 excessive corpulency. " Mighty well !" cried 
 he, as soon as he could recover breath, " mighty 
 well ! and so you would persuade me that the 
 literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a 
 vagabond deer stealer! by a man without 
 
OF LITERATURE. ^ 281 
 
 learning ! by a poet, forsooth a poet !" And 
 here he wheezed forth another fit of laugh 
 ter. 
 
 I confess I felt somewhat nettled at this 
 rudeness, which I ascribed to his having flou 
 rished in a less polished age. I determined, 
 nevertheless, not to give up my point. 
 
 " Yes," resumed I positively, " a poet ; for 
 of all writers, he has the best chance for im 
 mortality. Others may write from the head, 
 but he writes from the heart, and the heart 
 will always understand him. He is the faith 
 ful pourtrayer of nature, whose features are 
 always the same, and always interesting. 
 Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy ; 
 their pages crowded with common places, and 
 their thoughts expanded into tediousness. 
 But with the true p6et every thing is terse, 
 touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest 
 thoughts in the choicest language. He illus 
 trates them by every thing that he sees most 
 striking in nature and art. He enriches them 
 by pictures of human life, such as it is passing 
 
282 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 before him. His writings,, therefore,, contain 
 the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase., 
 of the age in which he lives. They are cas 
 kets which enclose within a small compass 
 the wealth of the language its family jewels, 
 which are thus transmitted in a portable form 
 to posterity. The setting may occasionally be 
 antiquated, and require now and then to be 
 renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the 
 brilliancy and intrinsic value of the gems 
 continue unaltered. Cast a look back over 
 the long reach of literary history. What vast 
 valleys of dullness, filled with monkish legends 
 and academical controversies. What bogs of 
 theological speculations ; what dreary wastes 
 of metaphysics. Here and there only do we 
 behold the heaven-illumined bards, elevated 
 like beacons on their widely-separated heights, 
 to transmit the pure light of poetical intelli 
 gence from age to age."* 
 
 * Thorow earth, and waters deepe, 
 The pen by skill doth passe : 
 
 And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 
 And shoes us in a glasse, 
 
OF LITERATURE. 283 
 
 I was just about to launch forth into eulo- 
 giums upon the poets of the day, when the 
 sudden opening of the door caused me to 
 turn my head. It was the verger, who came 
 to inform me that it was time to close the 
 library. I sought to have a parting word 
 with the quarto, but the worthy little tome 
 was silent; the clasps were closed; and it 
 looked perfectly unconscious of all that had 
 passed. I have been to the library two or 
 three times since, and endeavoured to draw 
 it into farther conversation, but in vain : and 
 whether all this rambling colloquy actually 
 took place, or whether it was another of those 
 odd day dreams to which I am subject, I have 
 never, to this moment, been able to discover. 
 
 The vertu and the vice 
 
 Of every wight alyve ; 
 The honey combe that bee doth make, 
 
 Is not so sweete in hyve, 
 As are the golden leves 
 
 That drops from poets head : 
 Which doth surmount our common talke 
 
 As farre as dros doth lead. 
 
 Churchyard. 
 

RURAL FUNERALS, 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 Here's a few flowers ; but about midnight more : 
 The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night 
 
 Are strewings fitt'st for graves 
 
 You were as flowers now withered ; even so 
 These herb'lets shall, which we upon you strow. 
 
 Cymbcline. 
 
 AMONG the beautiful and simple-hearted 
 customs of rural life which still linger in some 
 parts of England., are those of strewing flow 
 ers before the funerals, and planting them at 
 the graves of departed friends. These, it is 
 said, are the remains of some of the rites of 
 the primitive church ; but they are of still 
 higher antiquity, having been observed aincng 
 the Greeks and Romans, and frequently men 
 tioned by their writers, and were, no doubt, 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 the spontaneous tributes of unlettered affec 
 tion, originating long before art had tasked 
 itself to modulate sorrow into song, or story 
 it on the monument. They are now only to 
 be met with in the most distant and retired 
 places of the kingdom, where fashion and in 
 novation have not been able to throng in, and 
 trample out all the curious and interesting 
 traces of the olden time. 
 
 In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed 
 whereon the corpse lies, is covered with flow 
 ers, a custom alluded to in one of the wild 
 and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : 
 
 White his shroud as the mountain snow 
 Larded all with sweet flowers ; 
 
 Which be-wept to the grave did go, 
 With true, love showers. 
 
 There is also a most delicate and beautiful 
 rite observed in some of the remote villages of 
 the south, at the funeral of a female who has 
 died young and unmarried. A chaplet of white 
 flowers is borne before the corpse by a young 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 289 
 
 girl nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and 
 is afterwards hung up in the church over the 
 accustomed seat of the deceased. These 
 chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, 
 in imitation of flowers, and inside of them is 
 generally a pair of white gloves. They are 
 intended as emblems of the purity of the de 
 ceased, and the crown of glory which she has 
 received in heaven. 
 
 In some parts of the country, also, the 
 dead are carried to the grave with the sing 
 ing of psalms and hymns: a kind of tri 
 umph, " to show," says Bourne, " that they 
 have finished their course with joy, aqd are 
 become conquerors." This, I am informed, is 
 observed in some of the northern counties, 
 particularly in Northumberland, and iti has a. 
 pleasing, though melancholy effect, to hear, 
 of a still evening, in some lonely country 
 scene, the mournful melody of a funeral 
 dirge swelling from a distance, and to see 
 the train slowly moving along the land 
 scape. 
 
290 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
 Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground, 
 And as we sing thy dirge, we will 
 The Daffodill, 
 And other flowers lay upon 
 The altar of our love, thy stone.* 
 
 There is also a solemn respect paid by the 
 traveller to the passing funeral in these se 
 questered places, for such spectacles, occur 
 ring among the quiet abodes of nature, sink 
 deep into the soul. As the mourning train 
 approaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go 
 by; he then follows silently in the rear; 
 
 * 
 
 sometimes quite to the grave, at other times 
 for a few hundred yards, and having paid this 
 tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and 
 resumes his journey. 
 
 The rich vein of melancholy which runs 
 through the English character, and gives it 
 some of its most touching and ennobling 
 graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic 
 customs, and in the solicitude shown by the 
 common people for an honoured and a peace- 
 
 * Herrick. 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 291 
 
 ful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever 
 may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious 
 that some little respect may be paid to his 
 remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing 
 the " faire and happy milkmaid," observes, 
 " thus lives she, and all her care is, that she 
 may die in the spring time, to have store of 
 flowers stucke upon her winding sheet." The 
 poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of 
 a nation, continually advert to this fond soli 
 citude about the grave. In " The Maid's 
 Tragedy," by Beaumont and Fletcher, there 
 is a beautiful instance of the kind, describing 
 the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted 
 girl : 
 
 When she sees a bank 
 
 Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
 Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
 To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 
 Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse, 
 
 The custom of decorating graves was once 
 universally prevalent : osiers were carefully 
 bent over them to keep the turf uninjured, 
 and about them were planted evergreens and 
 
 u 
 
292 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 flowers. " We adorn their graves/' says Eve 
 lyn, in his Sylva, " with flowers arid redolent 
 plants, just emblems of the life of man, which 
 has been compared in holy scriptures to those 
 fading beauties, whose roots being buried in 
 dishonour, rise again in glory." This usage has 
 now become extremely rare in England ; but 
 it may still be met with in the church-yards 
 of retired villages, among the Welch moun 
 tains ; and I recollect an instance of it at the 
 small town of Ruthen, which lies at the head 
 of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been 
 told also by a friend, who was present at 
 the funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, 
 that the female attendants had their aprons 
 full of flowers, which, as soon as the body was 
 interred, they stuck about the grave. He no 
 ticed several graves which had been decorated 
 in the same manner. As the flowers had been 
 merely stuck in the ground, and not planted, 
 they had soon withered, and might be seen 
 various states of decay ; some drooping others 
 quite perished. They were afterwards to be 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 293 
 
 supplanted by holly, rosemary., and other 
 evergreens ; which on some graves had grown 
 to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the 
 tomb stones. 
 
 There was formerly a melancholy fanciful- 
 ness in the arrangement of these rustic offer 
 ings, that had something in it truly poet 
 ical. The rose was sometimes blended with 
 the lily, to form a general emblem of frail 
 mortality. " This sweet flower," says Evelyn, 
 " borne on a branch set with thorns, and ac 
 companied with the lily, are natural hierogly 
 phics of our rugitive, umbratile, anxious, and 
 transitory life, which, making so fair a shew 
 for a time, is not yet without its thorns arid 
 crosses." The nature and colour of the 
 flowers, and of the ribbands with which they 
 were tied, had often a particular refer 
 ence to the qualities or story of the deceased, 
 or were expressive of the feelings of the mour 
 ner. In an old poem, entitled' " Corydon's 
 Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the decora 
 tions he intends to v use : 
 
294 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 ,., v A garland shall be framed 
 
 By art and nature's skill, 
 Of sundry-coloured flowers, 
 In token of good will. 
 
 And sundry-coloured ribbands 
 On it I will bestow ; 
 
 But chiefly blacke and yellowe 
 With her to grave shall go. 
 
 I'll deck her tomb with flowers 
 The rarest ever seen ; 
 
 And with my tears as showers, 
 I'll keep them fresh and green. 
 
 The white rose, we are told, was planted at 
 the grave of a virgin; her chaplet was tied 
 with white ribbands, in token of her spotless 
 innocence ; though sometimes black ribbands 
 were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the 
 survivors. The red rose was occasionally 
 used in remembrance of such as had been re 
 markable for benevolence ; but roses in gene 
 ral were appropriated to the graves of lovers. 
 Evelyn tells us that the custom was not alto 
 gether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in 
 the county of Surrey^ " where the maidens 
 yearly planted and decked the graves of their 
 defunct sweethearts tvith rose-bushes." And 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 295 
 
 Camden, likewise, remarks in his Britannia : 
 " Here is also a certain custom, observed time 
 out of mind, of planting rose trees upon the 
 graves, especially by the young men and maids 
 who have lost their loves ; so that this church 
 yard is now full of them." 
 
 When the deceased had been unhappy in 
 their loves, emblems of a more gloomy cha 
 racter were used, such as the yew and cypress ; 
 and if flowers were strewn they were of the 
 most melancholy colours. Thus, in poems by 
 Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is 
 the following stanza : 
 
 Yet strew 
 
 Upon my dismall grave 
 Such offerings as you have, 
 
 Forsaken cypresse and sad ewe ; 
 For kinder flowers can take no birth 
 Or growth from such unhappy earth. _ 
 
 In " The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic 
 little air is introduced, illustrative of this 
 mode of decorating the funerals of females 
 who had been disappointed in love : 
 
296 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 Lay a garland on my hearse 
 
 Of the dismall yew, 
 Maidens willow branches wear, 
 
 Say I died true. 
 
 My love was false, but I was firm 
 
 From my hour of birth, 
 Upon my buried body lie 
 
 Lightly, gentle earth. 
 
 The natural effect of sorrow over the dead 
 is to refine and elevate the mind ; and we have 
 a proof of it in the purity of sentiment and 
 the unaffected elegance of thought, which 
 pervaded the whole of these funereal observ 
 ances. Thus, it was an especial precaution, 
 that none but sweet-scented evergreens and 
 flowers should be employed. The inten 
 tion seems to have been to soften the hor 
 rors of the tomb, to beguile the mind from 
 brooding over the disgraces of perishing mor 
 tality, and to associate the memory of the de 
 ceased with the most delicate and beautiful 
 objects in nature. There is a dismal process 
 going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its 
 kindred dust, which the imagination shrinks 
 from contemplating; and we seek still to 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 297 
 
 think of the form we have loved, with those 
 refined associations which it awakened when 
 blooming before us in youth and beauty. 
 " Lay her f the earth/' says Laertes of his 
 virgin sister, 
 
 And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
 May violets spring ! 
 
 Herrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jeptha," 
 pours forth a fragrant flow of poetical thought 
 and image, which in a manner embalms the 
 dead in the recollections of the living. . 
 
 Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 
 And make this place all Paradise : 
 May sweets grow here! and smoke from henpe, 
 Fat frankinscence. 
 
 Let balme and cassia send their scent 
 From out thy maiden monument. 
 
 * * 
 
 May all shie maids at wonted hours 
 Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ; 
 May virgins when they come to mourn, 
 
 Male incense burn 
 Upon thine altar ! then return 
 And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 
 
 rui 
 
 I might crowd rny pages with extracts from 
 the older British poets, who wrote when these 
 
298 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 rites were more prevalent, and delighted fre 
 quently to allude to them ; but I have already 
 quoted more than is necessary. I cannot how 
 ever refrain from giving a passage from Shak- 
 speare, even though it should appear trite ; 
 which illustrates the emblematical meaning 
 often conveyed in these floral tributes ; and at 
 the same time possesses that magic of language 
 and appositeness of imagery for which he 
 stands pre-eminent. 
 
 With fairest flowers, 
 
 Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
 I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 
 The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
 The azured harebell like thy veins ; no, nor 
 The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander, 
 Outsweetened not thy breath. 
 
 There is certainly something more affecting 
 in these prompt and spontaneous offerings of 
 nature, than in the most costly monuments of 
 art; the hand strews the flower while the 
 heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave 
 as affection is binding the osier round the sod ; 
 but pathos expires under the slow labour of 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 299 
 
 the chisel, and is chilled among the cold 
 conceits of sculptured marble. 
 
 It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom 
 so truly elegant and touching has disappeared 
 from general use, and exists only in the most 
 remote and insignificant villages. But it 
 seems as if poetical custom always shuns the 
 walks of cultivated society. In proportion as 
 people grow polite they cease to be poetical. 
 They talk of poetry, but they have learnt to 
 check its free impulses, to distrust its sallying 
 emotions, and to supply its most affecting and 
 picturesque usages, by studied form and pom 
 pous ceremonial. Few pageants can be more 
 stately and frigid than an English funeral in 
 town. It is made up of show and gloomy pa 
 rade : mourning carriages, mourning horses, 
 mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, who 
 make a mockery of grief. " There is a grave 
 digged," says Jeremy Taylor, " and a solemn 
 mourning, and a great talk in the neighbour 
 hood, and when the daies are finished, they 
 shall be, and they shall be remembered no 
 
300 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 more." The associate in the gay and crowded 
 city is soon forgotten ; the hurrying succes 
 sion of new intimates and new pleasures ef 
 faces him from our minds., and the very scenes 
 and circles in which he moved are incessantly 
 fluctuating. But funerals in the country are 
 solemnly impressive. The stroke of death 
 makes a wider space in the village circle, and 
 is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity 
 of rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell 
 in every ear; it steals with its pervading m- 
 lancholy over every hill and vale, and saddens 
 all the landscape. 
 
 The fixed and unchanging features of the 
 country also, perpetuate the memory of the 
 friend with whom we once enjoyed them ; 
 who was the companion of our most retired 
 walks, and gave animation to every lonely 
 scene. His idea is associated with every charm 
 of nature ; we hear his voice in the echo which 
 he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit haunts 
 every grove which he once frequented ; we 
 think of him in the wild upland solitude, or 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 301 
 
 amidst the pensive beauty of the valley. In 
 the freshness of joyous morning, we remem 
 ber his beaming 1 smiles and bounding gayety ; 
 and when sober evening returns with its ga 
 thering shadows and subduing quiet, we call 
 to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk 
 and sweet souled melancholy. 
 
 Each lonely place shall him restore, 
 For him the tear be duly shed ; 
 
 Beloved, till life can charm no more ; 
 And mourn'd, till pity's self be dead, 
 
 Another cause that perpetuates the memory 
 of the deceased in the country, is, that the 
 grave is more immediately in sight of the sur 
 vivors. They pass it on their way to prayer ; 
 it meets their eyes when their hearts are soft 
 ened by the exercises of devotion ; they linger 
 about it on the sabbath, when the mind is 
 disengaged from worldly cares, and most dis 
 posed to turn aside from present pleasures 
 and present loves, and to sit down among the 
 solemn mementos of the past. In North 
 Wales the peasantry kneel and pray over 
 
302 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 the graves of their deceased friends for several 
 Sundays after the interment ; and where the 
 tender rite of strewing and planting flow 
 ers is still practised, it is always renewed 
 on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, 
 when the season brings the companion of for 
 mer festivity more vividly to mind. It is also 
 invariably performed by the nearest relatives 
 and friends ; no menials nor hirelings are em 
 ployed ; and if a neighbour yields assistance, 
 it would be deemed an insult to offer compen 
 sation. 
 
 I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural 
 custom, because, as it is one of the last, 
 so is it one of the holiest offices of love. 
 The grave is the ordeal of true affection. 
 It is there that the divine passion of the 
 soul manifests its superiority to the instinc 
 tive impulse of mere animal attachment. 
 The latter must be continually refreshed and 
 kept alive by the presence of its object ; but 
 the love that is seated in the soul can live 
 on long remembrance. The mere inclina- 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 303 
 
 lions of sense languish and decline with the 
 charms which excited them, and turn with 
 shuddering disgust from the dismal precincts 
 of the tomb ; but it is thence that truly spirit 
 ual affection rises purified from every sensual 
 desire, and returns like a holy flame to illu 
 mine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. 
 
 The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow 
 from which we refuse to be divorced. Every 
 other wound we seek to heal every other 
 affliction to forget ; but this wound we consi 
 der it a duty to keep open this affliction we 
 cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is 
 the mother who would willingly forget the 
 infant that perished like a blossom from her 
 arms, though every recollection is a pang ? 
 Where is the child that would willingly for 
 get the most tender of parents, though to 
 remember be but to lament ? Who, even in 
 the hour of agony, would forget the friend 
 over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the 
 tomb is closing upon the remains of her he 
 most loved ; when he feels his heart, as it were, 
 
304 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 crushed in the closing of its portal ; would 
 accept of consolation that must be bought by 
 forgetfulness ? No, the love which survives 
 the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of 
 the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its 
 delights ; and when the overwhelming burst 
 of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recol 
 lection ; when the sudden anguish and the 
 convulsive agony oyer the present ruins of all 
 that we most loved, is softened away into pen 
 sive meditation on all that it was in the days 
 of its loveliness who would root out such 
 a sorrow from the heart? Though it may 
 sometimes throw a passing cloud over the 
 bright hour of gayety ; or spread a deeper sad 
 ness over the hour of gloom ; yet who would 
 exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or 
 the burst of revelry ? No, there is a voice from 
 the tomb sweeter than song. There is a re 
 membrance of the dead to which we turn even 
 from the charms of the living. Oh the grave ! 
 the grave! It buries every error covers 
 every defect extinguishes every resentment ! 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 305 
 
 From its peaceful bosom spring none but 
 fond regrets and tender recollections. Who 
 can look down upon the grave even of an 
 enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, 
 that he should ever have warred with the poor 
 handful of earth that lies mouldering before 
 him ! 
 
 But the grave of those we loved what a 
 place for meditation ! There it is that we call 
 up in long review the whole history of virtue 
 and gentleness, and the thousand endearments 
 lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily 
 intercourse of intimacy there it is that we 
 dwell upon the tenderness ; the solemn, awful 
 tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of 
 death, with all its stifled griefs its noiseless at 
 tendance its mute, watchful assiduities. The 
 last testimonies of expiring love ! The feeble, 
 fluttering, thrilling oh! howthrilling ! pres 
 sure of the hand. The last fond look of the 
 glazing eye, turning upon us even from the 
 threshold of existence ! The faint, faltering 
 accents, struggling in death to give one more 
 assurance of affection ! 
 
306 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 Aye! go to the grave of burled love, and 
 meditate ! There settle the account with thy 
 conscience for every past benefit unrequited 
 every past endearment unregarded, of that de 
 parted being, who can never never never 
 return to be soothed by thy contrition ! 
 
 If thou art a child, and hast ever added a 
 sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered 
 brow of an affectionate parent if thou art a 
 husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom 
 that ventured its whole happiness in thy 
 arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness 
 or thy truth if thou art a friend, and hast 
 ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, 
 the spirit that generously confided in thee if 
 thou art a lover, and hast ever given one un 
 merited pang to that true heart which now 
 lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; then be 
 sure that every unkind look, every ungracious 
 word, every ungentle action, will come throng 
 ing back upon thy memory, and knocking 
 dolefully at thy soul then be sure that thou 
 wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 307 
 
 t 
 
 grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour 
 the unavailing tear ; more deep, more bitter, 
 because unheard and unavailing. 
 
 Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew 
 the beauties of nature about the grave ; con 
 sole thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these 
 tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take 
 warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite 
 affliction over the dead, and henceforth be 
 more faithful and affectionate in the discharge 
 of tliy duties to the living. 
 
308 
 
 In writing the preceding article, it was not 
 intended to give a full detail of the funeral 
 customs of the English peasantry, but merely 
 to furnish a few hints and quotations illustra 
 tive of particular rites ; to be appended, by 
 way of note, to another paper, which has been 
 withheld. The article swelled insensibly into 
 its present form, and this is mentioned as an 
 apology for so brief and casual a notice of 
 these usages, after they have been amply and 
 learnedly investigated in other works. 
 
 I must observe, also, that I am well aware 
 that this custom of adorning graves with 
 flowers, prevails in other countries besides 
 England. Indeed, in someit is much more gene 
 ral, and is observed even by the rich and fash- 
 Jonable ; but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, 
 and to degenerate into affectation. Bright, in 
 his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of monu 
 ments of marble, and recesses formed for re 
 tirement, with seats placed among bowers of 
 green-house plants ; and that the graves gene- 
 
309 
 
 rally are covered with the gayest flowers of 
 the season. He gives a casual picture of filial 
 piety, which I cannot but transcribe ; for I 
 trust it is as useful as it is delightful, to illus 
 trate the amiable virtues of the sex. " When 
 I was at Berlin," says he, " I followed the ce 
 lebrated Iffland to the grave. Mingled with 
 some pomp, you might trace much real feeling. 
 In the midst of the ceremony, my attention 
 was attracted by a young woman who stood 
 on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf, 
 which she anxiously protected from the feet 
 of the passing crowd. It was the tomb of her 
 parent; and the figure of this affectionate 
 daughter presented a monument more strik 
 ing than the most costly work of art." 
 
 I will barely add an instance of sepulchral 
 decoration that I once met with among the 
 mountains of Switzerland. It was at the vil 
 lage of Gersau, which stands on the borders 
 of the lake of Lucerne, at the foot of Mount 
 Rigi. It was once the capital of a miniature 
 
 republic, shut up between the Alps and the 
 x2 
 
310 
 
 lake, and accessible on the land side only by 
 footpaths. The whole force of the republic 
 did not exceed six hundred fighting men ; and 
 a few miles of circumference, scooped out as 
 it were from the bosom of the mountains, 
 comprised its territory. The village of Gersau 
 seemed separated from the rest of the world, 
 and retained the golden simplicity of a purer 
 age. It had a small church, with a burying 
 ground adjoining. At the heads of the graves 
 were placed crosses of wood or iron. On 
 some were affixed miniatures, rudely execu 
 ted, but evidently attempts at likenesses of 
 the deceased. On the crosses were hung 
 chaplets of flowers, some withering, others 
 fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused 
 with interest at this scene ; I felt that I was at 
 the source of poetical description, for these were 
 the beautiful but unaffected offerings of the 
 heart which poets are fain to record. In a 
 gayer and more populous place, I should have 
 suspected them to have been suggested by 
 factitious sentiment, derived from books ; but 
 
311 
 
 the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; 
 there was not a novel nor a love poem in the 
 village ; and I question whether any peasant of 
 the place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh 
 chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that he 
 was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of 
 poetical devotion, and that he was practically 
 a poet. 
 
THE 
 
 INN KITCHEN. 
 
THE 
 
 INN KITCHEN. 
 
 Shall I not take mine case in mine inn ? 
 
 Falstaff", 
 
 DURING a journey that I once made through 
 the Netherlands, I had arrived one evening at 
 the Pomme d'Or, the principal inn of a small 
 Flemish village. It was after the hour of 
 the table d'hote, so that I was obliged to 
 make a solitary supper from the reliques of 
 its ampler board. The weather was chilly ; 
 I was seated alone in one end of a great 
 gloomy dining room, and my repast being 
 over, I had the prospect before me of a long 
 dull evening, without any visible means of 
 
316 THE INN KITCHEN. 
 
 enlivening it. I summoned mine host,, and 
 requested something to read ; he brought me 
 the whole literary stock of his household ; a 
 Dutch family bible, an almanack in the same 
 language, and a number of old Paris news 
 papers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, 
 reading old news and stale criticisms, my ear 
 was now and then struck with bursts of laugh 
 ter which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. 
 Every one that has travelled on the continent, 
 must know how favourite a resort the kitchen 
 of a country inn is to the middle and inferior 
 order of travellers; particularly in that equivo 
 cal kind of weather, when a fire becomes 
 agreeable toward evening. I threw aside the 
 newspaper, and explored my way to the 
 kitchen, to take a peep at the group that ap 
 peared to be so merry. It was composed 
 partly of travellers who had arrived some 
 hours before in a diligence, and partly of the 
 usual attendants and hangers-on of inns. 
 They were seated round a great burnished 
 stove, that might have been mistaken for an 
 
THE INN KITCHEN. 317 
 
 altar, at which they were worshipping. It 
 was covered with various kitchen vessels of 
 resplendent brightness ; among which steamed 
 and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A large 
 lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the 
 group, bringing out many odd features in 
 strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illu 
 mined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily 
 away into remote corners ; except where they 
 settled in mellow radiance on the broad side 
 of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected back 
 from well-scoured utensils, that gleamed from 
 the midst of obscurity, A strapping Flemish 
 lass, with long golden pendants in her ears, 
 and a necklace with a golden heart suspended 
 to it, was the presiding priestess of the temple. 
 Many of the company were furnished with 
 pipes, and most of them with some kind of 
 evening potation. I found their mirth was 
 occasioned by anecdotes, which a little swarthy 
 Frenchman with a dry weazen face and large 
 whiskers, was giving of his love adventures ; 
 at the end of each of which there was one of 
 
318 THE INN KITCHEN. 
 
 those bursts of honest unceremonious laughter^ 
 in which a man indulges in that temple of 
 true liberty, an Inn. 
 
 As I had no better mode of getting through 
 a tedious blustering evening, I took my seat 
 near the stove, and listened to a variety of 
 travellers' tales, some very extravagant, and 
 most very dull. All of them, however, have 
 faded from my treacherous memory except 
 one, which I will endeavour to relate. I fear, 
 however, it derived its chief zest from the 
 manner in which it was told, and the peculiar 
 air and appearance of the narrator. He was 
 a corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a 
 veteran traveller. He was dressed in a tar 
 nished green travelling jacket, with a broad 
 belt round his waist, and a pair of overalls, 
 with buttons from the hips to the ankles. He 
 was of a full, rubicund countenance, with a 
 double chin, aquiline nose, and a pleasant 
 twinkling eye. His hair was light, and curled 
 from under an old green velvet travelling cap 
 stuck on one side of his head. He was inter- 
 
THE INN KITCHEN. 319 
 
 rupted more than once by the arrival of guests, 
 or the remarks of his auditors ; and paused 
 now and then to replenish his pipe ; at which 
 times he had generally a roguish leer, and a 
 sly joke for the buxom kitchen maid. 
 
 I wish my reader could imagine the old fel 
 low lolling in a huge arm chair, one arm 
 a-kimbo, the other holding a curiously twisted 
 tobacco pipe, formed of genuine ecume de mer, 
 decorated with silver chain and silken tassel 
 his head cocked on one side, and a whimsical 
 cut of the eye occasionally, as he related the 
 following story. 
 
THE 
 
 SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 A TRAVELLER'S TALE.* 
 
 He that supper for is dight, 
 
 He lyes full cold, I trow this night ! 
 
 Yestreen to chamber I him led, 
 
 This night Gray-steel has made his bed ! 
 
 Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-steel. 
 
 ON the summit of one of the heights of 
 the Odenwald, a wild and romantic tract of 
 upper Germany, that lies not far from the 
 confluence of the Maine and the Rhine, there 
 stood, many, many years since, the Castle of 
 the Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite 
 
 * The erudite reader, well versed in good for nothing lore, will per 
 ceive that the above tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss 
 by a little French anecdote, of a circumstance said to have taken place 
 at Paris. 
 
322 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech 
 trees and dark firs ; above which,, however, its 
 old watch-tower may still be seen struggling, 
 like the former possessor I have mentioned, to 
 carry a high head, and look down upon the 
 neighbouring country. 
 
 The Baron was a dry branch of the great 
 family of Katzenellenbogen,* and inherited 
 the reliques of the property, and all the pride 
 of his ancestors. Though the warlike dispo 
 sition of his predecessors had much impaired 
 the family possessions, yet the Baron still en 
 deavoured to keep up some show of former 
 state. The times were peaceable, and the 
 German nobles, in general, had abandoned 
 their inconvenient old castles, perched like 
 eagle's nests among the mountains, and had 
 built more convenient residences in the val 
 leys : still the Baron remained proudly drawn 
 up in his little fortress, cherishing with here- 
 
 * i. e. CATS-ELBOW. The name of a family of those parts very 
 powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in 
 compliment to a peerlees 'dame of the family, celebrated for a fine 
 arm. 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 323 
 
 ditary inveteracy, all the old family feuds ; so 
 that he was on ill terms with some of his 
 nearest neighbours, on account of disputes 
 that had happened between their great great 
 grandfathers. 
 
 The Baron had but one child, a daughter ; 
 but nature, when she grants but one child, al 
 ways compensates by* making it a prodigy ; 
 and so it was with the daughter of the Baron. 
 All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins, 
 assured her father that she had not her equal 
 for beauty in all Germany ; and who should 
 know better than they ? She had, moreover, ' 
 been brought up with great care under the 
 superintendance of two maiden aunts, who 
 had spent some years of their early life at one 
 of the little German courts, and were skilled 
 in all the branches of knowledge necessary to 
 the education of a fine lady. Under their in 
 structions, she became a miracle of accom 
 plishments. By the time she was eighteen she 
 could embroider to admiration, and had work 
 ed whole histories of the saints in tapestry, 
 
 Y 
 
324 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 with such strength of expression in their 
 countenances, that they looked like so many 
 souls in purgatory. She could read without 
 great difficulty, and had spelled her way 
 through several church legends, and almost 
 all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. 
 She had even made considerable proficiency 
 in writing ; could sign her own name without 
 missing a letter, and so legibly, that her 
 aunts could read it without spectacles. She 
 excelled in making little elegant good-for- 
 nothing lady-like nick-nacks of all kinds; 
 was versed in the most abstruse dancing of 
 the day; played *a number of airs on the 
 harp and guitar; and knew all the tender 
 ballads of the Minnie-lieders by heart. 
 
 Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and 
 coquettes in their younger days, were admir 
 ably calculated to be vigilant guardians and 
 strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; 
 for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and 
 inexorably decorous, as a superannuated co 
 quette. She was rarely suffered out of their 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 325 
 
 sight ; never went beyond the domains of the 
 castle, unless well attended, or rather, well 
 watched; had continual lectures read to her 
 about strict decorum and implicit obedience; 
 and, as to the men -pah ! she was taught to 
 hold them at such distance, and in such ab 
 solute distrust, that, unless properly autho 
 rized, she would not have cast a glance upon 
 the handsomest cavalier in the world no, not 
 if he were even dying at her feet ! 
 
 The good effects of this system were won 
 derfully apparent. The young lady was a 
 pattern of docility and correctness. While 
 others were wasting their sweetness in the 
 glare of the world, and liable to be plucked 
 and thrown aside by every hand ; she was coyly 
 blooming into fresh and lovely womanhood 
 under the protection of those Immaculate 
 spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing forth 
 among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked 
 upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunt 
 ed that though all the other young ladies itt 
 the world might go astray, yet thantk heavefi, 
 Y 2 
 
326 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM, 
 
 nothing of the kind could happen to the heir 
 ess of Katzenellenbogen. 
 
 But, however scantily the Baron Von Land- 
 short might be provided with children, his 
 household was by no means a small one ; for 
 providence had enriched him with abundance 
 of poor relations. They, one and all, pos 
 sessed the affectionate disposition common to 
 humble relatives ; were wonderfully attached 
 to the Baron, and took every possible occa 
 sion to come in swarms and enliven the castle. 
 All family festivals were commemorated by 
 these good people at the Baron's expence; 
 and when they were filled with good cheer, 
 they would declare that there was nothing on 
 earth so delightful as these family meetings, 
 these jubilees of the heart. 
 
 The Baron, though a small man, had a 
 large soul, and it swelled with satisfaction at 
 the consciousness of being the greatest man 
 in the little world about him. He loved to 
 tell long stories about .the stark old warriors 
 whose portraits looked grimly down from the 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 327 
 
 walls around, and he found no listeners equal 
 to those who fed at his expense. He was 
 much given to the marvellous, and a firm 
 believer in all those supernatural tales with 
 which every mountain and valley in Gerniany 
 abounds. The faith of his guests exceeded 
 even his own : they listened to every tale of 
 wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never 
 failed to be astonished, even though repeated 
 for the hundredth time. Thus lived the 
 Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his ta 
 ble, the absolute monarch of his little ter 
 ritory, and happy above all things, in the 
 persuasion that he was the wisest man of the 
 age. 
 
 At the time of which my story treats, there 
 was a great family gathering at the castle, on 
 an affair of the utmost importance. It was 
 to receive the destined bridegroom of the 
 Baron's daughter. A negociation had been 
 carried on between the father, and an old 
 nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of 
 their houses by the marriage of their children. 
 
328 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 The preliminaries had been conducted with 
 proper punctilio. The young people were 
 betrothed without seeing each other ; and the 
 time was appointed for the marriage cere 
 mony. The young Count Von Altenburg had 
 been recalled from the army for the purpose, 
 and was actually on his way to the Baron's to 
 receive his bride. Missives had even been 
 received from hinv from Wurtzburg, where 
 he was accidently detained, mentioning the day 
 and hour when he might be expected to arrive. 
 The castle was in a tumult of preparation 
 to give him a suitable welcome. The fair 
 bride had been decked out with uncommon 
 care. The two aunts had superintended her 
 toilet, and quarreled the whole morning about 
 every article of her dress. The young lady 
 had taken advantage of their contest to fol 
 low the bent of her own taste ; and fortu 
 nately it was a good one. She looked as 
 lovely as youthful bridegroom could desire; 
 and the flutter of expectation heightened the 
 lustre of her charms. 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 329 
 
 The suffusions that mantled her face and 
 neck, the gentle heaving of the bosom, the 
 eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed 
 the soft tumult that was going on in her 
 little heart. The aunts were continually ho 
 vering around her ; for maiden aunts are apt 
 to take great interest in affairs of this nature. 
 They were giving her a world of staid coun 
 sel how to deport herself, what to say, and 
 in what manner to receive the expected lover. 
 
 The Baron was no less busied in prepara 
 tions. He had, in truth, nothing exactly to 
 do ; but he was naturally a fuming, bustling 
 little man, and could not remain passive when 
 all the world was in a hurry. He worried 
 from top to bottom of the castle, with an air 
 of infinite anxiety ; he continually called the 
 servants from their work to exhort them to be 
 diligent ; and buzzed about every hall and 
 chamber, as idly restless and importunate as 
 a blue bottle fly of a warm summer's day. 
 
 In the mean time, the fatted calf had been 
 killed ; the forests had rung with the clamour 
 
330 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 of the huntsmen ; the kitchen was crowded 
 with good cheer ; the cellars had yielded up 
 whole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein ; 
 and even the great Heidelberg tun had been 
 laid under contribution. Every thing was 
 ready to receive the distinguished guest with 
 Sam und Braus in the true spirit of German 
 hospitality but the guest delayed to make 
 his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. 
 The sun that had poured his downward rays 
 upon the rich forests of the Odenwald, now 
 just gleamed along the summits of the moun 
 tains. The Baron mounted the highest tower, 
 and strained his eyes in hopes of catching a 
 distant sight of the Count and his attendants. 
 Once he thought he beheld them ; the sound 
 of horns came floating from the valley, pro 
 longed by the mountain echoes. A number 
 of horsemen were seen far below, slowly ad 
 vancing along the road ; but when they had 
 nearly reached the foot of the mountain, they 
 suddenly struck off in a different direction. 
 The last ray of sunshine departed the bats 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 331 
 
 began to --flit by in the twilight the road 
 grew dimmer and dimmer to the view ; and 
 nothing appeared stirring in it, but now and 
 then a peasant lagging homeward from his 
 labour. 
 
 While the old castle of Lands hort was in 
 this state of perplexity, a very interesting 
 scene was transacting in a different part of the 
 Odenwald. 
 
 The young Count Von Altenburg was tran 
 quilly pursuing his route in that sober jog 
 trot way, in which a man travels toward ma 
 trimony when his friends have taken all the 
 trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his 
 hands, and a bride is waiting for him, as cer 
 tainly as a dinner, at the end of his journey. 
 He had encountered, at Wurtzburg, a youth 
 ful companion in arms, with whom he had 
 seen some service on the frontiers ; Herman 
 Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands, 
 and worthiest hearts, of German chivalry, who 
 w;as now returning from the army. His 
 father's castle was not far distant from the 
 
332 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 old fortress of Landshort, although a heredi 
 tary feud rendered the families hostile, and 
 strangers to each other. 
 
 In the warm-hearted moment of recogni 
 tion, the young friends related all their past 
 adventures and fortunes, and the count gave 
 the whole history of his intended nuptials 
 with a young lady whom he had never seen, 
 but of whose charms he had received the most 
 enrapturing descriptions. 
 
 As the route of the friends lay in the same 
 direction, they agreed to perform the rest of 
 their journey together ; and that they might 
 do it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtz- 
 burg at an early hour, the count having given 
 directions for his retinue to follow and over 
 take him. 
 
 They beguiled their wayfaring with recol 
 lections of their military scenes and adven 
 tures ; but the count was apt to be a little 
 tedious, now and then, about the reputed 
 charms of his bride, and the felicity that 
 awaited him. 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 333 
 
 In this way they had entered among the 
 mountains of the Odenwald, and were travers 
 ing one of its most lonely and thickly wooded 
 passes. It is well known ,that the forests of 
 Germany have always been as much infested 
 by robbers as its castles by spectres ; and., at 
 this time, the former were particularly nume 
 rous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers 
 wandering about the country. It will not 
 appear extraordinary, therefore, that the ca 
 valiers were attacked by a gang of these strag 
 glers, in the depth of the forest. They defend 
 ed themselves with bravery, but were nearly 
 overpowered, when the count's retinue arriv 
 ed to their assistance. At sight of them the 
 robbers fled, but not until the count had re 
 ceived a mortal wound. He was slowly and 
 carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtz- 
 burg, and a friar summoned from a neighbour 
 ing convent, who was famous for his skill in 
 administering to both soul and body ; but 
 half of his skill was superfluous ; the moments 
 of the unfortunate count were numbered. 
 
334 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 With his dying breath he entreated his 
 friend to repair instantly to the castle of Land- 
 short, and explain the fatal cause of his not 
 keeping his appointment with his bride. 
 Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was 
 one of the most punctilious of men, and ap 
 peared earnestly solicitous that this mission 
 should be speedily and courteously executed. 
 " Unless this is done," said he, " I shall not 
 sleep quietly in my grave !" He repeated 
 these last words with peculiar solemnity. A re 
 quest, at a moment so impressive, admitted no 
 hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavoured to soothe 
 him to calmness, promised faithfully to exe 
 cute his wish, and gave him his hand in so 
 lemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in 
 acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into deli 
 rium raved about his bride his engage 
 ment his plighted word ; ordered his horse, 
 that he might ride to the castle of Landshort ; 
 and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into 
 the saddle. 
 
 Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh, and a sol- 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 335 
 
 dier s tear, on the untimely fate of his com- 
 rade ; and then pondered on the awkward 
 mission he had undertaken. His heart was 
 heavy, and his head perplexed ; for he was to 
 present himself an unbidden guest among hos 
 tile people, and to damp their festivity with 
 tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there were 
 certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom 
 to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellen- 
 bogen, so cautiously shut up from the world ; 
 for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, 
 and there was a dash of eccentricity and en- 
 terprize in his character that made him fond 
 of all singular adventure. 
 
 Previous to his departure, he made all due 
 arrangements with the holy fraternity of the 
 convent for the funeral solemnities of his 
 friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral 
 of Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious rela 
 tives ; and the mourning retinue of the count 
 took charge of his remains. 
 
 It is now high time that we should return to 
 the ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who 
 
336 THE SPECTRE RRIDEGROOM. 
 
 were impatient for their guest, and still more 
 for their dinner ; and to the worthy little Ba 
 ron, whom we left airing himself on the watch- 
 tower. 
 
 Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. 
 The Baron descended from the tower in des 
 pair. The banquet, which had been delayed 
 from hour to hour, could no longer be post 
 poned. The meats were already overdone ; 
 the cook in an agony ; and the whole house 
 hold had the look of a garrison that had been 
 reduced by famine. The Baron was obliged 
 reluctantly to give orders for the feast without 
 the presence of the guest. All were seated 
 at table, and just on the point of commencing, 
 when the sound of a horn from without the 
 gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. 
 Another long blast filled the old courts of the 
 castle with its echoes, and was answered by 
 the warder from the walls. The Baron has 
 tened to receive his future son-in-law. 
 
 The drawbridge had been let down, and the 
 stranger was before the gate. He was a tall 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 337 
 
 gallant cavalier., mounted on a black steed. 
 His countenance was pale, but he had a beam 
 ing", romantic eye, and an air of stately melan 
 choly. The Baron was a little mortified that 
 he should have come in this simple, solitary 
 style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, 
 and he felt disposed to consider it a want of 
 proper respect for the important occasion, 
 and the important family with which he was 
 to be connected. He, however, pacified him 
 self with the conclusion that it must have 
 been youthful impatience which had induced 
 him thus to spur on sooner than his attend 
 ants. 
 
 " I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break 
 in upon you thus unseasonably " 
 
 Here the Baron interrupted him with a 
 world of compliments and greetings; for, to tell 
 the truth, he prided himself upon his cour 
 tesy and his eloquence. The stranger attempt 
 ed, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, 
 but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered 
 it to flow on. By the time the Baron had 
 
338 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 come to a pause, they had reached the inner 
 court of the castle ; and the stranger was 
 again about to speak, when he was once more 
 interrupted by the appearance of the female 
 part of the family, leading forth the shrinking 
 and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a 
 moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if his 
 whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and 
 rested upon that lovely form. One of the 
 maiden aunts whispered something in her ear; 
 she made an effort to speak ; her moist blue 
 eye was timidly raised ; gave a shy glance of 
 inquiry on the stranger ; and was cast again to 
 the ground. The words died away ; but there 
 was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and 
 a soft dimpling of the cheek, that showed her 
 glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was 
 impossible for a girl of the fond age of eigh 
 teen, highly predisposed for love and matri 
 mony, not to be pleased with so gallant a ca 
 valier. 
 
 The late hour at which the guest had ar- . 
 lived, left no time for parley. The Baron was 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 339 
 
 peremptory, and deferred all particular con 
 versation until the morning, and led the way 
 to the untasted banquet. 
 
 It was served up in the great hall of the 
 castle. Around the walls hung the hard- 
 favoured portraits of the heroes of the house 
 of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which 
 they had gained in the field and in the chase. 
 Hacked corslets, splintered jousting spears, 
 and tattered banners, were mingled with the 
 spoils of sylvan warfare ; the jaws of the wolf, 
 and the tusks of the boar, grinned horribly 
 among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge 
 pair of antlers branched accidentally over the 
 head of the youthful bridegroom. 
 
 The cavalier took but little notice of the 
 company, or the entertainment. He scarcely 
 tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed in 
 admiration of his bride. He conversed in a 
 low tone that could not be overheard for the 
 language of love is never loud ; but where is 
 the female ear so dull that it cannot catch the 
 softest whisper of the lover ? There was 
 
340 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 a mingled tenderness and gravity in his 
 manner, that appeared to have a powerful 
 effect upon the young lady. Her colour came 
 and went as she listened with deep attention. 
 Now and then she made some blushing reply, 
 and when his eye was turned away, she would 
 steal a side-long glance at his romantic coun 
 tenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender 
 happiness. It was evident that the young 
 couple were completely enamoured. The 
 aunts, who were deeply versed in the myste 
 ries of the heart, declared that they had fallen 
 in love with each other at first sight. 
 
 The feast went on merrily, or at least noisi 
 ly, for the guests were all blessed with those 
 keen appetites that attend upon light purses 
 and mountain air. The Baron told his best 
 and longest stories, and never had he told 
 them so well, or with such great effect. If 
 there was any thing marvellous, his auditors 
 were lost in astonishment ; and if any thing 
 facetious, they were sure to laugh exact 
 ly in the right place. The Baron, it is 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 341 
 
 true, like most great men, was too dignified 
 to utter any joke but a dull one; it was al 
 ways enforced however by a bumper of excel 
 lent Hoch-heimer ; and even a dull joke, at 
 one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, 
 is irresistible. Many good things were said 
 by poorer and keener wits, that would not 
 bear repeating, except on similar occasions ; 
 many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, 
 that almost convulsed them with suppressed 
 laughter ; and a song or two roared out by a 
 poor, but merry and broad-faced cousin of the 
 Baron, that absolutely made the maiden aunts 
 hold up their fans. 
 
 Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest 
 maintained a most singular and unseasonable 
 gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper 
 cast of dejection as the evening advanced ; and, 
 strange as it may appear, even the Baron's 
 jokes seemed only to render him the more 
 melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, 
 and at times there was a jJerturbed and rest 
 less wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind 
 z2 
 
342 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 but ill at ease. His conversations with the 
 bride became more and more earnest and 
 mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal 
 over the fair serenity of her brow 5 and tre 
 mors to run through her tender frame. 
 
 All this could not escape the notice of the 
 company. Their gayety was chilled by the 
 unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom ; their 
 spirits were infected ; whispers and glances 
 were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs 
 and dubious shakes of the head. The song 
 and the laugh grew less and less frequent ; 
 there were dreary pauses in the conversation, 
 which were at length succeeded by wild tales, 
 and supernatural legends. One dismal story 
 produced another still more dismal, and the 
 Baron nearly frightened some of the ladies 
 into hysterics with the history of the goblin 
 horseman that carried away the fair Leonora ; 
 a dreadful, but true story, which has since been 
 put into excellent verse, and is read and be 
 lieved by all the world. 
 
 The bridegroom listened to this tale with 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 343 
 
 profound attention. He kept his eyes steadily 
 fixed on the Baron, and as the story drew to 
 a close., began gradually to rise from his seat, 
 growing taller and taller, until, in the Baron's 
 entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into 
 a giant. The moment the tale was finished, 
 he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn fare 
 well of the company. They were all amaze 
 ment. The Baron was perfectly thunderstruck. 
 
 " What ! going to leave the castle at mid 
 night ? why, every thing was prepared for his 
 reception : a chamber was ready for him if he 
 wished to retire." 
 
 The stranger shook his head mournfully, 
 and mysteriously ; " I must lay my head in a 
 different chamber to-night !" 
 
 There was something in this reply, and the 
 tone in which it was uttered, that made the 
 Baron's heart misgive him ; but he rallied his 
 forces and repeated his hospitable entreaties. 
 The stranger shook his head silently, bM po 
 sitively, at every offer, and waving his farewell 
 to the company, stalked slowly out of the 
 
344 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely pe 
 trified the bride hung her head, and a tear 
 stole to her eye. 
 
 The Baron followed the stranger to the great 
 court of the castle, where the black charger 
 stood pawing the earth, and snorting with im 
 patience. When they had reached the portal, 
 whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a 
 cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed 
 the Baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the 
 vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral. 
 " Now that we are alone," said he, " I will 
 impart to you the reason of my going. I have 
 a solemn, an indispensable engagement " 
 
 " Why," said the Baron, " cannot you send 
 some one in your place ?" 
 
 " It admits of no substitute I must attend 
 it in person I must away to Wurtzburg ca 
 thedral** 
 
 " Aye," said the Baron, plucking up spirit, 
 " but not until to-morrow to-morrow you 
 shall take your bride there." 
 
 " No ! no !" replied the stranger, with ten- 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 345 
 
 fold solemnity, " my engagement is with no 
 bride the worms ! the worms expect me ! 
 I am a dead man I have been slain by robbers 
 my body lies at Wurtzburg at midnight 
 I am to be buried the grave is waiting for 
 me I must keep my appointment !" 
 
 He sprang on his black charger, dashed 
 over the draw-bridge, and the clattering of 
 his horse's hoofs were lost in the whistling of 
 the night blast. 
 
 The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost 
 consternation, and related what had passed. 
 Two ladies fainted outright, others sickened at 
 the idea of having banquetted with a spectre. 
 It was the opinion of some, that this might be 
 the wild huntsman famous in German legend. 
 Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood- 
 demons, and of other supernatural beings, 
 with which the good people of Germany have 
 been so grievously harassed since time imme 
 morial. One of the poor relations ventured 
 to suggest that it might be some sportive eva 
 sion of the young cavalier, and that the very 
 gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 with so melancholy a personage. This, how 
 ever, drew on him the indignation of the whole 
 company, and especially of the Baron, who 
 looked upon him as little better than an infi 
 del ; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy 
 as speedily as possible, and come into the 
 faith of the true believers. 
 
 But, whatever may have been the doubts 
 entertained, they were completely put to an 
 end by the arrival, next day, of regular mis 
 sives, confirming the intelligence of the young 
 Count's murder, and his interment in Wurtz- 
 burg cathedral. 
 
 The dismay at the castle may well be ima 
 gined. The Baron shut himself up in his 
 chamber. The guests who had come to re 
 joice with him, could not think of abandoning 
 him in his distress. They wandered about 
 the courts, or collected in groupes in the 
 hall, shaking their heads and shrugging 
 their shoulders, at the troubles of so good 
 a man ; and sat longer than ever at table, 
 and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, 
 by way of keeping up their spirits. But 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 347 
 
 the situation of the widowed bride was the 
 most pitiable. To have lost a husband before 
 she had even embraced him and such a hus 
 band ! if the very spectre could be so gracious - 
 and noble, what must have been the living 
 man ! She filled the house with lamentations. 
 On the night of the second day of her wi 
 dowhood she had retired to her chamber., ac 
 companied by one of her aunts, who insisted 
 on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one 
 of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Ger 
 many, had just been recounting one of her 
 longest, and had fallen asleep in the very 
 midst of it. The chamber was remote, and 
 overlooked a small garden. The niece lay 
 pensively gazing at the beams of the rising 
 moon, as they trembled on the leaves of an 
 aspen tree before the lattice. The castle 
 clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft 
 strain of music stole up from the garden. 
 She rose hastily from her bed, and stepped 
 lightly to the window. A tall figure stood 
 among the shadows of the trees. As it raised 
 
348 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the 
 countenance. Heaven and earth ! she beheld 
 the Spectre Bridegroom ! A loud shriek at 
 that moment burst upon her ear, and her 
 aunt, who had been awakened by the music, 
 and had followed her silently to the window, 
 fell into her arms. When she looked again, 
 the spectre tiad disappeared. 
 
 Of the two females, the aunt now required 
 the most soothing, for she was perfectly beside 
 herself with terror. As to the young lady, 
 there was something, even in the spectre of 
 her lover, that seemed endearing. There was 
 still the semblance of manly beauty; and 
 though the shadow of a man is but little cal 
 culated to satisfy the affections of a love-sick 
 girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, 
 even that is consoling. The aunt declared 
 she would never sleep in that chamber again ; 
 the niece, for once, was refractory, and declar 
 ed as strongly that she would sleep in no 
 other in the castle : the consequence was, that 
 she had to sleep in it alone ; but she drew a 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 349 
 
 promise from her aunt not to relate the story 
 of the spectre, lest she should be denied the 
 only melancholy pleasure left her on earth 
 that of inhabiting the chamber over which the 
 guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly 
 vigils. 
 
 How long the good old lady would have ob 
 served this promise is uncertain^for she dear 
 ly loved to talk of the marvellous, and there 
 is a triumph in being the first to tell a fright 
 ful story ; it is, however, still quoted in the 
 neighbourhood, as a memorable instance of 
 female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a 
 whole week ; when she was suddenly absolved 
 from all further restraint, by intelligence 
 brought to the breakfast table one morning, 
 that the young lady was not to be found. Her 
 room was empty the bed had not been slept 
 in the window was open, and the bird had 
 flown! 
 
 The astonishment and concern with which 
 the intelligence was received, can only be ima 
 gined by those who have witnessed the agita- 
 
350 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 tion which the mishaps of a great man cause 
 among his friends. Even the poor relations 
 paused for a moment from the indefatigable 
 labours of the trencher ; when the aunt, who 
 had at first been struck speechless, wrung her 
 hands, and shrieked out, " the goblin ! the 
 goblin ! she's carried away by the goblin !" 
 
 In a few words she related the fearful scene 
 of the garden, and concluded that the spectre 
 must have carried off his bride. Two of the 
 domestics corroborated the opinion, for they 
 had heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs 
 down the mountain about midnight, and had 
 no doubt that it was the spectre on his black 
 charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All 
 present were struck with the direful probabi 
 lity ; for events of the kind are extremely com 
 mon in Germany, as many well authenticated 
 histories bear witness. 
 
 What a lamentable situation was that of the 
 poor Baron ! What a heart-rending dilemma 
 for a fond father, and a member of the great 
 family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daugh- 
 
THE SPBCTRE BRIDEGROOM. 351 
 
 ter had either been rapt away to the grave, or 
 he was to have some wood-demon for a son- 
 in-law, and, perchance, a troop of goblin 
 grand-children. As usual, he was completely 
 bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The 
 men were ordered to take horse, and to scour 
 every road, and path, and glen of the Oden- 
 wald. TheBaron himself, had just drawn on his 
 jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about 
 to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubt 
 ful quest, when he was brought to a pause by 
 a new apparition. A lady was seen approach 
 ing the castle, mounted on a palfrey, attend 
 ed by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped 
 up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and 
 falling at the Baron's feet, embraced his knees. 
 It was his lost daughter, and her companion 
 the Spectre Bridegroom ! The Baron was as 
 tounded. He looked at his daughter, then at 
 the Spectre, and almost doubted the evi 
 dence of his senses. The latter, too, was 
 wonderfully improved in his appearance, 
 since his visit to the world of spirits. His 
 
352 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure 
 of manly symmetry. He was no long 
 er pale and melancholy. His fine counte 
 nance was flushed with the glow of youth, and 
 joy rioted in his large dark eye. 
 
 The mystery was soon cleared up. The ca 
 valier, (for in truth, as you must have known 
 all the while, he was no goblin) announced 
 himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He 
 related his adventure with the young Count. 
 He told how he had hastened to the castle to 
 deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the 
 eloquence of the Baron had interrupted him in 
 every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight 
 of the bride had completely captivated him, 
 and that to pass a few hours near her, he had 
 tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How 
 he had been sorely perplexed in what way 
 to make a decent retreat, until the Baron's 
 goblin stories had suggested his eccentric exit. 
 How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, 
 he had repeated his visits by stealth had 
 haunted the garden beneath the young lady s 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 353 
 
 window had wooed had won had borne 
 away in triumph and, in a word, had wed 
 ded the fair. 
 
 Under any other circumstances, the Baron 
 would have been inflexible, for he was tenaci 
 ous of paternal authority, and devoutly obsti 
 nate in all family feuds ; but he loved his 
 daughter ; he had lamented her as lost ; he 
 rejoiced to find her still alive ; and, though 
 her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank 
 heaven, he was not a goblin. There was 
 something, it must be acknowledged, that did 
 not exactly accord with his notions of strict 
 veracity, in the joke the knight had passed 
 upon him of his being a dead man ; but seve 
 ral old friends present, who had served in the 
 wars, assured him that every stratagem was 
 excusable in love, and that the cavalier was en 
 titled to especial privilege, having lately serv 
 ed as a trooper. 
 
 Matters, therefore were happily arranged. 
 The Baron pardoned the young couple on the 
 spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. 
 
354 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 The poor relations overwhelmed this new 
 member of the family with loving kindness ; 
 he was so gallant, so generous and so 
 rich. The aunts/ it is true, were somewhat 
 scandalized that their system of strict seclu 
 sion, and passive obedience,, should be so badly 
 exemplified, but attributed it all to their negli 
 gence in not having the windows grated. 
 One of them was particularly mortified at 
 having her marvellous story marred, and that 
 the only spectre she had ever seen should turn 
 out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed per 
 fectly happy at having found him substantial 
 flesh and blood and so the story ends. 
 
 THE EN 7 D. 
 
 W, Pople, Printer, 67, Chancery Lane- 
 
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