~ FBOSTISMECK Irving, Vol. On* THE WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING THE SKETCH BOOK LEGENDS OF THE CONQUEST OF SPAIN A LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING By RICHARD HENRY STODDARD WITH FRONTISPIECE NEW YORK P. F. COLLIER & SON MCMIV SRIF URL CONTENTS VOLUME ONE Life, by Richard Henry Stoddard c 7 THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. Angler, The 356 A Royal Poet 126 Art of Book-Making 119 Boar's Head Tavern, Eastchsap , : , 153 Broken Heart, The 113 Christmas 218 Christmas Day 243 Christmas Dinner, The 257 Christmas Eve 231 Country Church, The 140 English Writers on America 97 John Bull 336 Little Britain 272 Mutability of Literature 165 Philip of Pokanoket 318 Pride of the Village 347 Rip Tan "Winkle 79 Roscoe 63 Rural Funeral, The 176 Rural Life in England 106 (3) Sleepy Hollow, The Legend of 366 Specter Bridegroom, The 191 Stage Coach, The 224 Stratford-on-Avon 287 The Inn Kitchen 188 The Wife 70 The Voyage 57 Traits of Indian Character 307 "Westminster Abbey 206 Widow and her Son, The 146 LEGENDS OF THE CONQUEST OF SPAIN THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK I. Of the ancient inhabitants of Spain Of the misrule of Witiza the Wicked 405 n. The Rise of Don Roderick His government 410 HI. Of the loves of Don Roderick and the Princess Elyata. . 413 IV. Of Count Julian 417 V. The Story of Florinda 419 VI. Don Roderick receives an extraordinary embassy 425 VH. Story of the marvelous and portentous tower 428 VHI. Count Julian His fortunes in Africa He hears of the dis- honor of his child His conduct thereupon 435 IX. Secret visit of Count Julian to the Arab Camp First ex- pedition of Taric El Tuerto 441 X. Letter of Muza to the Caliph Second expedition of Taric El Tuerto 444 XI. Measures of Don Roderick on hearing of the invasion Expedition of Ataulpho Vision of Taric 448 XH. Battle of Calpe Fate of Ataulpho 451 XHI. Terror of the country Roderick rouses himself to arms 456 XIV. March of the Gothic army Encampment on the banks of the Guadalete Mysterious predictions of a Palmer Conduct of Pelistes thereupon 460 XV. Skirmishing of the armies Pelistes and his son Pelistes and the bishop 464 XVI. Traitorous message of Count Julian >, 467 XVH. Last day of the battle 469 XVni. The field of battle after the defeat The fate of Roderick 474 APPENDIX Illustrations of the foregoing legend The tomb of Roderick 478 The cave of Hercules. . . . 478 LEGENDS OF THE SUBJUGATION OF SPAIN I. Consternation of Spain Conduct of the Conquerors Mis- sives between Tario and Muza 484 n. Capture of Granada Subjugation of the Alpuxarra Moun- tains 488 ITT. Expedition of Magued against Cordova Defense of the patriot Pelistes 493 IV. Defense of the Convent of St. George by Pelistes 496 V. Meeting between the patriot Pelistes and the traitor Julian 500 VI. How Taric El Tuerto captured the city of Toledo through the aid of the Jews, and how he found the famous talis- manic table of Solomon 502 VII. Muza Ben Nozier's entrance into Spain and capture of Carmona 507 VIII. Muza marches against the city of Seville 510 IX. Muza besieges the city of Merida 511 X. Expedition of Abdalasis against Seville and the " land of Tadmir " 517 XI. Muza arrives at Toledo Interview between him and Taric 524 XII. Muza prosecutes the scheme of conquest Siege of Sara- gossa Complete subjugation of Spain 527 XUI. Feud between the Arab Generals They are summoned to appear before the Caliph at Damascus Reception of Taric 530 XIV. Muza arrives at Damascus His interview with the Caliph The table of Solomon A rigorous sentence.. 534 XV. Conduct of Abdalasis as Emir Of Spain 537 XVI. Loves of Abdalasis and Exilona 541 XVH. Fate of Abdalasis and Exilona Death of Muza 544 LEGEND OF COUNT JULIAN AND HIS FAMILY.. . 549 LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD THE life of Washington Irving was one of the brightest ever led by an author. He discovered his genius at an early age; was graciously welcomed by his countrymen; answered the literary condition of the period when he appeared; won easily, and as easily kept, a distinguished place in the re- public of letters; was generously rewarded for his work; charmed his contemporaries by his amiability and modesty ; lived long, wisely, happily, and died at a ripe old age, in the fullness of his powers and his fame. He never learned the mournful truth which the lives of so many authors force upon us: " Slow rises worth, by poverty depressed" ; he never felt the ills which so often assail the souls of scholars : " Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail" ; he never wrote for his bread like Johnson and Goldsmith, and never hungered like Otway and Chatterton ; but lived in learned ease, surrounded by friends, master of himself and his time a prosperous gentleman. Born under a lucky star, all good things sought him out, and were turned by him to delightful uses. He made the world happier by his gifts, and the world honors his memory. (7) 8 Cife of U/asl?ii}$tOQ The ancestry of Washington Irving reaches back to the days of Robert Bruce, who, when a fugitive from the court of Edward I., concealed himself in the house of William De Irwin, his secretary and sword-bearer. William De Irwin followed the changing fortunes of his royal master ; was with hirn when he was routed at Methven ; shared his subsequent dangers; and was one of the seven who were hidden with him in a copse of holly when his pursuers passed by. When Bruce came to his own again he made him Master of the Rolls, and ten years after the battle of Bannockburn gave him in free barony the forest of Drum, near Aberdeen. He also permitted him to use his private badge of three holly leaves, with the motto, Sub sole sub umbra virens, which are still the arms of the Irving family. Our concern, how- ever, is not with the ancestors of Irving, but with his father, William Irving, who was from Shapinsha, one of the Orkney Islands, and who, on the death of his mother, determined to follow the sea. He was born in 1731, a year before Wash- ington, and, when his biographers find him, was a petty officer on board of an armed packet-ship in the service of his British Majesty, plying between Falmouth and New York. At the former port he met and became enamored of Sarah Sanders, a beautiful girl about two years younger than him- self, the only daughter of John and Anna Sanders, and granddaughter of an English curate named Kent. They were married at Falmouth, May 18, 1761, and two years and two months later embarked for New York, leaving the body of their first child in an English graveyard. Wil- liam Irving now abandoned the sea, and, entering into trade, was prospering in a small way when the Revolution broke out. His house was under the guns of the English ships of war in the harbor, so he concluded to remove to the country, and took refuge with his family in Rahway, New Jersey. He was safer, perhaps, than he would have been in New York; but business was at an end. He was pointed out as a rebel, and British troops were billeted in his best rooms, while the family was banished to the garret; so he made up Cife of U/asl?fi?$toi) Irvip$ 9 his mind to return to New York. He was still a rebel, as well as his wife, who supplied prisoners with food from her own table, visited them in prison when they were ill, and furnished them with clothes, blankets, and the like. "I'd rather you'd send them a rope, Mrs. Irving," said the brutal Cunningham, who, nevertheless, allowed her charities to pass through his hands. Washington Irving, the youngest of eleven, children, and the eighth son of William and Sarah Irving, was born to- ward the close of these troublous times in New York, on April 3, 1783. The house in which he was born, a plain, two-story dwelling in William Street (131), between Fulton and John, has long since disappeared, as well as the house on the opposite side of the same street (128), to which the family moved within a year after his birth. If the boy differed in any respect from the average boy, the particulars have not reached us. The earliest recorded anecdote in which he figures connects him with the illustrious name of Washington, who entered the city with his army not many months after his birth. The enthusiasm which greeted the great man was showed by a young Scotch maid-servant of the family, who followed him one morning into a shop, and showing him the lad, said: "Please, your honor, here's a bairn was named after you." He placed his hand on the head of his little namesake and blessed him. Master Irving was not a prodigy ; for at the first school, kept by a woman, to which he was sent in his fourth year, and where he remained upward of two years, he learned lit- tle beyond his alphabet ; and at the second, where boys and girls were taught, and where he remained until he was four- teen, he was more noted for his truth-telling than for his scholarship. He distinguished himself while at school by playing the part of Juba in Addison's Cato, at a public ex- hibition, and by amusing the audience by struggling at the same time with a mass of honey-cake which he was munch- ing behind the scenes, when he was suddenly summoned upon the stage. The first book he is known to have read with 10 Cife of U/asl?ii7$toi) pleasure was Hoole's translation of "Orlando Furioso," which fired him to emulate the feats of its heroes, by combating his playmates with a wooden sword in the yard of his father's house. His next literary favorites were "Robinson Crusoe" and "Sindbad the Sailor," and a collection of voyages and travels, entitled "The World Displayed," which he used to read at night by the glimmer of secreted candles after he had retired to bed, and which begot in him a desire to go to sea a strong desire that by the time he left school almost rip- ened into a determination to run away from home and be a sailor. It led him, at any rate, to try to eat salt pork, which he abominated, and to lie on the hard floor, which, of course, was distasteful to him. These preliminary hardships proved too much for his heroism, so the notion of becoming a gallant tar was reluctantly abandoned. Irving's first known attempt at original composition was a couplet leveled against a larger schoolfellow, who was at- tentive to the servant girl of his master, and who was so enraged at the fun it occasioned that he gave the writer a severe thrashing. The young poet was discouraged in his personalities, but not his art; for he contributed metrical effusions to the "Weekly Museum," a little periodical of four pages, published in Peck Slip, to which he also contributed moral essays. At the age of thirteen he wrote a play, which was represented at the house of a friend, and stimulated his boyish fondness for the stage. He was abetted in his dra- matic passion by James K. Paulding, who was between four and five years his senior, and was residing with his brother William Irving, who had married his sister. The theater was situated in John Street, between Broadway and Nassau, not far from his father's house, from which he used to steal to see the play, returning in time for the evening prayer, after which he would pretend to retire for the night to his own room in the second story, whence he would climb out of the window on a woodshed, and so get back to the theater, and the enjoyment of the after-piece. These youthful esca- pades, if detected, would no doubt have subjected him to Cife of a severe lecture from his father, who was a strict, God- fearing man, and to tender reproaches from his mother. " Oh, Washington 1" sighed the old lady, "if you were only good! " After a year or two more of school-life, during which he acquired the rudiments of a classical education, he concluded to study law, a profession to which his brother John had de- voted himself, and accordingly entered the office of Henry Masterton, with whom he remained until the summer of 1801, when he transferred his services to Brockholst Living- ston, and, on that gentleman being called to the bench of the Supreme Court of the State in the following January, he con- tinued his legal pursuits in the office of Josiah Ogden Hoff- man. Why Irving conceived that he had the makings of a lawyer in him, we are not told ; nor why his father, who was averse to law, should have permitted him to mistake his tal- ents. It was not a very dangerous mistake, however, for he soon awoke from it; nor was it sedulously indulged in while it lasted ; for when not employed, like Cowper before him, in giggling and making giggle, he passed his days in reading the belle-lettre literature of England, and such literature as America then possessed, which was not much, nor worth dwelling upon now. He found his vocation in his nineteenth year, in the beginning of December, 1802, or it was found for him, by his brother Peter, who, a couple of months before, had started a daily paper in New York, under the title of the "Morning Chronicle," of which he was the editor and pro- prietor, and in which he persuaded his clever young brother to assist him. He furnished a series of essays over the sig- nature of "Jonathan Oldstyle," which betrayed the bent of his mind and his early reading, and which were generally of a humorous character. They were so much superior to the newspaper writings of the period that they attracted great attention, and, in spite of their local and temporary in- terest, were copied into the journals of other cities. Among those who were struck by their talent was Charles Brockden Brown, who was the first American that made literature a 12 Cife of U/asl?ir)^tOF7 profession, and who had already published four or five novels, remarkable both for their extravagance and their power. He was a contributor to the periodicals of the day such as they were of which the best, perhaps, was "The Monthly Maga- zine and American Register," of which he was the proprietor. It soon died, and was followed by "The Literary Magazine and American Register," of which he was also the proprietor, and it was in this latter capacity, rather than as the first American author, that he visited Irving, and besought him to aid him in his new enterprise. He was not successful ; for, whatever may have been his inclinations, "Mr. Jonathan Oldstyle" had not yet decided upon being an author. Irving's love of adventure, which had been stimulated by the reading of voyages and travels, and which would have led him to follow a maritime life, if he could have gratified his inclinations, expended itself in long rambles about the rural neighborhoods of the city, which he knew by heart, and in more distant excursions into the country. He spent a holiday in Westchester County in his fifteenth year, and explored the recesses of Sleepy Hollow; and, in his seven- teenth year, made a voyage up the Hudson, the beauties of which, as Bryant has pointed out, he was the first to de- scribe. He was greatly impressed by the sight of the High- lands, crowned with forests, with eagles sailing and scream- ing around them, and unseen streams dashing down their precipices; and was fairly bewitched by the Kaatskill Moun- tains. "Never shall I forget," he wrote, "the effect upon me of the first view of them predominating over a wide ex- tent of country, part wild, woody, and rugged, part softened away into all the graces of cultivation. As we slowly floated along, I lay on the deck and watched them through a long summer's day ; undergoing a thousand mutations under the magical effects of atmosphere; sometimes seeming to ap- proach, at other times to recede ; now almost melting into hazy distance, now burnished by the setting sun, until, in the evening, they printed themselves against the glowing sky in the deep purple of an Italian landscape." In his Cifc of U/aslpio^toi) Irvii?$ 13 twentieth year he made a visit to Johnstown, the residence of his eldest sister, which he reached in a wagon, after a voyage by sloop to Albany. This visit seems to have been undertaken on account of his health, for he was troubled with a constant pain in his breast, and a harassing cough at night. "I have been unwell almost all the tune I have been up here," he wrote to a friend. "I am too weak to take any exercise, and too low-spirited half the time to enjoy com- pany." "Was that young Irving," asked Judge Kent of his brother-in-law, "who slept in the room next to me, and kept up such an incessant cough during the night?" "It was." "He is not long for this world." This lugubrious judgment of the great jurist was shared by the family of Irving, who determined to send him to Europe. The ex- pense was mainly borne by his brother "William, who told him, speaking in behalf of his relatives, that one of their greatest sources of happiness was that fortune put it in their power to add to the comfort and happiness of one so dear to them. They accordingly secured a passage for him to Bor- deaux, for which he started on the 19th of May, 1804. "There's a chap," said the captain, "who will go overboard before we get across." The first European visit of an American was a greater event seventy years ago than it is to-day. It was less com- mon, at any rate, and was attended with dangers which no longer exist. What it was to Irving we gather from his let- ters, which may still be read with pleasure, though nothing like the pleasure they afforded his friends, who were more interested in his itinerary than it is possible for us to be. He reached Bordeaux after what the sailors call "a lady's voy- age," much improved in health, and enough of a sailor to climb to the masthead, and go out on the main topsail yard. He remained at Bordeaux about six weeks, seeing what there was to see, and studying to improve himself in the language. From Bordeaux he proceeded to Marseilles by diligence, ac- companied by an eccentric American doctor, who pretended that Irving was an English prisoner, whom a young French 14 Cife of U/asl?ii)$toi) officer that was with them had in custody, much to the re- gret of some girls at Tonneins, who pitied "le pauvre gar- cpn," and his prospect of losing his head, and supplied him with a bottle of wine, for which they would not take any rec- ompense. At Nismes he began to have misgivings about his passports, of which he had two, neither accurate, his eyes being described as blue in one and gray in the other. He had a great deal of trouble with his passports, first and last, but he worried through it, with considerable loss of temper, and, after a detention at Nice, finally set sail in a felucca for Genoa. From Genoa, where he resided upward of two months, he started for Messina, falling in with a privateer, or pirate, on the way, who frightened the captain and crew, and relieved them of about half their provisions, besides some of their furniture, and a watch and some clothes out of the trunks 6f the passengers. From Genoa he proceeded to Syracuse, where he explored the celebrated Ear of Dionys- ius, and set out with a party for Catania, and thence to Palermo, where he arrived at the latter end of the Carnival. He reached Naples on March 7, 1805, and after resting a few days, made a night ascent of Mount Vesuvius, where he had a tremendous view of the crater, that poured out a stream of red-hot lava, the sulphurous smoke of which stifled him, so much so, that but for the shifting of the wind he might have shared the fate of Pliny. Twenty days later he entered Rome by the Lateran Gate. Here he met a fel- low-countryman, in the person of Washington Alston, who was about four years his elder, whose taste for art had been awakened at Newport by his association with Malbone, the famous miniature painter, and who was already more than a painter of promise. "I do not think," Irving wrote years after, "that I have ever been more completely captivated on a first acquaintance. He was of a light and graceful form, with large, blue eyes, and black, silken hair, waving and curling round a pale, expressive countenance. Everything about him bespoke the man of intellect and refinement. His conversation was copious, animated, and highly graphic, Cife of U/asl?ip($tOQ Iruir>$ 37 in his own name, tell many round untruths, and made him also responsible, as an author, for the existence of the manu- script of Agapida. Coleridge regarded the work as a mas- terpiece of romantic narrative ; Prescott believed that Irving availed himself of all the picturesque and animating move- ments of the period which he had treated, and that he was not seduced from historical accuracy by the poetical aspect of his subject ; and Bryant, a fine Spanish scholar, as well as an admirable literary critic, maintained that it was one of the most delightful of his works an exact history, for such it is admitted to be by those who have searched most carefully the ancient records of Spain yet so full of personal incident, so diversified with surprising turns of fortune, and these wrought up with such picturesque effect, that, to use an ex- pression of Pope, a young lady might read it by mistake for a romance. It is a pleasant thing for an author to win ap- probation from members of his own craft much pleasanter, on the whole, perhaps, than to win the less intelligent appro- bation of the public ; but unfortunately for his ambition and his pocket, it is only the last which is of substantial benefit to him. It was now withheld from Irving, for the "Conquest of Granada" did not sell. Before it saw the light of publica- tion Irving had returned to the line of biographic studies, which its composition had interrupted, and was busy in trac- ing out the "Voyages of the Companions of Columbus," and had in contemplation a series of Legends connected with the Moorish domination in Spain, upon which he wrote from time to time as the spirit moved him. He made a second visit to Granada in May, 1829, and lodged in the Alhambra, over whose halls and courts he rambled at all hours of the day and night. While he was residing in this romantic old Moor- ish palace, he was appointed Secretary of Legation to Lon- don, whither he repaired in October. Here two honors awaited him: the first being a gold medal, of the value of fifty guineas, which was adjudged to him by the Council of the Royal Society of Literature, the other, the degree of LL.D., which was conferred upon him by the University 38 Cffe of U/asJ?ip<}tOQ of Oxford. Notwithstanding these honors, of which any man of letters might well be proud, and of the personal esteem and affection with which he was regarded, there can be no doubt that his reputation had lessened since the publi- cation of the "Sketch-Book/' in 1820, and of the "Life and Voyages of Columbus," in 1828. Whether his intermediate and later works were of a lower order of literary excellence than these were admitted to possess, or whether that many- headed beast, the public, was weary of them, is a question I do not feel called upon to decide. It is enough to note here that his popularity was so greatly on the wane that he parted with the "Voyages of the Companions of Columbus" to Mur- ray for only five hundred guineas; and that his sharp busi- ness friend, Colonel Aspinwall, could only obtain a thousand guineas for his next work, "The Alhambra," and this not from Murray, but from Colburn and Bentley. Of the re- ception of these characteristic studies of old Spain and the old voyagers, I have no knowledge, except that Mr. Edward Everett wrote concerning the last, in the "North American Review," that it was equal, hi literary value, to any other of the same class, with the exception of the "Sketch-Book, " and that he should not be surprised if it were read as exten- sively as even that very popular production ; and that Pres- cott, the historian, characterized it, in his "History of Ferdi- nand and Isabella, "as the "beautiful Spanish Sketch-Book. " Of Irving's diplomatic life, his presentation at court, etc., I shall not speak, nor of the celebrities whom he met, only one of whom is likely to interest now. It was Scott, who was then in London, a broken-down old man, on his way to Italy, and whom he met again at a family dinner, at which he was the only stranger present. "Ah, my dear fellow," said Scott, who was seated as he entered, "time has dealt lightly with you since last we met." The mind of the great magician flickered fitfully during the dinner; now and then he struck . up a story in his old way, but the light soon died out, his head sank, and his countenance fell, when he saw that he had failed to bring out his points. When the ladies went up- Cife of \I/asbip<$toi) Irvir>$ 39 stairs after dinner, Lockhart said to his guest, "Irving, give Scott your arm." The grand old man, mournful in ruin, took the arm that was offered him, and grasping his cane with the other hand, said, "Ah, the times are changed, my good fellow, since we went over the Eildon hills together. It is all nonsense to tell a man that his mind is not affected when his body is in this state." They never met again; for the mighty minstrel died the next year, and Irving returned to America after an absence of seventeen years, lacking four days. Irving's arrival was anticipated by his friends, who re- ceived him with the greatest cordiality, and gave him a public dinner at the City Hotel, which was presided over by his early friend, Chancellor Kent, who had so promptly dis- missed him to the world of shades thirty years before. The ordeal was a trying one to the modest man of letters, who had a nervous horror of personal publicity, but he acquitted himself creditably, as the newspapers of that day testify. It was, of course, the happiest moment of his life, and was ren- dered more so because it proved that the misgivings which had- haunted him that his countrymen believed he was alien - ated from them, were groundless. He spoke of the changes which had come over New York during his absence, the emo- tions which he had experienced when he beheld it, as he sailed up the harbor, seated in the midst of its watery do- main, with the sunshine lighting up its domes, and the forest of masts at its piers as far as the eye could reach; and how his heart throbbed with joy and pride as he felt he had a birthright in the brilliant scene before him. "I am asked how long I mean to remain here? They know but little of my heart or my feelings who can ask me this question. I answer, as long as I live." Here the roof rang with bravos, handkerchiefs were waved, cheers were given over and over again, and he finally sat down, satisfied that he had done better than he expected. Shortly after this dinner Irving re- paired to Washington, to settle his accounts with the Govern- ment, and to meet the friends of his earlier years Mr. Louis 40 Cife of McLane, late Minister to England, Henry Clay, General Jackson, and others. Returning to New York, he made a trip up the Hudson as far as Tarrytown, and thence to Sara- toga and Trenton Falls. He meditated a tour in the western part of New York, Ohio, Kentucky, and Tennessee, but he changed his plan, and joined an expedition to the far West, in company with three commissioners appointed to treat with deputations of the different tribes of Indians. He started from Cincinnati on September 3d, reached Independence, Mis- souri, on the 24th of that month, Fort Gibson, Arkansas, on October 9th, and Montgomery Point, at the mouth of the Ar- kansas, early in November. A voyage by steamboat down the Mississippi to New Orlearis, and thence to Washington, and so back to New York, completed the tour. The ground over which he had traversed, which was then but little known to the inhabitants of the more civilized portions of the United States, and the incidents and experiences of travel with which it was surrounded, determined him to turn them to account. He set about a narrative of what he had seen and undergone, in the midst of other avocations, and, writing leisurely, completed it by the end of the following year. It was entitled, "A TOUT on the Prairies," and was published in London, in 1835, by Murray, from whom Colonel Aspin- wall succeeded in obtaining four hundred pounds for it. What reception it met with in England I know not. It was welcomed here, and by none more warmly than Edward Everett, in the "North American Review." "To what class of compositions the present work belongs, ' ' he wrote, "we are hardly able to say. It can scarcely be called a book of travels, for there is too much painting of manners and scenery, and too little statistics; it is not a novel, for there is no story ; and it is not a romance, for it is all true. It is a sort of sentimental journey, a romantic excursion, in which nearly all the elements of several different kinds of writing are beautifully and gayly blended into a production almost sui generis." He then expressed his pride in Irving's sketches of English life, and the gorgeous canvas upon Cife of U/38l?ip<$top Iruii7$ 41 which he had gathered in so much of the glowing imagery of Moorish times, but was more pleased to see him come back laden with the poetical treasures of the primitive wilderness, and with spoils from the uninhabited desert. "We thank him for turning these poor, barbarous steppes into classical land, and joining his inspiration to that of Cooper in breath- ing life and fire into a circle of imagery, which was not known before to exist, for the purposes of the imagination." To revive, perhaps, the nom de plume by which he had be- come best known among English-reading people, Irving pub- lished "A Tour on the Prairies" as the first number of the "Crayon Miscellany." It was followed in the course of two or three months by a second number, entitled, "Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey, ' ' for which Colonel Aspinwall obtained from Murray the sum of four hundred pounds, with a prom- ise of two hundred pounds more when a second edition should be reached. It appears to have been successful, for Colonel Aspinwall wrote to Irving, "Murray says Abbotsford delights everybody, especially the Lockharts." The third number of the "Crayon Miscellany," "Legends of Spain," was sent about six weeks later to the same publisher, who declined it at the price demanded, but put it to press on the author's account, whereby Irving realized only one hundred pounds. Not long after his return to the United States, Irving was applied to by Mr. John Jacob Astor, to write about his set- tlement of Astoria at the mouth of the Columbia River. He declined the undertaking, being engrossed with other plans, but recommended his nephew, Mr. Pierre Munro Irving, as one who might aid him in preparing the materials, in which case he would have no objection in putting the finishing hand to the work. Mr. Astor caught at the idea, and Mr. Pierre Irving, who was then in Illinois, came to New York, at the request of his uncle, and the pair commenced their joint labors at a country house, belonging to Mr. Astor, at Hell- gate. He paid his authors liberally, the younger for his in- dustry as a compiler, the elder for his skill as a literary artist and the use of his name, and was fully satisfied with their 42 Cife of U/astyiij^toi) Iruii>? endeavors to hand him down to posterity as a colonist as well as a millionaire. "Astoria" was published in 1836. Mr. Edward Everett, speaking, as usual, through the "North American," saw in it, as a whole, the impress of Irving's taste, and sketches of life and character worthy of the pen of Geoffrey Crayon ; and an anonymous writer in the London "Spectator" considered it the most finished narrative of such a series of adventures that was ever written. While Irving was residing at the country seat of Mr. Astor, where he had for companions the poet Halleck, and Charles Astor Bristed, then a lad of fourteen, he met Captain Bonneville, of the United States army, a type of man not uncommon at the time, who had engrafted the hunter and the trapper upon the soldier, and in whom he was much interested. He met this gentleman again in the following winter at Washington, where he was engaged in re-writing and extending his trav- eling notes, and making maps of the regions he had explored, and he purchased his materials, out of which, together with other facts and details gathered from different sources, con- versations, journals of the captain's contemporaries, and the like, he wrought a volume of frontier life, which was pub- lished in 1837, as the "Adventures of Captain Bonneville," and for which Bentley paid him nine hundred pounds for an English edition, which was four hundred pounds more than he had paid for "Astoria." In the course of his home-travels, shortly after his return to America, Irving saw a rural site at Tarrytown, on the Hudson, not far from the residence of his nephew, Oscar, which struck his fancy. It consisted of ten acres, when he purchased it in the summer of 1835, and contained a cottage about a century old, which he concluded to rebuild into a lit- tle rookery in the old Dutch style. He accordingly sent up an architect and workmen, who between them built him a stone house at considerable cost, in which, surrounded with Christmas greens, he was settled with his brother Peter, in January, 1837. In this cozy mansion, which he at first christened "Wolfert's Roost," and afterward "Sunny Side," Cife of U/asl?ii)<$toi7 Irvip^ 43 he finished the "Adventures of Captain Bonneville," and, his mind still running on the might of Old Spain, which he had illustrated so brilliantly in his "Life of Columbus," he commenced what promised to be a greater work than that, and which like that was to concern itself with Castilian domination in the New World the "History of the Spanish Conquest of Mexico." When he had made a rough draft of the groundwork of the first volume, he came down to the city to consult authorities in the New York Society Library, where he met Mr. Joseph G. Cogswell, whom he knew, and who asked him what new work he had in hand, sounding him in the interest of Prescott, who had lately published his "History of Ferdinand and Isabella." "Is Mr. Prescott engaged upon an American subject?" inquired Irving. He was told that he was, and that it was the "Conquest of Mexico." With a generosity, of which few men could have been capable, Irving then and there abandoned his plan, and desired Mr. Cogswell to say as much to Prescott, whose claim to it (supposing he had any) was certainly less than his own, in that he had merely collected materials for it. Prescott acknowledged his courtesy in a grateful letter, in which he dwelt upon the mortification he would have felt if he found him occupying the ground, and expressed a fear that the public would not be so well pleased as himself by Irving's liberal conduct, of which he was not sure that he should have a right in their eyes to avail himself. The giving up of this great task, which occupied Prescott five years, left Irving at leisure to renew his early acquaintance with the British Es- sayists, and to revise a biographical study which he had exe- cuted some fifteen years before. This was a "Life of Gold- smith," which he had prepared at Paris, for Galignani, for a collection of British Authors that he undertook to edit, and which he now re- wrote for the "Family Library," of which the Harpers were the publishers. This was followed by a second and a much less important biographical study, a "Life of Margaret Davidson," the younger of two American sis- ters, who had a childish talent for writing verse, which her 44 Cife of UYasl?ii}<$tor} Irvir?<$ friends called poetry and who had died of consumption in her sixteenth year. Two political honors were offered Irving in his fifty-fifth year, one being a unanimous nomination as Mayor of New York, from Tammany Hall, the other the appointment of Secretary of the Navy, from President Van Buren. He ac- cepted neither, wisely preferring to the doubtful distinction they might have bestowed upon him, the peaceful security of his cottage and the society of his relatives. The relin- quishment of the "Conquest of Mexico," left him at leisure for lesser undertakings, which he found in writing a series of papers for the "Knickerbocker Magazine," his connection with which lasted from March, 1839, to March, 1841. Be- fore the latter date (February 10) he received what he called "the crowning honor of his life." It came in the shape of the appointment of Minister to Spain, which was forwarded to him by Daniel Webster, who remarked, when sufficient time had elapsed for the news to reach him, "Washington Irving is the most astonished man in New York." Hard upon his appointment the new minister was called on to at- tend the dinner which the citizens of New York gave Dick- ens, at which it was decided that he must preside, and where he did preside, with much trepidation, making one of the shortest dinner speeches on record. "There," he said, as he concluded his broken sentences by proposing the health of Dickens, as the guest of the nation, "There! I told you I should break down, and I've done it." Irving embarked for Europe for the third time, on April 10, 1841. He soon reached London, where he waited upon his friend, Edward Everett, then American Minister, who presented him to Queen Victoria, at the levee, where he met several of his old acquaintances, among them the ministers, Lord Aberdeen, Sir Robert Peel, etc., who were cordial in their recognitions. He also met, at a dinner party at Mr. Everett's, the veteran poet and wit, Rogers, who took him in his arms in a paternal manner j and at an anniversary din- ner of the Literary Fund, he met Moore, upon whom the Cife of U/as}?ii)$toi} Irulp$ 45 cares of the world were thickening, and to whom he declared his intention of not speaking; "that Dickens dinner," as he explained to the more glib-tongued poet, still haunting his imagination with the memory of his break-down. Irving hardly filled the character of an embassador, as defined by Sir Henry Wotton, i.e., "one sent to lie abroad for the good of his country"; for, setting aside his natural incapacity for mendacity, the good of his country demanded nothing of the kind from him, whatever it may have done from our Minis- ter to England, who had the Oregon affair upon his hands. The diplomatic life of Irving, which occupied four years, need not detain us long. From London he proceeded to Paris, where, as in duty bound, he called upon General Cass, our Minister to France, who drove out with him one evening to Neuilly, and presented him to Louis Philippe, his queen, and his sister, Madame Adelaide, all of whom took occasion to say something complimentary about his writings. He arrived at Madrid on July 25, and installed himself in the apartments of his predecessor in the hotel of the Duke of San Lorenzo. Six days later he had an audience of the Regent, Espartero, Duke of Victoria. He was then driven to the royal palace, and presented to the little queen, a child of twelve, a puppet in the hands of intriguing statesmen, who went through the part assigned to her with childish dignity. Irving's letters to his relatives are largely made up of ac- counts of the politics of the country to which he was accredited, and which are mildly described by the word stormy. The Regent, Espartero, for example, was speedily overthrown, and the child queen was in the hands of Nar- vaez and his adherents, who issued juntas, pronunciamentos, and what not in the way of sounding public documents. He was a sagacious observer who could understand, and a rapid penman who could narrate, the events which Irving wit- nessed during his residence in Spain, and which it was his embassadorial duty to communicate to his government. The amount of diplomatic business which now devolved upon him left him no time to perform a task which was near his heart, 46 Cffe of U/agl?ii?$toi} Irvii><$ and upon which he had hoped to labor diligently. This was a "Life of "Washington," which had been proposed to him by Constable, the publisher, in 1825, while he was residing at Paris, and which he declined at that time from a modest diffidence of his powers. "I stand in too great awe of it," he wrote. Long brooded over, and fairly begun, at "Wol- fert's Roost," he made but little progress with it at Madrid. His post finally grew so irksome to him that he resigned it in December, 1845, and impatiently awaited his successor, who appeared during the following summer, in the person of General Romulus M. Saunders, of North Carolina. Irving turned his back on the Old World for the last time in Lon- don, early in September, 1846, and on the 19th of that month was at home once more in his beloved "Sunny Side." The last years of Irving' s life were passed in the en- joyment of the leisure and the honors that he had earned. His chief residence was at "Sunny Side," though he made occasional journeys, as in his early days, and his chief em- ployment was the task upon which he had long set his heart "The Life of Washington" and the collection and revision of a complete edition of his works, many of which were by this time out of print. This edition, which was commenced in the summer of 1848, contained, in addition to the list of Irving's writings in the preceding pages, three later publica- tions, "Oliver Goldsmith" (1849), "Mahomet and his Suc- cessors" (1850), and "Wolfert's Roost" (1855). The first was a subject which had engaged his attention twice before, and to which he was led to return by the appearance of For- ster's "Life of Goldsmith," which his publisher thought of reprinting. This charming book so freshened the memory of his favorite author, and stimulated his power of work, that in less than two months the sheets of his third biographical study were in the printer's hands. "Mahomet and his Suc- cessors," the last of the series of writings which he had pro- jected during his first residence in Madrid, illustrative of the Moorish domination in Spain, was originally prepared for Murray's "Family Library" in 1831, but circumstances pre- Cife of UYa8l?ii)$tor> Iruip$ 47 venting its publication at the time, it was thrown aside for years. The neglected manuscript was found by Minister Irving among his papers during his last residence in Spam, where he beguiled the tediousness of illness by revising it, profiting, as he did so, by the light which later writers had shed upon the subject, particularly Dr. Gustav Weil, libra- rian of the University of Heidelberg, who is still an author- ity among the biographers of the great Arabian prophet. These additions to the body of his writings, excellent as they were in themselves, and important as they would have been in the life of a lesser author, were merely diversions from the labor which constantly occupied his mind and his pen as they slowly, but surely, proceeded with his "Life of Washington," the first volume of which was published shortly after "Wol- fert's Roost," in 1855, the fifth and last volume in 1859, a few months before his death. Irving died on the night of November 28, 1859, and all that was mortal of him was buried on the 1st of December at Tarrytown. It was a beautiful winter day, clear and sunny, radiant with the still lingering Indian summer, which shed a soft and melancholy light over the solemn scene. "It was one of his own days," said the mourners, as they rode from "Sunny Side" to Christ Church, where the funeral services were held, and thence to the cemetery, about a mile distant, on the side of a hill, with a view of the Hudson on one side, and on the other of the valley of Sleepy Hollow classic ground, which the genius of Irving has made immortal. "His youth was innocent ; his riper age Marked with some act of goodness every day ; And watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, Faded his late declining years away. Meekly he gave his being up, and went To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. "That life was happy ; every day he gave Thanks for the fair existence that was his ; For a sick fancy made him not his slave, To mock him with his phantom miseries. 48 Clfc of U/asl?ii}$toi} No chronic tortures racked his aged limb, For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. "And I am glad that he has lived thus long, And glad that he has gone to his reward ; Nor can I deem that Nature did him wrong, Softly to disengage the vital cord. For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye Faint with the marks of age, it was his time to die." So sang the greatest of our poets, Bryant, in his early manhood, in "The Old Man's Funeral," a touching poem in which he celebrated a blameless life like that of Irving; and in his Oration in memory of the latter, a few months after his death, he addressed his departed friend in the following eloquent words: "Farewell! thou who hast entered into the rest prepared, from the foundation of the world, for serene and gentle spirits like thine. Farewell ! happy in thy life, happy in thy death, happier in the reward to which that death was the assured passage ; fortunate in attracting the admiration of the world to thy beautiful writings, still more fortunate in having written nothing which did not tend to promote the range of magnanimous forbearance and gener- ous sympathies among thy f ellowmen ; the lightness of that enduring fame which thou hast won on earth is but a shadowy symbol of the glory to which thou art admitted in the world beyond the grave. Thy errand upon earth was an errand of peace and good- will to men, and thou art in a region where hatred and strife never enter, and where the harmonious ac- tivity of those who inhabit it acknowledges no impulse less noble or less holy than that of love." THE SKETCH-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 theater or scene." BURTON. * * *3 VOL. I. TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART., THIS WORK IS DEDICATED, IN TESTIMONY OF THE ADMIRATION AND AFFECTION OF THE AUTHOR ADVERTISEMENT TO THK FIRST AMERICAN EDITION THE following writings are published on experiment; should they please, they may be followed by others. The writer will have to contend with some disadvantages. He is unsettled in his abode, subject to interruptions, and has his share of cares and vicissitudes. He cannot, therefore, prom- ise a regular plan, nor regular periods of publication. Should he be encouraged to proceed, much time may elapse between the appearance of his numbers; and their size will depend on the materials he may have on hand. His writings will par- take of the fluctuations of his own thoughts and feelings; sometimes treating of scenes before him, sometimes of others purely imaginary, and sometimes wandering back with his recollections to his native country. He will not be able to give them that tranquil attention necessary to finished com- position; and as they must be transmitted across the Atlantic for publication, he will have to trust to others to correct the frequent errors of the press. Should his writings, however, with all their imperfections, be well received, he cannot con- ceal that it would be a source of the purest gratification ; for though he does not aspire to those high honors which are the rewards of loftier intellects, yet it is the dearest wish of his heart to have a secure and cherished, though humble corner in the good opinions and kind feelings of his countrymen. London, 1819. 51 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST ENGLISH EDITION THE following desultory papers are part of a series writ- ten in this country, but published in America. The author is aware of the austerity with which the writings of his coun- trymen have hitherto been treated by British critics; he is conscious, 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 reprinted in this country. He has, however, observed several of them from tune to time inserted in periodical works of merit, and has understood that it was probable they would be republished in a collective form. He has been induced, therefore, to re- vise and bring them forward 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 candor which a stranger has some right to claim who presents himself at the threshold of a hospitable nation. February, 1820. 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 traveler 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." lily's Euphues I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. My holiday afternoons were spent in rambles about the surrounding country. I made myself familiar with all its places famous in history or fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had been com- mitted, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighboring villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting their habits and customs, and conversing with their sages and great men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the summit of the most distant hill, from whence I stretched my eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find how vast a globe I inhabited. This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books of voyages and travel became my passion, and in de- vouring their contents I neglected the regular exercises of the school. How wistfully would I wander about the pier- heads in fine weather, and watch the parting dhips, bound to distant climes with what longing eyes would I gaze after (53) 54 Tfo e /lutl?or'8 ^eooupt of flimself their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagination to the ends of the earth ! Further reading and thinking, though they brought this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own country ; and had I been merely influenced by a love of fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification ; for on no country have the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verdure; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its mag- nificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine : no, never need an American look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. But Europe held forth all the charms of storied and poeti- cal association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, the refinements of highly cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My native country was full of youthful promise; Europe was rich in the ac- cumulated treasures of age. Her very rums told the history of times gone by, and every mouldering stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes of renowned achievement to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of antiquity to loiter about the ruined castle to meditate on the falling tower to escape, in short, from the commonplace realities of the pres- ent, 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 Jl?e /*utl?or'8 /teooupt of flimself 55 nothing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a great one, particularly the great man of a city. But I was anx- ious to see the great men of Europe ; for I had read in the works of various philosophers that all animals degenerated in America, and man among the number. A great man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as superior to a great man of America as a peak of the Alps to a highland of the Hudson ; and hi this idea I was confirmed, by observing the comparative importance and swelling magnitude of many English travelers among us, who, I was assured, were very little people in their own country. I will visit this land of wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic race from which I am degenerated. It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving passion gratified. I have wandered through different coun- tries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that I have studied them with the eye of a phi- losopher, but rather with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to another; caught sometimes by the delinea- tions of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, I am dis- posed to get up a few for the entertainment of my friends. When, however, I look over the hints and memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost fails me, at finding how my idle humor has led me aside from the great objects studied by every regular traveler who would make a book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky landscape-painter, who had traveled on the Con- tinent, but, following the bent of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His sketch- book was accordingly crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and obscure rums ; but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's or the Coliseum ; the cascade of Terni, or the Bay of Naples ; and had not a single glacier or volcano in his whole collection. THE SKETCH-BOOK THE VOYAGE "Ships, ships, I will descrie you Amidst the main, I will come and try you, What are you protecting, And projecting, "What's your end and aim. One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, Another stays to keep his country from invading, A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading, Hallo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go?" OLD POEM To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new, and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition by which, as in Europe, the features and population of one coun- try blend almost imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment you lose sight of the land you have left all is vacancy until you step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another world. In traveling by land there is a continuity of scene and a 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 (57) 58 U/or^s of them still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our homes a gulf, sub- ject to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, that makes dis- tance palpable, and return precarious. Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all that was most dear to me in lif e ; what vicissitudes might occur in it what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it again ! "Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence ; or when he may re- turn ; or whether it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood? I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the ex- pression. To one given to day dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, 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 abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-railing or climb to the maintop, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon ; fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own; to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols : shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus, slowly heaving his huge form above the surface ; or the rav- enous shark, darting, like a specter, through the blue waters. 59 My imagination would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world beneath me : of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys; of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth, and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of a world hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence! "What a glorious monument of human invention ; that has thus triumphed over wind and wave ; has brought the ends of the world into communion ; has established an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of knowledge, and the charities of culti- vated lif e ; and has thus bound together those scattered por- tions 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, everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had 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 amid the roar of the tempest their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ; what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety anxiety into 60 U/orKs of dread and dread into despair ! Alas ! not , one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. All that shall ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port, "and was never heard of more!" The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dis- mal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the even- ing, 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 disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one related by the cap- tain: "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 daytime; but at night the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the masthead, and a constant watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of 'a sail ahead!' it was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with a broadside toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amid- ships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel, bore her down below the waves ; we passed over her and were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches, rushing from her cabin; they just started from then* beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget that cry ! It was some time before we Tfce 8ketol?-BooK 61 could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned as nearly as we could guess to the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal-guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors ; but all was silent we never saw or heard anything of them more. ' ' I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds over- head seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quiv- ered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plung- ing among these roaring caverns it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water ; her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous move- ment of the helm preserved her from the shock. When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts; the straining and groaning of bulkheads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the side of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey : the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the curl- ing waves, how lofty, how gallant, she appears how she 62 U/or^s of seems to lord it over the deep ! I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage ; for with me it is almost a con- tinual reverie but it is time to get to shore. It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of "land!" was given from the masthead. 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 prom- ise, teeming with everything of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered. From that tune, 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, tower- ing into the clouds; all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitered the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass-plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighbor- ing hill all were characteristic of England. The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people; some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calcu- lating brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his pockets ; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There were re- peated 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 demeanor. She was leaning forward from among the crowd ; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She Jbe SKetGb-BooK 63 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 mess- mates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so increased that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features; it read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony. All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of ac- quaintances the greetings of friends the consultations of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers but felt that I was a stranger in the land. ROSCOE " In the service of mankind to be A guardian god below ; still to employ The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, Such as may raise us o'er the 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 ; it contains a good library, and spacious reading-room, and is the great literary resort of the place. Go there at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave-looking personages, deeply absored in the study of newspapers. 64 U/orK of As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned my at- tention was attracted to a person just entering the room. He was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once have been commanding, but it was a little bowed by tune perhaps by care. He had a noble Roman style of counte- nance ; 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 involuntary feeling of veneration. This, then, was an author of celebrity ; this was one of those men whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth ; with whose minds I have communed even in the solitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, to know European writers only by their works, we cannot conceive of them, as of other men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pur- suits, and jostling with the crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass before our imaginations like superior beings, radiant with the emanations of their own genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary glory. To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical ideas ; but it is from the very circumstances and situ- ation 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 ; spring- ing up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear legitimate dullness to maturity ; and to glory in the vigor 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 brambles of early advers- ity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent ; in the very market-place of trade ; without fortune, family connec- tions, or patronage ; self -prompted, self -sustained, and almost self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, and, having become one of the ornaments of the nation, has turned the whole force of his talents and influence to advance and embellish his native town. Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given him the greatest interest hi my eyes, and induced me particu- larly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his literary merits, he is but one among the many distin- guished authors of this intellectual nation. They, however, in general, live but for their own fame, or their own pleas- ures. Their private history presents no lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty and incon- sistency. At best, they are prone to steal away from the bustle and commonplace of busy existence ; to indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease ; and to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoyment. Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the ac- corded 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 wayside, for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where the laboring man may turn aside from the dust and heat of the day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge. There is a "daily beauty in his life," on which mankind may medi- tate, and grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost use- less, because inimitable, example of excellence ; but presents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, which are within every man's reach, but which, unfortunately, are not exercised by many, or this world would be a paradise. 66 U/orl^s of 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 interests by intelligent and public-spirited individuals. He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it can give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo de Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed his eye, as on a pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven the his- tory of his life with the history of his native town, and has made the foundations of its fame the monuments of his virtues. Wherever you go, in Liverpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channels of traffic ; he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh the gar- dens of literature. By his own example and constant exer- tions he has effected that union of commerce and the intel- lectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of his latest writings;* and has practically 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 most been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, by Mr. Roscoe : and when we consider the rapidly increasing opulence and mag- nitude of that town, which promises to vie in commercial im- portance with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in awakening an ambition of mental improvement among its inhabitants he has effected a great benefit to the cause of British literature. In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author in * Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 67 Liverpool, he is spoken of as the banker; and I was told of his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far above the reach of 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 reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in upon the resources of his own mind ; to the superior society of his own thoughts; which the best of men are apt sometimes to neg- lect, 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 communion of studious retirement; and with posterity, in the generous aspirings after future renown. The solitude of such a mind is its 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 subject, it was my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liver- pool, 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 Mer- sey was seen winding a broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green meadow land ; while the Welsh moun- tains, blending with clouds, and melting into distance, bor- dered the horizon. This was Roscoe 's favorite residence during the days of his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and literary refinement. The house was now silent and de- serted. I saw the windows of the study, which looked out upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows were 68 U/orK of closed the library was gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were loitering about the place, whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It was like visiting some classic foun- tain that had once welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty with the lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles. I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which had 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 auctioneer, and was dispersed about the country. The good people of the vicinity thronged like wreckers to get some part of the noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associations, we might imagine something whimsical in this strange irruption into the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the armory of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons which they could not wield. We might picture to ourselves some knot of speculators debating with calculating brow over the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete 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 mis- fortunes, 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 cir- cumstance that could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, com- panions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the season of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. 69 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 themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat with others that might seem merely fanciful; but it certainly appears to me such an opportunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling under misfortunes by one of the most delicate, but most expressive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He becomes mingled and confounded with other men. His great qualities lose their novelty, and we become too famil- iar with the common materials which form the basis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a man of business ; others as a politi- cian ; all find him engaged like themselves in ordinary occu- pations, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unos- tentatious simplicity of character, which gives the name less grace to real excellence, may cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who do not know that true worth is always void of glare and pretension. But the man of letters who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Ros- coe. The intelligent traveler who visits it, inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the distant scholar. He is like Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic dignity. The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. If anything can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction that the whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the writer's heart : 70 U/ork of TO MY BOOKS. "As one, who, destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile To share their converse, and enjoy their smile, And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart ; "Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; "For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore ; When freed from earth, 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 house. What a delicious breath marriage sends forth The violet bed 's not sweeter I" MIDDLETON I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate, him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and ele- vation to their character that at tunes it approaches to sub- limity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and depend- ence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while threading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of her husband under mis- fortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs ; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sud- den calamity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. "I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, ''than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man falling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one; partly, because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly, because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding that though all abroad is darkness and hu- miliation, 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 inhabitant. These observations call to mind a little domestic story of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every ele- gant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and 72 UYorKs of U7asl?ii)<$toi) fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. "Her life," said he, "shall be like a fairy tale." The very difference in their characters produced a harmo- nious combination ; he was of a romantic and somewhat seri- ous cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in com- pany, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall, manly person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his. lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path of early and well- suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have em- barked his property in large speculations ; and he had not been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters it was swept from him, and he found himself re- duced to almost penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid at- tempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek the song will die away from those lips the luster of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow and the happy heart which 73 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 related 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 madness!" "And why not?" said I. "She must know it sooner or later; you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon her in a more startling manner than if im- parted by yourself ; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love will not brook reserve : it feels under- valued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." - "Oh, but my friend! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! that she is to forego all the elegancies of life all the pleas- ures of society to shrink with me into indigence and obscur- ity ! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have continued to move in con- stant brightness the light of every eye tha admiration of every heart! How can she bear poverty? She has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect? She has been the idol of society. Oh, it will break her heart it will break her heart!" I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at * * *4 VOL. I. 74 U/orK of U/asl?ii?$toi) Iruii?$ * once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but posi- tively. "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 re- quire a palace to be happy with Mary " "I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, "in a hovel! I could go down with her into poverty and the dust ! I could I could God bless her! God bless her!" cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. "And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasping him warmly by the hand, "believe me, she can be the same with you. Ay, more ; it will be a source of pride and triumph to her it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom is no man knows what a ministering angel she is until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the figurative style of my language, that caught the ex- cited 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 pleas- ures? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward Tfoe Ketel?-BooK 75 path of low humility, suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto reveled. 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 had lately made me unhappy. But, poor girl," added he, "she cannot realize the change we must un- dergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract : she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation : she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humilia- tions 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 mortify- ing ; 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 pretense, that harasses a ruined man the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false pride himself , and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. Some days afterward, he called upon me in the evening. He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new estab- lishment 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 as- 76 U/orKs of U/asl?ip<$toi) Iruit)$ sociated with the idea of herself ; it belonged to the little story of their loves; for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had leaned over that in- strument, and listened to the melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day, superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as 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 anything happened to her?" "What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it noth- ing 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 sweetness and good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort ! ' ' "Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, my friend; you never were so rich you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you 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 an humble dwelling she has been employed all day in ar- ranging 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- Tbe SKetcl?-BooK 77 thing elegant almost of everything convenient ; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty." There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded by forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage; a few trees 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, sing- ing, 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 for- ward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel-walk. A bright, beautiful face glanced out at the window, and vanished a light footstep was heard and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole counte- nance beamed with smiles I had never seen her look so lovely. "My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are come; I have been watching and watching for you; and running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I've been gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of them and we have such excel- lent cream and everything is so sweet and still here. Oh!" said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly hi his face, "oh, we shall be so happy 1" 78 U/orKs of U/asl?ii?<$toi} Iruii?$toi) but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. "Well who are they? name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." "Where's Brom Butcher?" "Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony-Point others say he was drowned in the squall, at the foot of Anthony's Nose. I don't know he never came back again. ' ' "Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" "He went off to the wars, too; was a great militia gen- eral, and is now in Congress." Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war Congress Stony- Point! he had no cour- age to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?" ' ' Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! ' ' exclaimed two or three. ' ' Oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, and cer- tainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely con- founded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name? "God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself I'm somebody else that's me yonder no that's 93 somebody else, got into my shoes I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!" The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their fore- heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief; at the very suggestion of which, the self-important man with the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely woman passed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, my good woman?" asked he. "Judith Gardenier." "And your father's name?" "Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle; it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since his dog came home with- out 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 tune since : she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler. There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child hi his arms. "I am your father!" cried he ' 'young Rip Van Winkle once old Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle!" All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 94 U/orKs of U/asl?ii?($toi) among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle it is himself. "Welcome home again, old neighbor. "Why, where have you been these twenty long years?" Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the self -important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head upon which there was a general shak- ing of the head throughout the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the "Half Moon," being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a Jl?e SKetelp-BooK 95 husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but evinced a hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench, at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England and that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him ; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was petticoat government. Happily that was at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matri- mony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of .Dame Van "Winkle. "Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was doubtless owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, 96 U/or^s of or child in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabit- ants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day, they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hud- son and his crew are at their game of nine-pins ; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. NOTE. The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German supersti- tion about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart and the Kypphauser mountain; the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity. "The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief , for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvelous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson, all of which were too well, authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very ven- erable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a cer- tificate on the subject taken before a country justice, and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt." ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA " Methinks I see in my mind a noble puissant nation, rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks ; me- thinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled eyes at the full midday beam." MILTON ON THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS IT is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary animosity daily growing up between England and America. Great curiosity has been awakened of late with respect to the United States, and the London press has teemed with volumes of travels through the Republic ; but they seem intended to diffuse error rather than knowledge; and so successful have they been that, notwithstanding the constant intercourse between the nations, there is no people concerning whom the great mass of the British public have less pure information, or entertain more numerous prejudices. English travelers are the best and the worst in the world. Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal them for profound and philosophical views of society, or faithful and graphical descriptions of external objects ; but when either the interest or reputation of their own country comes in collision with that of another, they go to the oppo- site extreme, and forget their usual probity and candor, in the indulgence of splenetic remark, and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate the more remote the country described. I would place implicit confidence in an Englishman's description of the regions be- yond the cataracts of the Nile ; of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea; of the interior of India; or of any other tract * * *5 VOL. I. 98 U/orl^s of which other travelers might be apt to picture out with the illusions of their fancies. But I would cautiously receive his account of his immediate neighbors, and of those nations with which he is in habits of most frequent intercourse. However I might be disposed to trust his probity, I dare not trust his prejudices. It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be visited by the worst kind of English travelers. While men of philosophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from England to ransack the poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study the manners and customs of barbarous nations, with which she can have no permanent intercourse of profit or pleasure ; it has been left to the broken-down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the wandering mechanic, the Man- chester and Birmingham agent, to be her oracles respecting America. From such sources she is content to receive her information respecting a country in a singular state of moral and physical development; a country in which one of the greatest political experiments in the history of the world is now performing, and which presents the most profound and momentous studies to the statesman and the philosopher. That such men should give prejudiced accounts of America is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contem- plation are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The national character is yet in a state of fermentation : it may have its frothiness and sediment, but its ingredients are sound and wholesome : it has already given proofs of powerful and generous qualities; and the whole promises to settle down into something substantially excellent. But the causes which are operating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily in- dications of admirable properties, are all lost upon these pur- blind observers; who are only affected by the little asperities incident to its present situation. They are capable of judg- ing only of the surface of things; of those matters which come in contact with their private interests and personal gratifications. They miss some of the snug conveniences and petty comforts which belong to an old, highly-finished, 99 and over-populous state of society ; where the ranks of useful labor are crowded, and many earn a painful and servile sub- sistence, by studying the very caprices of appetite and self- indulgence. These minor comforts, however, are all-impor- tant in the estimation of narrow minds ; which either do not perceive, or will not acknowledge, that they are more than counterbalanced among us, by great and generally diffused blessings. They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some un- reasonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have pict- ured 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 unforeseen but easy manner. The same weakness of mind that indulges absurd expectations produces petu- lance in disappointment. Such persons become imbittered against the country on finding that there, as everywhere else, a man must sow before he can reap ; must win wealth by industry and talent ; and must contend with the common difficulties of nature, and the shrewdness of an intelligent and enterprising people. Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed hospitality, or from the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the stranger, prevalent among my countrymen, they have been treated with unwonted respect in America; and, having been accustomed all their lives to consider themselves below the surface of good society, and brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant on the common boon of civility; they attribute to the lowliness of others their own elevation ; and underrate a society where there are no artifi- cial distinctions, and where by any chance such individuals as themselves can rise to consequence. One would suppose, however, that information coming from such sources, on a subject where the truth is so desir- able, would be received with caution by the censors of the press ; that the motives of these men, their veracity, their opportunities of inquiry and observation, and their capacities 100 U/orKs of U/asl?ii?$top 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 inconsistency. Nothing can surpass the vigilance with which English critics will examine the credibility of the traveler who publishes an account of some distant, and comparatively unimportant, country. How warily will they compare the measurements of a pyramid, or the description of a ruin ; and how sternly will they censure any inaccuracy in these contributions of merely curious knowledge; while they will receive, with eagerness and unhesitating faith the gross misrepresentations of coarse and obscure writers, concerning a country with which their own is placed in the most important and delicate relations. Nay, they will even make these apocryphal vol- umes text-books, on which to enlarge, with 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 adverted to it but for the undue in- terest apparently taken in it by my countrymen, and certain injurious effects which I apprehend 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 false- hood after another falls off of itself. We have but to live on, and every day we live a whole volume of refutation. All the writers of England united, if we could for a moment suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy a com- bination, 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 which, in fact, have been the Tl?e SKetelp-Book 101 acknowledged and wonderful supporters of their own na- tional power and glory. But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of England? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by the contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us? It is not in the opinion of England alone that honor lives, and reputa- tion 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 national glory or national disgrace established. 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 laboring to con- vince her, she is hereafter to find an invidious rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank those very writers for having provoked rivalship, and irritated hostility. Every one knows the all-pervading influence of literature at the present day, and how much the opinions and passions of mankind are un- der its control. The mere contests of the sword are tempo- rary ; their wounds are but in the flesh, and it is the pride of the generous to forgive and forget them ; but the slanders of the pen pierce to the heart ; they rankle longest in the noblest spirits; they dwell ever present in the -mind, and render it morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is but seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities be- tween two nations; there exists, most commonly, a previous jealousy and ill-will, a predisposition to take offense. 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 ignominious bread, con- coct 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 102 U/orl^s of nation does the press hold a more absolute control than over the people of America ; for the universal education of the poor- est classes makes every individual a reader. There is nothing published in England on the subject of our country that does not circulate through every part of it. There is not a calumny dropped from an English pen, nor an unworthy sarcasm ut- tered by an English statesman, that does not go to blight good-will, and add to the mass of latent resentment. Pos- sessing, then, as England does, the fountain-head from whence the literature of the language flows, how completely is it in her power, and how truly is it her duty, to make it the medium of amiable and magnanimous feeling a stream where the two nations might meet together, and drink in peace and kindness. Should she, however, persist in turning it to waters of bitterness, the time may come when she may repent her folly. The present friendship of America may be of but little moment to her; but the future destinies of that country do not admit of a doubt : over those of England there lower some shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive should those reverses overtake her, from which the proudest empires have not been exempt she may look back with regret at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a nation she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying her only chance for real friendship be- yond the boundaries of her own dominions. There is a general impression in England that the people of the United States are inimical to the parent country. It is one of the errors which has been diligently propagated by designing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberality of the En- glish press; but, collectively speaking, the prepossessions of the people are strongly in favor of England. Indeed, at one time they amounted, in many parts of the Union, to an ab- surd degree of bigotry. The bare name of Englishman was a passport to the confidence and hospitality of every family, and too often gave a transient currency to the worthless and the ungrateful. Throughout the country, there was some- 103 thing of enthusiasm 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 reposi- tory of the monuments and antiquities of 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 possess none toward which our hearts yearned with such throbbings of warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, whenever there was the least opportu- nity for kind feelings 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 friend- ship. Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden band of kin- dred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken for- ever? Perhaps it is for the best it may dispel an allusion which might have kept us in mental vassalage ; which might have interfered occasionally with our true interests, and prevented the growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give up the kindred tie! and there are feelings dearer than interest closer to the heart than pride that will still make us cast back a look of regret as we wander further and further from the paternal roof, and lament the waywardness of the parent that would repel the affections of the child. Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of England may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination on our ' part would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt and spirited vindication of our country, or the keen- est 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 widely among our writers. Let us guard particularly against such a temper; for it would double the evil, instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm; but it is a paltry and unprofitable contest. It is the alterna- 104 U/orKs of U/asl?in$ton tive of a morbid mind, fretted into petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. If England is willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or the rancorous animosities of politics, to deprave the integrity of her press, and poison the fountain of public opinion, let us beware of her example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse error, and engender antipathy, for the purpose of checking emigration ; we have no purpose of the kind to serve. Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to gratify; for as yet, in all our rival- ships with England, we are the rising and the gaining party. There can be no end to answer, therefore, but the gratifica- tion of resentment a mere spirit of retaliation ; and even that is impotent. Our retorts are never republished in Eng- land ; 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 cir- culate through our own country, and, as far as they have effect, excite virulent national prejudices. This last is the evil most especially to be deprecated. Governed, as we are, entirely by public opinion, the utmost care should be taken to preserve the purity of the public mind. Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledge; whoever, therefore, know- ingly propagates a, prejudice, willfully 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, por- tions of the sovereign 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 questions of a difficult and delicate character with her than with any other nation ; questions that affect the most acute and excitable feelings : and as, in the adjusting of these, our national measures must ultimately be determined by popular sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all latent passion or prepossession. 105 Opening too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every portion of the earth, we should receive all with impar- tiality. It should be our pride to exhibit an example of one nation, at least, destitute of national antipathies, and exer- cising, not merely the overt acts of hospitality, but those more rare and noble courtesies which spring from liberality of opinion. "What have we to do with national prejudices? They are the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and ignorant ages, when nations knew but little of each other, and looked beyond their own boundaries with distrust and hostility. We, on the contrary, have sprung into na- tional existence in an enlightened and philosophic age, when the different parts of the habitable world, and the various branches of the human family, have been indefatigably studied and made known to each other ; and we forego the advantages of our birth, if we do not shake off the national prejudices, as we would the local superstitions, of the old world. But, above all, let us not be influenced by any angry feel- ings, 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 con- stitution is most analogous to ours. The manners of her people their intellectual activity their freedom of opinion their habits of thinking on those subjects which concern the dearest interests and most sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to the American character; and, in fact, are all intrinsically excellent ; for it is in the moral f eeling of the people that the deep foundations of British prosperity are laid ; and however the superstructure may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, there must be something solid in the basis, admirable in the materials, and stable in the structure of an edifice that so long has towered unshaken amid the tempests of the world. 106 U/orKs of U/asl?ii)$toi) Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the illiberal- ity of British authors, to speak of the English nation without prejudice and with determined candor. While they rebuke the indiscriminating bigotry with which some of our coun- trymen admire and imitate everything English merely be- cause it is English, let them frankly point out what is really worthy of approbation. We may thus place England before us as a perpetual volume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deductions from ages of experience; and while we avoid the errors and absurdities which may have crept into the page, we may draw thence golden maxims of practi- cal wisdom, wherewith to strengthen and to embellish our national character. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND "Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural pleasures past!" COWPEB THE stranger who would form a correct opinion of the English character must not confine his observations to the metropolis. He must go forth into the country; he must sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farmhouses, cottages; he must wander through parks and gardens ; along hedges and green lanes ; he must loiter about country churches; attend wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals; and cope with the people in all their conditions, and all their habits and humors. In some countries, the large cities absorb the wealth and fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of ele- gant and intelligent society, and the country is inhabited al- most entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the con- trary, the metropolis is a mere gathering-place, or general 107 rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The various orders of society are therefore diffused over the whole sur- face of the kingdom, and the most retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the different ranks. The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the country. This passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occupation. The mer- chant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride and zeal in the culti- vation of his flower-garden, and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his business and the success of a commercial enterprise. Even those less fortunate individ- uals, who are doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to have something that shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy quarters of the city the drawing-room window re- sembles frequently a bank of flowers ; every spot capable of vegetation has its grass-plot and flower-bed ; and every square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand engagements that 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 an- other; and while paying a friendly visit he is calculating how he shall economize time so as to pay the other visits 108 U/orks of allotted to the morning. An immense metropolis, like Lon- don, is calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient meetings they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. They present but the cold superficies of character its rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed into a flow. It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formalities and negative civilities of town; throws off his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to collect round him all the conveniences and elegancies of polite life, and to 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 gardening, is unrivaled. They have studied Nature intently, and discovered an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms which, in other countries, she lavishes in wild soli- tudes, are here assembled round the haunts of domestic lif e. They seem to have caught her coy and furtive graces, and spread them, like witchery, about their rural abodes. Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage. The solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them ; the hare, bounding away to the covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing. The brook, taught to wind in natural meanderings, or expand into a glassy lake the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the 109 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 decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and scanty por- tion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile spot grows into loveliness un- der his hand; and yet the operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees; the cautious pruning of others; the nice distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage ; the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf ; the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water all these are managed with a delicate tact, a pervad- ing yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a favorite picture. The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy that descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass-plot be- fore the door, the little flower-bed bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice ; the pot of flowers in the window ; the holly, providently planted about the house, to cheat win- ter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside : all these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant. The fondness for rural lif e among the higher classes of the English has had a great and salutary effect upon the 110 U/orKs of U/asl?ip$toi) national character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effemi- nacy which characterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the open air, and pursu- ing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country. The hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipations of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different orders of society seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favorably upon each other. The distinctions between them do not ap- pear to be so marked and impassable as in the cities. The manner in which property has been distributed into small estates and farms has established a regular gradation from the noblemen, through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial farmers, down to the laboring peasantry; and, while it has thus banded the extremes of society together, has. infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it was formerly ; the larger estates having, in late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the country, almost annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system I have men- tioned. In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and re- 111 serve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed, the very amusements of the country bring men more and more together ; and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in England than they are in any other coun- try; and why the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British lit- erature; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life; those incomparable descriptions of Nature that abound in the British poets that have continued down from "the Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets have lived and reveled with her they have wooed her in her most secret haunts they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze a leaf could not rustle to the ground a diamond drop could not patter in the stream a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occu- pations has been wonderful on the face of the country. A great part of the island is rather level, and would be monoto- nous were it not for the charms of culture ; but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and em- broidered with parks and gardens. It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm- house and moss-grown cottage is a picture ; and as the roads 112 U/orKs of 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-estab- lished principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Everything seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The old church, of remote architecture, with its low massive portal ; its Gothic tower ; its windows, rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preserva- tion its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeo- manry, whose progeny still plow the same fields and kneel at the same altar the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants the stile and footpath leading from the churchyard, across pleasant fields, and along shady hedgerows, according to an immemorable right of way the neighboring village, with its venerable cottages, its public green, sheltered by trees, under which the forefathers of the present race have sported the antique family mansion, stand- ing apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the surrounding scene all these common features of English landscape evince a calm and settled security, a 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 be- hold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces, and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, and ap- pearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellishments which their own hands have spread around them. Jl?e SKetofo-BooK 113 It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of affec- tion in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments ; and I cannot close these desultory remarks better than by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who has depicted it with remarkable felicity : "Through each gradation, from the castled hall, The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, But chief from modest mansions numberless, In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof 'd shed ; This western isle hath long been famed for scenes Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place: Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove (Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard), Can center in a little quiet nest All that desire would fly for through the earth ; That can, the world eluding, be itself A world en joy 'd ; that wants no witnesses But its own sharers, and approving Heaven ; That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky."* THE 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." MIDDLE-TON IT is a common practice with those who have outlived the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fic- tions of novelists and poets. My observations on human nat- *From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend Rann Kennedy, A.M. 114 UVorKs of U/asl?ii>$toi) ure have induced me to think otherwise. They have con- vinced me, that however the surface of the character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are sometimes deso- lating in their effects. Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it? I believe hi broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love ! I do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave. Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellowmen. But a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world ; it is there her ambition strives for empire it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. To a man, the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter pangs : it wounds some f eelings of tenderness it blasts some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being ; he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of dis- appointment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking, as it were, the wings of the morning, can "fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest." But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded and a meditative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and f eelings ; and if they are turned to ministers of 115 sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? Her lot is to be wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. How many bright eyes grow dim how many soft cheeks grow pale how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals so is it the nature of woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate female is always 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 her heart has failed the great charm of existence is at an end. She neg- lects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life hi healthful cur- rents through the veins. Her rest is broken the sweet re- freshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams "dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks un- der the slightest external injury. Look for her, after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, should so speedily be brought down to "darkness and the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition, that laid her low but no one knows the mental malady that previ- ously 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 preying at its heart. We find it suddenly wither- ing when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf ; until, wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest ; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin we 116 U/or^s of U/asl?ii?$toij strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay. I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self -neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have re- peatedly fancied that I could trace their deaths through the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known in the country where they happened, and I shall but give them hi 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 for- gotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, con- demned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young so intelligent so generous so brave so everything that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his coun- try the eloquent vindication of his name and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. But there was one heart whose anguish it would be im- possible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted hi fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her whose soul was occupied by his image? Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed be- Tfce 8ketol?-BooK 117 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 dishonored! There was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of separation none of those ten- der, though melancholy circumstances, that endear the part- ing scene nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the part- ing hour of anguish. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attach- ment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a peo- ple of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her 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 blos- som. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about hi a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely." The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas- querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretched- ness more striking and painful than to meet it hi such a scene. To find it wandering like a specter, lonely and joy- less, where all around is gay to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woebegone, as if 118 U/orKs of U/asl?n)$tor7 Iruir><} it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetf ulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splen- did rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and look- ing about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with the capri- ciousness 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 wretch- edness that she drew a crowd, mute and silent, around her, and melted every one into tears. The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his ad- dresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his at- tentions, for her thoughts were irrecoverably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was ex- isting on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn as- surance that her heart was unalterably another's. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and de- vouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, 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. 119 "She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking! "He had lived for his love for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him! "Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow ; hey'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own loved island of sorrow!" THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING "If that severe doom of Synesius be true 'it is a greater offense to steal dead men's labors than their clothes' what shall become of most writers?" BURTON'S Anatomy of Melancholy I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which Nature seems to have inflicted the curse of barren- ness, yet teem with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out some very simple cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, and at once put an end to my astonishment. I was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons of the British Museum, with that listlessness with which one is apt to saunter about a room in warm weather; sometimes lolling over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal success, to comprehend 120 U/orl^s of the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. While I was gazing about in this idle away my attention was attracted to a distant floor, at the end of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but every now and then it would open, and some strange-favored being, generally clothed in black, would steal forth, and glide through the rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding objects. There was an air of mys- tery about this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I de- termined to attempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown regions that lay beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with all that facility with which the portals of en- chanted castles yield to the adventurous knight-errant. I found myself in a spacious chamber, surrounded with great cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged a great number of 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 personages, 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, except- ing 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 arising from that hollowness and flatulency inci- dent to learned research. Now and then one of these personages would write some- thing on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar would appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of the room, and return shortly loaded with ponder- ous 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 li- brary, in the bosom of a mountain that opened only once a year; where he made the spirits of the place obey his com- 121 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 interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose : I found that these mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally authors, and were in the very act of manufactur ing books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room of the great British Library, an immense collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom read. To these sequestered pools of ob- solete literature, therefore, do many modern authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, or "pure English, undefiled," wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of thought. Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a cor- ner, and watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently constructing some work of profound erudition that would be purchased by every man who wished to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library or laid open upon his table but never read. I ob- served him, now and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustion of the stomach, produced by much pondering over dry works, I leave to harder students than myself to determine. There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of countenance, who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with his bookseller. After considering him attentively, I recog- nized in him a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works * * *6 VOL. I. 122 U/orKa of 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 vari- ous books, fluttering over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, "line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little." The contents of his book seemed to be as heterogeneous ae those of the witches' caldron in "Macbeth." It was here a finger and there a thumb, toe of frog and blind worm's sting, with his own gossip poured in like "baboon's blood," to make the medley "slab and good." After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be implanted in authors for wise purposes? may it not be the way hi which Providence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge 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 whimsically, 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 bless- ings. In like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of an- cient and obsolete writers are caught up by these flights of predatory authors, and cast forth, again to flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of time. Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring up under new forms. What was formerly a ponderous his- tory revives in the shape of a romance an old legend changes into a modern play and a sober, philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clearing of our American woodlands; where we burn down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in their place ; and we never see the prostrate trunk of a tree, mould- ering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe of fungi. Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into 123 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 de- crees, also, that their elements shall never perish. Genera- tion after generation, both in animal and vegetable life, passes way, but the vital principle is transmitted to poster- ity, and the species continue to flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and, having produced a numerous progeny, in a good old age they sleep with their fathers; that is to say, with the authors who preceded them and from whom they had stolen. "While 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 aris- ing 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 re- mained before my mind's eye, only a little changed in some of the details. I dreamed that the chamber was still deco- rated with the portraits of ancient authors, but the number was increased. The long tables had disappeared, and in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying about the great repository of cast- off clothes, Monmouth Street. Whenever they seized upon a book, by one of those incongruities common to dreams, me- thought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique fash- ion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I no- ticed, 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 ob- served ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an eyeglass. He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous 124 U/orks of U/asl?ii)$toi) mantle of one of the old fathers, and having purloined the gray beard of another, endeavored to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking commonplace of his countenance set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly-looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of several old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed him- self magnificently 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 vulgar ele- gance. A third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bol- stered himself out bravely with the spoils from several ob- scure tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front, but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I per- ceived that he had patched his small-clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin author. There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; but I grieve to say that too many were apt to array themselves, from top to toe, in the 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 violent propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural wander- ings 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 ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one side, went about with a fantastical, lackadaisical air, "babbling about green fields." But the personage that most struck my attention was a pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remark- ably large and square but bald head. He entered the room wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and, having laid hands 125 upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head and swept majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. In the height of this literary masquerade a cry suddenly resounded from every side, of "thieves! thieves!" 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 mot- ley throng, and then descended, with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all description. The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to escape with their plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern professor; on another, there was sad devastation carried into the ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beau- mont and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned some time since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants about him as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many men, whom I had been accustomed to look upon 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 catastrophe of this learned Theban that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and the scuffle were at an end. The chamber resumed its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk back into their picture- 126 U/orKs of U/asl?ir>$tor> Irvir>$ 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 before heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom as to electrify the fraternity. The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not com- prehend 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. A ROYAL POET "Though your body be confined And soft love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind Neither cheek nor chain hath found. Look out nobly, then, and dare Even the fetters that you wear." FLETCHER ON a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May I made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied and poetical associations. The very external aspect of the proud old pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its irregular walls and massive towers like a mural crown around the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal ban- ner in the clouds, and looks down with a lordly air upon the surrounding world. On this morning, the weather was of this voluptuous vernal kind which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's temperament, filling his mind with music, and dispos- Tl?e SKetofc-BooK 127 ing him to quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wander- ing through the magnificent saloons and long echoing gal- leries of the castle, I passed with indifference by whole rows of portraits of warriors and statesmen, but lingered in the chamber where hang the likenesses of the beauties that graced the gay court of Charles the Second; and as I gazed upon them, depicted with amorous half -disheveled tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus enabled me to bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In traversing also the "large green courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls and glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and his account of his loiterings about them in his stripling days, when enamored of the Lady Geraldine "With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the ancient keep of the castle, where James the First of Scot- land, the pride and theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for many years of his youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large gray tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good preservation. It stands on a mound which elevates it above the other parts of the castle, and a great flight of steps leads to the ulterior. In the armory, which is a gothic hall, furnished with weapons of various kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging against the wall, which I was told had once belonged to James. From hence I was conducted up a staircase to a suite of apartments of faded magnificence, hung with storied tapes- try, which formed his prison, and the scene of that passionate and fanciful amour which has woven into the web of his story the magical hues of poetry and fiction. The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince is highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent from his home by his father, Robert III., and destined for of the French court, to be reared under the eye of the French monarch, secure from the treachery and danger that sur- rounded the royal house of Scotland. It was his mishap, in the course of his voyage, to fall into the hands of the En- glish, and he was detained a prisoner by Henry IV., not- withstanding that a truce existed between the two countries. The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy father. "The news," we are told, "was brought to him while at supper, and did so overwhelm him with grief that he was al- most ready to give up the ghost into the hands of the ser- vants that attended him. But being carried to his bedcham- ber, he abstained from all food, and in three days died of hunger and grief, at Rothesay." * James was detained in captivity above eighteen years; but, though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all the branches of useful knowledge cultivated at that period, and to give him those mental and personal accomplish- ments deemed proper for a prince. Perhaps in this respect, his imprisonment was an advantage, as it enabled him to ap- ply himself the more exclusively to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish those elegant tastes, which have given such a luster 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 learned, we are told, "to fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, to wrestle, to sing and dance ; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty in playing both of lute and harp, and sundry other instruments of music, and was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry." f With this combination of manly and delicate accomplish- ments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, * Buchanan. f Ballenden's translation of Hector Boyce. 129 and calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous exist- ence, it must have been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, to pass the springtime of his years in monoto- nous captivity. It was the good fortune of James, however, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and to be visited in his prison by the choicest inspirations of the muse. Some minds corrode, and grow inactive, under the loss of personal liberty ; others grow morbid and irritable ; but it is the nat- ure 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 I Even there her charming melody doth prove That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove."* Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination that it is irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is shut out it can create a world for itself, and, with necro- mantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, to make solitude populous and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in his dismal cell at Fer- rara, when he conceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may conceive the "King's Quair," f composed by James during his captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house. The subject of his 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 enamored in the course of his captivity. What gives it peculiar value is, that it may be considered a transcript of the royal bard's * Roger L'Estrange. t Quair, an old term for Book. 130 U/orl^B of 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 favor by administering to his pleasures. It is a proof of the honest equality of intellectual competition, which strips off all the trappings of factitious dig- nity, brings the candidate down to a level with his f ellowmen, and obliges him to depend on his own native powers for dis- tinction. It is curious, too, to get at the history of a mon- arch's heart, and to find the simple affections of human nat- ure throbbing under the ermine. But James had learned to be a poet before he was a king; he was schooled in adversity, and reared in the company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their hearts, or to meditate their minds into poetry; and had James been brought up amid the adulation and gayety of a court we should never, in all probability, have had such a poem as the Quair. I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation, or which are connected with the apartment in the tower. They have thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such circumstantial truth, as to make the reader present 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 Aquarius" he lay in bed wakeful and rest- less, and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. The book he chose was Boetius' ''Consolations of Philosophy," a work popular among the writers of that day, and which had been translated by his great prototype Chaucer. From the high eulogium in which he indulges, it is evident this was one of his favorite volumes while in prison ; and, indeed, it is an ad- Jl?e Sketob-BooK 131 mirable 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 max- ims of sweet morality, and the trains of eloquent but simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear up against the various ills of life. It is a talisman which the 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 contents over in his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickle- ness of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that had overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to matins, but its sound chiming in with his melancholy fancies seems to him like a voice ex- horting him to write his story. In the spirit of poetic erran- try, he determines to comply with this intimation ; he there- fore takes pen in hand, makes with it a sign of the cross, to implore a benediction, and sallies forth into the fairyland of poetry. There is something extremely fanciful in all this, and it is interesting as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the simple manner in which whole trains of poeti- cal thought are sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to the mind. In the course of his poem, he more than once bewails the peculiar hardness of his fate, thus doomed to lonely and in- active 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 lamentations of an amiable and social spirit, at being denied the indulgence of its kind and generous propensities ; there is nothing in them harsh or exaggerated ; they flow with a natural and touching pathos, and are perhaps ren- dered more touching by their simple brevity. They con- trast 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 132 U/orKs of U/asl?ii)$toi7 Iruir;$ speaks of his privations with acute sensibility ; but having mentioned them, passes on, as if his manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. 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 romantic, active, and accom- plished prince, cut off in the lustihood of youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses and vigorous delights of life, as we do with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes forth brief but deep-toned lamenta- tions over his perpetual blindness. Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we might almost have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy reflection were meant as preparative to the brightest scene of his story, and to contrast with that effulgence of light and loveliness, that exhilarating accompaniment of bird, and song, and foliage, and flower, and all the revel of the year, with which he ushers in the lady of his heart. It is this scene in particular which throws all the magic of romance about the old castle keep. He had risen, he says, at day- break, according to custom, to escape from the dreary medi- tations of a sleepless pillow. "Bewailing in his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy and remedy, "for, tired of thought, and woebegone," he had wandered to the window to indulge the captive's miserable solace of gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is excluded. The window looked forth upon a small garden which lay at the foot of the tower. It* was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned with arbors and green alleys, and protected from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges. "Now was there made fast by the tower's walk 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. *Lyf, person. 133 "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, swete juniper, Growing so faire with branches here and there, That as it seemed to a lyf without, The boughs did spread the arbour all about. "And on the small green twistis* set The lytel swete nyghtingales, and sung So loud and clere, the hymnis consecrate Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, That all the garden and the wallis rung Eyght of their song " It was the month of May, when everything was in bloom, and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the lan- guage of his enamored feeling. "Worship all ye that lovers be this May ; For of your bliss the kalends are begun. And sing with us, away, winter, away, Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun." As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the birds, he gradually lapses into one of those tender and unde- finable reveries which fill the youthful bosom in this deli- cious season. He wonders what this love may be, of which he has so often read, and which thus seems breathed forth in the quickening breath of May, and melting all nature into ecstasy and song. If it really be so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed to the most insignificant 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 settenf and unbynd. * Twistis, small boughs or twigs. f Setten, incline. NOTE. The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 134 U/orK of Hath he upon cure hertes such maistrye? Or is all this but f eynit fantasye? For giff he be of so grete excellence That he of every wight hath care and charge, What have I gilt* 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 down- ward, 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 mor- rowe." Breaking thus suddenly upon his sight in a moment of loneliness and excited susceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the romantic prince, and becomes the object of his wandering wishes, the sovereign of his ideal world. There is in this charming scene an evident resemblance to the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale, where Palamon and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual fact to the incident which he had read in Chaucer may have induced James to dwell on it in his poem. His description of the Lady Jane is given in the picturesque and minute manner of his master, and being, doubtless, taken from the life, is a perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He dwells with the fondness of a lover on every article of her apparel, from the net of pearl, splendent with emeralds and vsapphires, that confined her golden hair, even to the "goodly chaine of small orfeverye" f about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire burning upon her white bosom. Her dress of white tissue was looped up, to enable her to walk with more freedom. She was accompanied by two female attend- ants, and about her sported a little hound decorated with bells, probably the small Italian hound, of exquisite sym- metry, which was a parlor favorite and pet among the fash- ionable dames of ancient times. James closes his description by a burst of general eulogium : * Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. f Wrought gold. 135 "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 cunning^ sure. In every point so guided her measure, In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, That nature might no more her child advance." The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amorous illusion that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold more intolerable by this passing beam of unattainable beauty. Through the long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when evening approaches and Phoebus, as he beautifully expresses it, had "bade fare- well to every leaf and flower," he still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon the cold stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until, gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of the twilight hour, he lapses, "half- sleeping, half -swoon," into a vision, which occupies the re- mainder of the poem, and in which is allegorically shadowed out the history of his passion. When he wakes from his trance he rises from his stony pillow, and, pacing his apartment full of dreary reflections, questions his spirit whither it has been wandering ; whether, indeed, all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has been conjured up by preceding circumstances, or whether it is a vision intended to comfort and assure him in his de- spondence. If the latter, he prays that some token may be sent to confirm the promise of happier days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly a turtle-dove of the purest whiteness comes fly- ing in at the window, and alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch of red gilliflower, on the leaves of which is written in letters of gold the following sentence : * Largesse, bounty, f Estate, dignity. \ Cunning, discretion. 136 U/orKs of U/a8l?ii?$tor> "Awake! awake! I bring, lover, T 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 fic- tion, or whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of her favor in this romantic way, remains to be determined according to the faith or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem by intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision, and by the flower, is fulfilled by his being restored to liberty, and made happy in the possession of the sovereign of his heart. Such is the poetical account given by James of his love 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 incomparable with real life, but let us sometimes take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely such parts of the poem as were immediately connected with the tower, and have passed over a large part which was in the allegorical vein, so much cultivated at that day. The language, of course, is quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely be per- ceived at the present day; but it is impossible not to be charmed with the genuine sentiment, the delightful artless- ness and urbanity, which prevail throughout it. The de- scriptions of nature, too, with which it is embellished, are given with a truth, a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most cultivated period of the arts. As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in these days of coarser thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and ex- quisite delicacy which pervade it, banishing every gross thought, or immodest expression, and presenting female loveliness clothed hi all its chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace. Jl?e SKetob-BooK 137 James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his masters, and in some parts of his poem we find traces of similarity to their productions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There are always, however, general feat- ures 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 lives. James, in fact, belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our literary history, and establishes the claims of his country to a participation in its primitive honors. While a small cluster of English writers are con- stantly 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 constel- lation of remote, but never-failing luminaries, who shine in the highest firmament of literature, and who, like morning stars, sang together at the bright dawning of British poesy. Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish history (though the manner in which it has of late been woven with captivating fiction has made it a universal study) may be curious to learn something of the subsequent history of James and the fortunes of his love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it was the solace of his captivity, so it facili- tated his release, it being imagined by the Court that a con- nection with the blood-royal of England would attach him to its own interests. He was ultimately restored to his liberty and crown, having previously espoused the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and made him a most tender and devoted wife. He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles and ir- regularities of a long interregnum, to strengthen themselves 138 U/or^s of U/asl?ir)$toi) 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 encouragement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of everything that could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent enjoyment, through the humblest ranks of society. He mingled occasionally among the common people in disguise; visited their firesides; en- tered into their cares, their pursuits, and their amusements ; informed himself of the mechanical arts, and how they could best be patronized and improved; and was thus an all-per- vading spirit, watching with a benevolent eye over the mean- est of his subjects. Having in this generous manner made himself strong in the hearts of the common people, he turned himself to curb the power of the factious nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous immunities which they had usurped ; to punish such as had been guilty of flagrant offenses ; and to bring the whole into proper obedience to the crown. For some time they bore this with outward submission, but with secret impatience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy was at length formed against his life, at the head of which was his own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, be- ing too old himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, instigated his grandson, Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham, and others of less note, to commit the deed. They broke into his bedchamber at the Dominican convent near Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to throw her tender body between him and the sword, was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to shield him from the assassins ; 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 birthplace in this tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than common interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, 139 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 endeavored to persuade myself it was the very one where he had been visited by his vision; I looked out upon the spot where he had first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joyous month : the birds were again vying with each other in strains of liquid melody ; everything was burst- ing into vegetation, and budding forth the tender .promise of the year. Time, which delights to obliterate the sterner memorials of human pride, seems to have passed lightly over this little scene of poetry and love, and to have withheld his desolating hand. Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot of the tower. It occupies what was once the moat of the keep, and though some parts have been separated by dividing walls, yet others have still their arbors and shaded walks, as in the days of James ; and the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. There is a charm about the spot that has been printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations of the poet, which is heightened, rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry, to hallow every place in which it moves ; to breathe round nature an odor more exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical than the blush of morning. Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a warrior and a legislator; but I have delighted to view him merely as the companion of his fellowmen, 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 lif e. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which has since been so prolific of the most wholesome and highly flavored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner regions of the north all the fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He did everything in his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts which 140 U/orKs of U/asl?ii)<$toi? 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, which is still pre- served, called "Christ's Kirk of the Green," shows how dili- gently 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 humor he could enter into their enjoy- ments. He contributed greatly to improve the national music ; and traces of his tender sentiment and elegant taste are said to exist in those witching airs, still piped among the wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected his image with whatever is most gracious and en- dearing in the national character; he has embalmed his memory in song, and floated his name down to after-ages in the rich stream of Scottish melody. The recollection of these things was kindling at my heart, as I paced the silent scene of his imprisonment. I have visited Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Lo- retto ; but I have never felt more poetical devotion than when contemplating the old tower and the little garden at Windsor, and musing over the romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Royal Poet of Scotland. THE COUNTRY CHURCH "A gentleman! "What o' the woolpack? or the sugar-chest? Or lists of velvet? which is't, pound, or yard, You vend your gentry by?" BEGGAR'S BUSH THERE are few places more favorable to the study of character than an English country church. I was once pass- ing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, the appearance of which particularly struck 141 my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels of quaint an- tiquity which give such a peculiar charm to English land- scape. 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 incrusted with monuments of every age and style. The light streamed through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts of the church were tombs of knights, and high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their effigies hi colored marble. On every side, the eye was struck with some instance of aspiring mortality; some haughty memo- rial which human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this temple of the most humble of all religions. The congregation was composed of the neighboring people of rank, who sat in pews sumptuously lined and cushioned, furnished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with their arms upon the pew doors; of the villagers and peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a small gallery be- side the organ; and of the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privi- leged guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had been the keenest fox-hunter in the country, until age and good living had disabled him from doing anything more than ride to see the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunt- ing 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 making observations on my neighbors. I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that there was the least pretension where there was the most 142 U/orl^s of acknowledged title to respect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman of high rank, con- sisting of several sons and daughters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than their appearance. They generally came to church in the plainest equipage, and often on foot. The' young ladies would stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble cottagers. Their counte- nances were open and beautifully fair, with an expression of high refinement, but at the same time a frank cheerfulness and engaging affability. Their brothers were tall, and ele- gantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but simply; with strict neatness and propriety, but without any manner- ism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor 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 inf eriority. There is a healthful hardi- ness about real dignity that never dreads contact and com- munion with others, however humble. It is only spurious pride that is morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see the manner hi which they would converse with the peasantry about those rural concerns and field sports in which the gentlemen of this country so much delight. In these conversations, there was neither haughti- ness on the one part, nor servility on the other ; and you were only reminded of the difference of rank by the habitual re- spect of the peasant. In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, who had amassed a vast fortune, and, having purchased the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighbor- hood, was endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity of a hereditary lord of the soil. The family always came to church en prince. They were rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A fat coachman in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy Sketch-Book 143 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 a peculiar stateliness of motion. The very horses champed their bits, arched their necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly than common horses; either because they had got a little of the family feeling, 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 churchyard. There was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall; a great smacking of the whip; straining and scrambling of the horses ; glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vainglory to the coachman. The horses were urged and checked, until they were fretted into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers sauntering quietly to church opened precipitately to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that produced an immediate stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen to alight, open the door, pull down the steps, and prepare everything for the descent on earth of this august family. The old citizen first emerged his round red face from out the door, looking about him with the pompous air of a man accus- tomed 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 ; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine house, a fine car- riage, fine children, everything was fine about her: it was nothing but driving about, and visiting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one long Lord Mayor's day. 144 U/orks of U7asl?ii)$toi> 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 appro- priateness might be questioned amid the simplicity of a coun- try church. They descended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over the burly faces of the peasan- try, until they met the eyes of the nobleman's family, when their countenances immediately brightened into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed they were but slight acquaintances. I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who came to church in a dashing 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, ey- ing every one askance that came near them, as if measuring his claims to respectability ; yet they were without conversa- tion, 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 disciplined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had done everything to accom- plish them as men of fashion, but Nature had denied them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the common purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious assumption which is never seen in the true gen- tleman. I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these two families, because I considered them specimens of what is often to be met with in this country the unpretend- ing great, and the arrogant little. I have no respect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied by true nobility of soul ; but I have remarked, in all countries where these artificial flpe SKetol?-Book; 145 distinctions exist, that the very highest classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. Those who are well assured of their own standing, are least apt to trespass on that of others : whereas, nothing is so offensive as the aspir- ings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by humili- ating its neighbor. As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they ap- peared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred things and sacred places, inseparable from good- breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a continual consciousness of finery, and the sorry ambition of being the wonders of a rural congregation. The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the service. He took the whole burden of family devotion upon himself; standing bolt upright, and uttering the re- sponses with a loud voice that might be heard all over the church. It was evident that he was one of these thorough church and king men, who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty; who consider the Deity, somehow or other, of the government party, and religion "a very excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced and kept up. ' ' When he joined so loudly in the service it seemed more by way of example to the lower orders, to show them, that though so great and wealthy, he was not above being relig- ious ; as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pronouncing it "excellent food for the poor." When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home across the fields, chatting with the country people as they went. The others departed as they came, in grand parade. Again were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, * * *7 VOL. I. 146 U/or^s of U/asl?io$toi) Iruir>$ 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 wrapped out of sight in a whirlwind. THE WIDOW AND HER SON "Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires Honour and reverence evermore have raigned." MARLOWE'S Tamburlaine DURING my residence in the country I used frequently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark oaken paneling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy in its repose such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of Nature that every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently spring- ing up within us. "Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky!" I cannot lay claim to the merit of being a devout man ; but there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the beautiful serenity of Nature, which I experience nowhere else ; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the seven. 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 Christian was a poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the ex- 147 treme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer ; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes could not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart, I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the re- sponses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. I am fond of loitering about country churches; and this was so delightfully situated that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most re- mote and neglected corners of the churchyard, where, by the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe, but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of 148 U/orKs of U/a8l?ii)<}toi> the altar. She was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The ser- vice, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeel- ingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the de- ceased "George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her with- ered hands were clasped, as if in prayer ; but I could per- ceive, 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. Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the f eelings of grief and affection : directions given in the cold tones of business; the striking of spades into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those we love, is of all sounds the most withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavored to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like consola- 149 tion "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 acci- dental obstruction, there was a jostling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. I could see no more my heart swelled into my throat my eyes filled with tears I felt as if I were acting a barbar- ous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of ma- ternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. "When I saw tl^e mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich? They have friends to soothe pleasures to beguile a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young? Their growing minds soon close above the wound their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure their green and ductile affections soon twine around new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth of joy the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years ; these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of consolation. It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter: she was just returning from accompanying her mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected with the affecting scene I had wit- nessed. The parents of the deceased had resided in the village 150 U/or^s of U/asl?ii?$toi? from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cot- tages, and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and led a happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who had grown up to be the staff and pride of their age. "Oh, sir!" said the good woman, "he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents! It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to church for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm than on her good man's; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was not in the country round." Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He Taad 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 noth- ing. 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 feeble- ness, could no longer support herself, and came upon the par- ish. Still there was a kind of feeling toward her throughout the village, and a certain respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage in which she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to re- main in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her little garden, which the neighbors would now and then cultivate for her. It was but a few days be- fore the time at which these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage door which faced the garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seamen's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air 151 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 wander- ing eye "Oh, my dear, dear mother! don't you know your son? your poor boy George?" It was, indeed, the wreck of her once noble lad ; who, shattered by wounds, by sickness, and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of his childhood. I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meet- ing, where sorrow and joy were so completely blended : still he was alive ! he was come home ! he might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was ex- hausted in him; and if anything had been wanting to finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage would have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, to talk he could only look his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant ; and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other hand. There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in ad- vanced lif e, 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 child- hood," that smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness? Oh! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to 152 U/or^s of U/asl?ii)<$toi) Irvii?<} his convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his en- joyment, she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosper- ity ; and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sick- ness, and none to soothe lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his sight; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and looking anxiously up until he saw her bending over him, when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tran- quillity 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 pe- cuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, how- ever, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do everything that the case admitted ; and as the poor know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. She had made an effort to put on something like mourn- ing for her son ; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a black ribbon or so a faded black handkerchief and one or two more such humble attempts to express by outward signs that grief which passes show. When I looked round upon the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow at the altar of her God, and offer- ing up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken 153 heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted themselves to render her situation more comfortable, and to 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 missed from her usual seat at church, and be- fore I left the neighborhood I heard, with a feeling of satis- faction, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, hi that world where sorrow is never known and friends are never parted. THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EAST- CHEAP A SHAKESPEARIAN 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 countries, to honor the memory of saints by votive lights burned before their pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the number of these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the darkness of his little chapel ; another may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy ; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beatified father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax ; the eager zealot, his seven-branched candlestick; and even the mendicant pil- grim is by no means satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased, unless he hangs up his little lamp of 154 U/orKs of U/asbii)$toi? Irvii)<} smoking oil. The consequence is, in the eagerness to en- lighten, they are often apt to obscure ; and I have occasion- ally seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of his followers. In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shake- speare. Every writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some portion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations; the common herd of editors send up mists of obscurity from their notes at the bottom of each page ; and every casual scribbler brings his farthing rush-light of eulogy or research, to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of hom- age to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I should dis- charge this duty. I found myself anticipated in every at- tempt at a new reading ; every doubtful line had been ex- plained a dozen different ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine passages, they had all been amply praised by previous admirers : nay, so completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with panegyric by a great German critic that it was difficult now to find even a fault that had not been argued into a beauty. In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV., and was, in a moment, completely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and with such force and consistency are the characters sustained, that they become mingled up in the mind with the facts and person- ages 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 roisterers ever enlivened the dull neigh- borhood of Eastcheap. For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of 155 poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valu- able to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years since ; and, if I may be excused such an insensibility to the common ties of human nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done for me, or men like me? They have conquered countries of which I do not enjoy an acre ; or they have gained laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf ; or they have furnished examples of hare-brained prowess which I have neither the opportunity nor the inclination to follow. But old Jack Falstaff! kind Jack Falstaff! sweet Jack Falstaff ! has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment ; he has added vast regions of wit and good-humor, in which the poorest man may revel ; and has bequeathed a never-fail- ing inheritance of jolly laughter to make mankind merrier and better to the latest posterity. A thought suddenly struck me: "I will make a pilgrim- age to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, "and see if the old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. "Who knows but I may light upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests; at any rate, there will be a kindred pleasure, hi 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 execu- tion. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and won- ders I encountered in my travels, of the haunted regions of Cock Lane ; of the faded glories of Little Britain, and the parts adjacent; what perils I ran in Cateaton Street and Old Jewry; of the renowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and the terror of all unlucky urchins; and how I visited London Stone, and struck my staff upon it, in imitation of that arch-rebel, Jack Cade. Let it suffice to say that I at length arrived in merry East- cheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane 156 U/or^s of U/asl?ii}$toi} Iruii?$ 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 roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals ; there was clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas! how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring days of Falstaff and old Stow ! The mad- cap roisterer has given place to the plodding tradesman ; the clattering of pots and the sound of "harpe and sawtrie," to the din of carts and the accursed dinging of the dustman's bell ; and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain of some siren from Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The only relic of it is a boar's head, carved hi relief stone, which formerly served as the sign, but, at present, is built into the parting line of two houses which stand on the site of the renowned old tavern. For the history of this little empire of good fellowship, I was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who had been born and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to as the indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. I found her seated in a little back parlor, the window of which looked out upon a yard about eight feet square, laid out as a flower- garden ; while a glass door opposite afforded a distant peep of the street, through a vista of soap and tallow candles ; the two views, which comprised, in all probability, her prospects in life, and the little world in which she had lived, and moved, and had her being, for the better part of a century. To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, from London Stone even unto the Monument, was, doubt- less, in her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the universe. Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal, communicative disposition which I have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies, knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood. Her information, however, did not extend far back into antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of the 157 Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol, until the great fire of London, when it was unfortunately burned down. It was soon rebuilt, and con- tinued to flourish under the old name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad meas- ures, and other iniquities which are incident to the sinful race of publicans, endeavored to make his peace with Heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, 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 myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her opin- ion of her legendary lore, and furnished an important inci- dent in the history of her life. It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to ex- plore Crooked Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, and dark passages, with which this old city is perforated, like an ancient cheese or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At length I traced him to a corner of a small court, surrounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven as a community of frogs at the bottom of a well. The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bowing, lowly habit ; yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and if encouraged, would now and then venture a small pleasantry; such as a man of his low estate might venture to make in the company of high church wardens, and other mighty men of the earth. I found him in com- pany with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels ; discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and 158 U/or^s of U/asl?io<$tor> settling the affairs of the church over a friendly po* of ale ; for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate on any weighty matter without the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their understandings. I arrived at the moment when they had finished their ale and their argument, and were about to repair to the church to put it in order ; so, having made known my wishes, I received their gracious permission to accompany them. The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many fishmongers of renown; and as every profession has its galaxy of glory, and its constellation of great men, I presume the monument of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with as much reverence by succeeding gen- erations of the craft as poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the monument of a Marlborough or Turenne. I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains also the ashes of that doughty champion, William Walworth, Knight, who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, "Wat Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of arms; the sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned as the most pacific of all potentates." 8 * The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this worthy, which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration: "Hereunder lyth a man of fame, William Walworth callyd by name ; Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, And twise Lord Maior, as in books appeare ; 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: 159 Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under the back windows of what was once the Boar's Head, stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since this trusty drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career, and was thus quietly deposited within call of his customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from his epitaph, the little sex- ton drew me on one side with a mysterious air, and inf ormed 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 windows, and twirling weather- cocks, 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 churchyard, was attracted by the well-known call of "waiter," from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden ap- pearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was singing a stave from the "mirrie garland of Cap- tain Death"; to the discomfiture of sundry train-band cap- tains, and the conversion of an infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and was never known to twist the truth afterward, 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 churchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very much infested with perturbed spirits ; and every one He left this lyff the year of our God Thirteen hondred fourscore and three odd." An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the venerable Stow: "Whereas," saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash con- ceived doubt by such testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders, or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man ; the second was John, or Jack Straw, etc., etc." STOW'S London. 160 U/orKs of U/a8l?ip$toi) 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 ; for Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack; whereas, honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his measure.* The worthy dig- nitaries of the church, however, did not appear much capti- vated by the sober virtues of the tapster : the deputy organ- ist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up among full hogsheads ; and the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a significant wink and a dubious shake of the head. Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disappointed me in the great object of my quest, the picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the church of St. Michael's. "Marry and amen!" said I, "here endeth my research!" So I was giv- * As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the produc- tion 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 defied 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 excused his faults. You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, Pray copy Bob, in measure and attendance." SKetol?-Book 161 ing 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, offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had been handed down from remote times, when the parish meetings were held at the Boar's Head. These were deposited in the parish club- room, which had been transferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the neighborhood. A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12, 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 form the center of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered the bar- room, which was narrow and darkling; for in these close lanes but few rays of reflected light are enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned into boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the guests were of the good old stamp, and divided their day equally, for it was but just one o'clock. At the lower end 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 mantel-piece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in this medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall, that carried me back to earlier times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, but everything had that look of order and neatness which be- speaks the superintendence of a notable English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered into a little misshapen back room, having at least nine corners. It was lighted by a skylight, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently appropriated to par- 162 U/orKs of U/asl?ii7$tOQ Iruii)$tor> believe that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived and reveled there. Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, which they give as transmitted down from their 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 customers ready to die of laughter. I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive medita- tion. 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 stealing 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 savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness before the fire. I now called to mind, that in the eagerness of my recon- dite investigation I was keeping the poor man from his din- ner. 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 "tedious brief" account of this in- teresting research ; for which, if it prove too short and unsat- isfactory, I can only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, so deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware that a more skillful illustrator of the immortal bard would have swelled the materials I have touched upon to a good merchantable bulk, comprising the biographies of Wil- liam "Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert Preston ; some no- tice of the eminent fishmongers of St. Michael's; the history of Eastcheap, great and little; private anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter, whom I have not even mentioned : to say nothing of a damsel tending the breast of 8KetoI?-BooK 165 lamb (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass, with a neat foot and ankle) ; the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of 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, the subject of future engravings, and almost as fruit- ful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the shield of Achilles, or the far-famed Portland vase. 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 naught, I know that all the muses' 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 wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection ; when sud- denly an irruption of madcap boys from Westminster school, playing at football, broke in upon the monastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. I sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the solitudes of 166 U/or^s of a/asl?ii7<$toi) Iruir>$ the pile, and applied to one of the vergers for admission to the library. He conducted me through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage leading to the Chapter House, and the chamber in which Doomsday Book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small door on the left. To this the verger applied a key ; it was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if seldom used. "We now ascended a dark nar- row staircase, and passing through a second door, entered the library. I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a row of gothic windows at a considerable height from the floor, and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallery were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polemical writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In the center of the library was a solitary table, with two or three books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It was buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then the shouts of the schoolboys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, that echoed soberly along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away. The bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through the dusky hall. I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, how- ever, I was beguiled by the solemn monastic air and lifeless quiet of the place, into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old volumes in their mouldering covers, thus 167 ranged on the shelves, and apparently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but consider the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion. How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching head how many weary days! how many sleepless nights! How have their authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves up from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of Nature ; and devoted themselves to painf ul research and intense reflection ! And all for what? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf to have the titles of their works read now and then in a future age, by some drowsy churchman, or casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be lost even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound; like the tone of that bell which has just tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment lingering transiently in echo and then passing away, like a thing that was not ! While I sat half -murmuring, half -meditating these un- profitable speculations, with my head resting on my hand, I was thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosened the clasps; when, to my utter aston- ishment, the little book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking from a deep sleep ; then a husky hem, and at length began to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider had woven across it ; and having probably contracted a cold from long exposure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation what in the present day would be deemed bar- barous ; but I shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in modern parlance. It began with railings about the neglect of the world 168 U/orks of U/asl?ir?$toi? about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly that it had not been opened for more than two cent- uries; that the Dean only looked now and then into the library, sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then returned them to their shelves. "What a plague do they mean," said the little quarto, which I began to perceive was somewhat choleric, "what a plague do they mean by keeping several 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 now and then by the Dean? Books were written to give pleasure and to be enjoyed; and I would have a rule passed that the Dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a year ; or if he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster among us, that at any rate we may now and then have an airing." "Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, "you are not aware how much better you are off than most books of your gen- eration. 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 re- mains of their contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned to dust." "Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking big, "I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like other great contemporary works; but here have I been clasped up for more than two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey to these worms that are playing the very vengeance with my 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 169 now well stricken in years ; very few of your contemporaries can be at present in existence ; and those few owe their lon- gevity to being immured like yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me to add, instead of likening to harems, you might more properly and gratefully have compared to those in- firmaries attached to religious establishments for the benefit of the old and decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering and no employment, they often endure to an amazingly good-for- nothing old age. You talk of your contemporaries as if in circulation where do we meet with their works? what do we hear of Robert Groteste of Lincoln? No one could have toiled harder than he for immortality. He is said to have written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name ; but, alas ! the pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are scattered in various libraries, where they are scarcely dis- turbed even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of Gi- raldus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, theo- logian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics that he might shut himself up and write for posterity ; but posterity never inquires after his labors. What of Henry of Huntingdon, who, besides a learned history of England, wrote a treatise on the contempt of the world, which the world has revenged by forgetting him? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical composition? Of his three great heroic poems, one is lost forever, excepting a mere fragment ; the others are known only to a few of the curious in literature; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. What is in current use of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life? of William of Malmsbury ; of Simeon of Durham ; of Benedict of Peterborough; of John Hanvill of St. 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 themselves, and de- * * *8 VOL. I. 170 U/orK of served to be forgotten;* but I, 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, indeed, I was considered a model of pure and elegant English." [I should observe that these remarks were couched in such intolerably antiquated terms that I have had infinite difficulty in rendering them into modern phraseology.] "I cry you mercy," said I, "for mistaking your age; but it matters little; almost all the writers of your time have likewise passed into f orgetf ulness ; and De Worde's publica- tions are mere literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stability of language, too, on which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious depend- ence of authors of every age, even back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon, f Even now many talk of Spenser's 'well of pure English undefiled,' as if the lan- guage ever sprang from a well or fountain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence of various tongues, perpetually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this which has made English literature so extremely mutable, and the repu- tation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be com- mitted to something more permanent and unchangeable than * "In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to endyte, and have many noble things fulfilde, but certes there ben some that speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the French- men have as good a fantasye as we have in hearing of Frenchmen's Englishe." CHAUCER'S Testament of Love. f Holinshed, in his "Chronicle," observes, "afterwards, also, by dili- gent travell of Geffry Chaucer and John Gowrie, in the time of Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwith- standing 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 commen- dation." Jl?e Sketel?-BooK 171 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 language in which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject to the" dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back, and beholds the early authors of his country, once the favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers : a few short ages have covered them with obscurity, and their merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he antici- pates, 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 contemplate a modern library, filled with new works in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; like the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of military array, and reflected that in one hundred years not one of them would be in existence!" "Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see how it is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors. I suppose nothing is read nowadays but Sir Philip Sidney's "Arcadia," Sackville's stately plays and "Mirror for Magistrates," or the fine spun euphuisms of the 'unparalleled John Lyly.' " "There you are again mistaken," said I; "the writers whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sidney's ' ' Arcadia, ' ' the immortality of which was so fondly predicted by his admirers,* and which, in * "Live ever sweete booke ; the simple image of his gentle witt and the golden pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto the world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, 172 U/orKs of U/asI?ii?$toi) Iruir>$ truth, was full of noble thoughts, delicate images, and grace- ful turns of language, is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sack- ville has strutted into obscurity ; and even Lyly, though his writings were once the delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time have likewise gone down with all their writings and their controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep that it is only now and then that some industrious diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratifi- cation 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 rea- son from analogy : we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, to make way for then- successors. "Were not this the case, the fecun- dity 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 man- ner the works of genius and learning decline and make way for subsequent productions. Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors who have flourished their allotted time ; otherwise the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, and the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly there were some restraints on this excessive multi- plication : 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 the honey bee of the dainty est flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and the 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 's Supererogation. 173 erased to make way for another ; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely perishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of manu- scripts was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries. To these circumstances it may, in some meas- ure, be owing that we have not been inundated by the intel- lect 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 swollen into a tor- rent 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 or four hundred thousand volumes ; legions of authors at the same time busy ; and a press going on with fearfully increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number? Unless some unforeseen mortal- ity should break out among the progeny of the J^use, now that she has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much; it increases with the increase of literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks on population spoken of by economists. All possible encourage- ment, therefore, should be given to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain ; let criticism do what it may, writers will write, printers will print, and the world will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will soon be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of passable information at the present day reads scarcely anything but reviews, and before long a man of erudition will be little better than a mere walking catalogue." "My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 174 U/or^s of drearily in my face, "excuse my interrupting you, but I per- ceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author who was making some noise just as I left the world. His reputation, however, was considered quite tem- porary. 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 Shakespeare. 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 ordinary term of English literature. There arise authors now and then who seem proof against the mutability of language, because they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream, which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them from being swept away by the overflowing current, and hold up many a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakespeare, whom we behold, defying the encroachments of time, retaining in modern use the language and literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indifferent author merely from having flourished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant that upholds them." Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until at length he broke out into a plethoric fit of laughter that had wellnigh choked him, by reason of his ex- cessive corpulency. "Mighty well!" cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, "mighty well! and so you would per- suade me that the literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a man without learning ! by 175 a poet! forsooth a poet!" And here he wheezed forth an- other fit of laughter. I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flour- ished 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 immortality. Others may write from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of Nature, whose features are always the same, and always in- teresting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy ; their pages crowded with commonplaces, and their thoughts ex- panded into tediousness. But with the true poet everything is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by every thing that he sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is, passing before him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which inclose within a small compass the wealth of the language its family jewels, which are thus trans- mitted in a portable form to posterity. The setting may oc- casionally 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 val- leys 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 intelligence 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, 176 U/orK of I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to in- form me that it was tune 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 per- fectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two or three times since, and have endeavored to draw it into further conversation, but in vain : and whether all this rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never, to this moment, been able to discover. 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 herblets shall, which we upon you strow." Cynibdine AMONG the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural life which still linger in some parts of England are those of strewing flowers before the funerals and planting them at the graves of departed friends. These, it is said, are the re- mains of some of the rites of the primitive church ; but they are of still higher antiquity, having been observed among the The vertu and the vice Of every wight alyve; The honey combe that bee doth make, Is not so sweet in hy ve, As are the golden leves That drops from poet's head ; Which doth surmount our common talke, As farre as dross doth lead." CHURCHYARD 17? Greeks and Romans, and frequently mentioned by theii writers, and were, no doubt, the spontaneous tributes of unlettered affection, originating long before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, or story it on the monu- ment. They are now only to be met with in the most dis- tant and retired places of the kingdom, where fashion and innovation have not been able to throng in, and trample out all the curious and interesting traces of the olden time. In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : "White his shroud as the mountain snow, Larded all with sweet flowers ; Which be- wept to the grave did go, With true love showers." There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a female who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet of white flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl, nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterward hung up in the church over the accustomed seat of the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, in imita- tion of flowers, and inside of them is generally a pair of white gloves. They are intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the crown of glory which she has received in heaven. In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns ; a kind of triumph, "to show," says Bourne, "that they have fin- ished their course with joy, and are become conquerors." This, I am informed, is observed in some of the northern counties, particularly in Northumberland, and it has a pleas- ing, though melancholy effect, to hear, of a still evening, in some lonely country scene, the mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and to see the train slowly moving along the landscape. 178 U/orl^s of U/aBtyvQtOT) Irvii}<$ "Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round Thy harmless 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." HEERICK. There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveler to the passing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such spec- tacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of Nature, sink deep into the soul. As the mourning train approaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by; he then follows silently in the rear; sometimes quite to the grave, at other times for a few hundred yards, and having paid this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and resumes his journey. The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the En- glish character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic cus- toms, and in the solicitude shown by the common people for an honored and a peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that some little respect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the "faire and happy milkmaid," ob- serves, "thus lives she, and all her care is that she may die in the springtime, to have store of flowers stucke upon her winding-sheet." The poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a nation, continually advert to this fond solicitude about the grave. In "The Maid's Tragedy," by Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, de- scribing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted girl. "When she Bees 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 Jl?e SKetob-BooK 179 turf uninjured, and about them were planted evergreens and flowers. "We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his "Sylva," "with flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the Me of man, which has been compared in Holy Scriptures to those fading beauties, whose roots, being buried in dis- honor, rise again in glory." This usage has now become extremely rare in England ; but it may still be met with in the churchyards of retired villages among the Welsh moun- tains; and I recollect an instance of it at the small town of Ruthven, 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 noticed several graves which had been decorated in the same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might be seen in various states of decay ; some drooping, others quite perished. They were afterward to be supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens; which on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tombstones. There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the ar- rangement of these rustic offerings that had something in it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. "This sweet flower," said Evelyn, "borne on a branch set with thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory life, which, making so fair a show for a time, is not yet without its thorns and crosses." The nature and color of the flow- ers, and of the ribbons with which they were tied, had often a particular reference to the qualities or story of the deceased, or were expressive of the feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled "Corydon's Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the decorations he intends to use : 180 U/orKs of U/asl?ii7<$toi> Iruir;$ ' 'A garland shall be framed By Art and Nature's skill, Of sundry -colored flowers, In token of good will. "And sundry -colored ribands On it I will bestow ; But chiefly blacke and yellowe With her to grave shall go. "I'll deck her tomb with flowers The rarest ever seen ; And with my tears as showers 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 ribbons, in token of her spotless innocence; though sometimes black ribbons were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose was occasionally used, in remembrance of such as had been remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in general were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not altogether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the county of Surrey, "where the maidens yearly planted and decked the graves of their defunct sweet- hearts with rose-bushes." And Camden likewise remarks, in his "Britannia" : "Here is also a certain custom, observed time out of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especially by the young men and maids who have lost their loves; so that this churchyard is now full of them." When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, em- blems of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they were of the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the following stanza: "Yet strew Upon my dismal grave Such offerings as you have, Forsaken cypresse and yewe ; For kinder flowers can take no birth Or growth from such unhappy earth." 181 In "The Maid's Tragedy," apathetic little air is intro- duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females who have been disappointed in love : "Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal 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 funeral observances. Thus, it was an especial precaution that none but sweet-scented ever- greens and flowers should be employed. The intention seems to have been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding over the disgraces of perishing mortal- ity, and to associate the memory of the deceased 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 con- templating ; and we seek still to think of the form we have loved with those refined associations which it awakened when blooming before us in youth and beauty. "Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes of his virgin sister, "And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring." Henick, also, in his "Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a fragrant flow of poetical thought and image which in a man- ner 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 hence Fat frankincense. U/or^s of 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 I May virgins, when they come to mourn, Male incense burn Upon thine altar! then return And leave thee sleeping in thy urn." I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older Brit- ish poets, who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, and delighted frequently to allude to them; but I have already quoted more than is necessary. I cannot, however, refrain from giving a passage from Shakespeare, 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 affec- tion is binding the osier round the sod ; but pathos expires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled among the cold conceits of sculptured marble. It is greatly to be regretted that a custom so truly elegant and touching has disappeared from general use, and exists only in the most remote and insignificant villages. But it seems as if poetical custom always shuns the walks of culti- vated society. In proportion as people grow polite they cease 183 to be poetical. They talk of poetry, but they have learned to check its free impulses, to distrust its sallying emotions, and to supply its most affecting and picturesque usages by studied form and pompous ceremonial. Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than an English funeral in town. It is made up of show and gloomy parade : mourning car- riages, mourning horses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief. "There is a grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor, "and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the neighborhood, and when the daies are fin- ished, they shall be, and they shall be remembered no more." The associate in the gay and crowded city is soon forgotten ; the hurrying succession of new intimates and new pleasures effaces him from our minds, and the very scenes and circles in which he moved are incessantly 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 melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape. The fixed and unchanging features of the country, also, perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed them ; who was the companion of our most retired walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea is associated with every charm of Nature : we hear his voice in the echo which he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit haunts the grove which he once frequented ; we think of him in the wild upland solitude, or amid the pensive beauty of the valley. In the freshness of joyous morning, we remem- ber his beaming smiles and bounding gayety; and when sober evening returns, with its gathering shadows and sub- duing 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." 184 U/or^s of U/asl?ii>$toi) Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the de- ceased in the country is, that the grave is more immediately in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer; it meets their eyes when their hearts are softened by the exercise of devotion ; they linger about it on the Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures and present loves, and to sit down among the solemn mementos of the past. In North Wales, the peasantry kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friends for several Sundays after the interment ; and where the tender rite of strewing and planting flowers is still practiced, it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the season brings the companion of former festivity more vividly to mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest relatives and friends; no menials nor hirelings are employed, and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult to offer compensation. I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love. The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The lat- ter must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the pres- ence of its object ; but the love that is seated in the soul can live on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline with the charms which excited them, and turn with shuddering and disgust from the dismal pre- cincts of the tomb ; but it is thence that truly spiritual affec- tion rises purified from every sensual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would 185 willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved ; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness? No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom; yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave! the grave! It buries every error covers every defect ex- tinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy and not feel a 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 love what a place for medita- tion ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endear- ments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily inter- course of intimacy ; there it is that we dwell upon the ten- derness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs its noiseless attendance its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testi- 186 U/orKs of U/al?io$toi} monies of expiring love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling oh! how thrilling! pressure of the hand. The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence. The faint, faltering accents, strug- gling in death to give one more assurance of affection ! Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that 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 par- ent if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and ut- ter 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 ; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and alTection- ate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English peas- antry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quotations illus- Tl?e Sketob-BooK 187 trative 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 men- tioned as an apology for so brief and casual a notice of these usages, after they have been amply and learnedly investi- gated hi other works. I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this cus- tom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other coun- tries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much more general, and is observed even by the rich and fashionable ; but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate into affectation. Bright, in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, and recesses formed for retirement, with seats placed among bowers of green-house plants ; and that the graves generally are covered with the gayest flow- ers of the season. He gives a casual picture of final piety, which I cannot but describe, for I trust it is as useful as it is delightful to illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. "When I was at Berlin," says he, "I followed the celebrated Iffland to the grave. Mingled with some pomp, you might trace much real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony my atten- tion was attracted by a young woman who stood on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf, which she anxiously pro- tected 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 striking than the most costly work of art." I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I once met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was at the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the lake of Luzerne, at the foot of Mount Rigi. It was once the capital of a miniature republic, shut up between the Alps and the lake, and accessible on the land side only by footpaths. The whole force of the republic did not exceed six hundred fighting men ; and a few miles of circumference, scooped out, as it were, from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its territory. The village of Gersau seemed sepa- 188 U/orKs of U/asl?in$too Iruir?<$ rated 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 minia- tures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at likenesses of the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of flow- ers, 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 senti- ment, derived from books; but the good people of Gersau knew little of books; there was not a novel nor a love poem in the village ; and I question whether any peasant of the place dreamed, 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 "Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?" FcHstaff DURING a journey that I once made through the Nether- lands, 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 relics of its ampler board. The weather was chilly; I was seated alone in one end of a great gloomy dining-room, and my repast being over, I had the prospect before me of a long dull evening, without any visi- ble means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and re- quested something to read ; he brought me the whole literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an almanac in the same language, and a number of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, reading old news and Jl?e SKetofo-BooK 189 stale criticisms, my ear was now and then struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Every one that has traveled on the Continent must know how favorite a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to the middle and inferior order of travelers ; particularly in that equivocal kind of weather when a fire becomes agreeable to- ward 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 travelers who had arrived some hours before in a diligence, and partly of the usual attendants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round a great burnished stove, that might have been mistaken for an altar at which they were worshiping. It was covered with various kitchen vessels of resplendent bright- ness ; among which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea- kettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group, bringing out many odd features in strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners ; except where they settled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected back from well-scoured utensils that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long golden pendents in her ears, and a necklace with a golden heart suspended to it, was the presiding priestess of the temple. Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most of them with some kind of evening potation. I found their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes which a little swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of his love adventures; at the end of each of which there was one of those bursts of honest uncere- monious 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 list- ened to a variety of traveler's tales, some very extravagant, and most very dull. All of them, however, have faded from 190 U/or^s of U/agI?i9^toi> Iruirj<} my treacherous memory, except one, which I will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it derived its chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and the peculiar air and ap- pearance of the narrator. He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveler. He was dressed in a tarnished green traveling- 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 vel- vet traveling-cap, stuck on one side of his head. He was interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests, or the remarks of his auditors ; and paused, now and then, to re- plenish his pipe ; at which times he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke, for the buxom kitchen maid. I wish my reader could imagine the old fellow lolling in a huge armchair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a curi- ously 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 f ollowing story : THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM A TRAVELER'S TALE* "He that supper for is dight, He lyes full cold, I trow, this night! Yestreen to chamber I him led, 4 This night Gray-steel lias 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 *The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote, of a circumstance said to have taken place at Paris. 191 from the confluence of the Maine and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years since, the Castle of the Baron Von Land- short. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech trees and dark firs ; above which, however, its old watch-tower may still be seen struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look down upon a neighboring country. The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of Kat- zenellenbogen, * and inherited the relics of the property and all the pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposi- tion of his predecessors had much impaired the family pos- sessions, yet the Baron still endeavored to keep up some show of former state. The times were peaceable, and the German nobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient old cas- tles, perched like eagles' nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient residences in the valleys ; still the Baron remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cher- ishing with hereditary inveteracy all the old family feuds ; so that he was on ill terms with some of his nearest neigh- bors, 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, always compensates by mak- ing it a prodigy ; and so it was with the daughter of the Baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins, as- sured her father that she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany; and who should know better than they? She had, moreover, been brought up with great care, under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some years of their early life at one of the little German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of knowledge necessary to the education of a fine lady. Under their instructions, she became a miracle of accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen she could embroider to admiration, and had *I.e., CAT'S ELBOW the name of a family of those parts, very powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for a fine arm. 192 U/orKs of U/a8l?io$toi) Irvfi}$ worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry 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 let- ter, and so legibly that her aunts could read it without spec- tacles. She excelled in making little good-for-nothing lady- like knickknacks of all kinds ; was versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day ; played a number of airs on the harp and guitar; and knew all the tender ballads of the Minnie-lieders by heart. Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decor- ous, as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely suffered out of their sight ; never went beyond the domains of the castle, unless well attended, or, rather, well watched; had continual lectures read to her about strict decorum and im- plicit obedience ; and, as to the men pah I she was taught to hold them at such distance and distrust that, unless prop- erly authorized, she would not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world no, not if he were even dying at her feet. The good effects of this system were wonderfully appar- ent. The young lady was a pattern of docility and correct- ness. 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 exulta- tion, and vaunted that though all the other young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 193 But however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be provided with children, his household was by no means a amfl.11 one, for Providence had enriched him with abundance of poor relations. They, one and all, possessed the affection- ate disposition common to humble relatives; were wonder- fully attached to the Baron, and took every possible occasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle. All family festi- vals were commemorated by these good people at the Baron's expense; and when they were filled with good cheer, they would declare that there was nothing on earth so delightful as 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 walls around, and he found no listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. He was much given to the marvelous, and a firm believer in all those supernatural tales with which every mountain and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of his guests even exceeded his own : they listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be astonished, even though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his little territory, and happy, above all things, in the persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age. At the time of which my story treats there was a great family-gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost im- portance : it was to receive the destined bridegroom of the Baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried on be- tween the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the marriage of their children. The preliminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed without seeing each other, and the time was appointed for the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from the army for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the * * *y VOL. I. 194 U/orl^s of U/asl?ii7 Iruir><} agreed to perform the rest of their journey together; and, that they might do it more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the Count having given directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him. They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military scenes and adventures ; but the Count was apt to be a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride, and the felicity that awaited him. In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly wooded passes. It is well known that the forests of Germany have always been as much infested with robbers as its castles by specters ; and, at this tune, the for- mer were particularly numerous, from the hordes of dis- banded soldiers wandering about the country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were at- tacked by a gang of these stragglers in the midst of the for- est. They defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered when the Count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the Count had received a mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of "Wurtz- burg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring convent, who was famous for his skill in administering to both soul and body. But half of his skill was superfluous; the mo- ments of the unfortunate Count were numbered. "With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause of his not keeping his appointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared 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 request, at a moment so impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him to calmness ; promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave Sketel?-BooK 197 his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it hi acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium raved about his bride his engagements his plighted word; or- dered his horse, that he might ride to the castle of Land- short, and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the untimely fate of his comrade; and then pondered on the awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head perplexed ; for he was to present himself an un- bidden guest among hostile people, and to damp their festiv- ity with tidings fatal to then- hopes. Still there were certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen so cautiously shut up from the world ; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his character that made him fond of all singular adventure. Previous to his departure, he made all due arrangements with the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral so- lemnities of his friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of "Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious relatives ; and the mourning retinue of the Count took charge of his remains. It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more for their dinner; and to the worthy lit- tle Baron, whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower. Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The Baron descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be post- poned. The meats were already overdone, the cook in an agony, and the whole household had the look of a garrison that had been reduced by famine. The Baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were seated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, 198 U/orK of and was answered by the warder from the walls. The Baron hastened to receive his future son-in-law. The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The Baron was a little mortified that he should have come in this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for the important occasion, and the important family with which he was to be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the conclusion that it must have been youth- ful impatience which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants. "I am sorry," said the stranger, "to break in upon you thus unseasonably " Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of compli- ments and greetings; for, to tell the truth, he prided him- self upon his courtesy and his eloquence. The stranger at- tempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but in vain; so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the time the Baron had come to a pause they had reached the inner court of the castle ; and the stranger was again about to speak, when he was once more interrupted by the appearance of the female part of the family, leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear; she made an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger, and was cast again to the ground. The words died away ; but there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek, that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. 199 The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for parley. The Baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular conversation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted banquet. It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked corselets, splin- tered jousting spears, and tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare : the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned horribly among crossbows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched imme- diately 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 a mingled tenderness and gravity in his manner that appeared to have a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her color came and went, as she listened with deep attention. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned away she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident that the young couple were com- pletely enamored. The aunts, who were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen hi love with each other at first sight. The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light purses and mountain air. The Baron told his best and longest stories, and never had he told them so well, or with such great effect. If there was anything marvelous, his auditors were lost in astonishment ; and if anything face- tious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The Baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified 200 U/orKs of U/asl?ii><$toij to utter any joke but a dull one : it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent 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. Amid all this revelry, the stranger-guest maintained a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced, and, strange as it may appear, even the Baron's jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and rest- less wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversation with the bride became more and more ear- nest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame. All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom; then: 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 con- versation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales, and supernatural legends. One dismal story produced an- other 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 ex- cellent verse, and is read and believed by all the world. The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound atten- tion. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the Baron, and, as the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his 201 seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the Baron's en- tranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. The Baron was perfectly thunderstruck. "What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, everything was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was ready for him if he wished to retire." The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteri- ously: "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 en- treaties. The stranger shook his head silently, but posi- tively, at every offer; and, waving his farewell to the com- pany, stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye. The Baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth and snorting with impatience. When they had reached the por- tal, 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 sepul- chral. "Now that we are alone," said he, "I will impart to you the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispen- sable 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 cathedral " "Ay," said the Baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until to-morrow to-morrow you shall take your bride there." "No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, "my engagement is with no bride the worms! the worms expect me ! I am a dead man I have been slain by robbers 202 U/orKs of my body lies at Wurtzburg at midnight I am to be buried the grave is waiting for me I must keep my appoint- ment!*' He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw- bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night-blast. The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost consterna- tion, and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted out- right ; others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a specter. It was the opinion of some that this might be the wild huntsman famous in German legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings, with which the good people of Germany have been so grievously harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so melan- choly a personage. This, however, drew on him the indig- nation of the whole company, and especially of the Baron, who looked upon him as little better than an infidel ; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers. But, whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of regular missives confirming the intelligence of the young Count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The Baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests who had come to rejoice with him could not think of abandoning him in his distress. They wandered about the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders at the troubles of so good a man ; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But the situa- tion of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had even embraced him and such a husband ! if the very specter could be so gracious and noble, 203 what must have been the living man? She filled the house with lamentations. On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had just been recounting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote, and over- looked 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 told midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed and stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld the Specter 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 specter had disap- peared. 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 specter of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was still the semblance of manly beauty ; and though the shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the affections of a love- sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared she would never sleep in that chamber again ; the niece, for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that she would sleep in no other in the castle : the consequence was that she had to sleep in it alone ; but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the specter, lest she should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth that of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. How long the good old lady would have observed this 204 U/orKs of U/asl?ip$toi> promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the mar- velous, and there is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story ; it is, however, still quoted in the neighbor- hood, 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 hi the window was open and the bird had flown ! The astonishment and concern with which the intelli- gence was received can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations paused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher ; when the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands and shrieked out, "The goblin! the goblin! She's car- ried away by the goblin!" In a few words she related the fearful scene of the gar- den, and concluded that the specter 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 specter on his black charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the direful probability; for events of the kind are extremely common in Germany, as many well-authenticated histories bear witness. What a lamentable situation was that of the poor Baron ! What a heartrending dilemma for a fond father, and a member of the great f amily of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daughter had either been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, per- chance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The Baron himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, 205 when he was brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on a palfrey attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the Baron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her companion the Specter Bridegroom! The Baron was as- tounded. He looked at his daughter, then at the specter, and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appearance, since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye. The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his 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 window had wooed had won had borne away in triumph and, in a word, had wedded the fair. Under any other circumstances the Baron would have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but he loved his daughter ; he had lamented her as lost ; he rejoiced to find her still alive; and, though her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the joke the 206 U/orl^s of U/asl?ii>^toi> Irvir>$ knight had passed upon him of his being a dead man ; but several old friends present, who had served in the wars, as- sured him that every stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper. Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baron pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with loving-kindness ; he was so gallant, so generous and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that then* system of strict seclu- sion, and passive obedience, should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not having the windows grated. One of them was particularly mortified at having her marvelous story marred, and that the only specter she had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantial flesh and blood and so the story ends. WESTMINSTER ABBEY "When I behold, with deep astonishment, To famous Westminster how there resorte, Living in brasse or stony monument, The princes and the worthies of all sorte ; Doe not I see reformed nobilitie, Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, And looke upon offenseless majesty, Naked of pomp or earthly domination? And how a play -game of a painted stone Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, Whome all the world which late they stood upon Could not content nor quench their appetites. Life is a frost of cold felicitie, And death the thaw of all our vanitie." Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B., 1598. ON one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and 207 evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and as I passed its threshold, it seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. I entered from the inner court of Westminster school, through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circu- lar perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a specter from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monas- tic remains prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloister still retains something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are discolored by damps and crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the death's heads, and other funeral emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches ; the roses which adorned the keystones have lost their leafy beauty ; everything bears marks of the gradual dilapi- dations of time, which yet has something touching and pleas- ing in its very decay. The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the center, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusty splendor. From between the arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky, or a passing cloud ; and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey tower- ing into the azure heaven. As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes en- deavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, 208 U/orks of U/asl?iQ$toi> which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eyes were attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots; the epitaphs were entirely effaced ; the names alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later time (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176). I remained some little while musing over these cas- ual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been and had perished ; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint records will be obliterated and the monument will cease to be a memorial. While I was yet looking down upon the gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed tune sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward toward the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the in- terior of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eye gazes with wonder at clus- tered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to such an amazing height ; and man wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturb- ing the hallowed silence of the tomb; while every footfall whispers along the walls and chatters among the sepulchers, making us more sensible of the quiet we have inte'rrupted. It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless rever- ence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated 209 bones of the great men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds and the earth with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition, to see how they are crowded together, and justled hi the dust ; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook a gloomy corner a little portion of earth, to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy : and how many shapes, and forms, and artifices, are devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from forgetful- ness, for a few short years, a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end jof one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monuments are generally simple; for the lives of literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected to their memories ; but the greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere in- scriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these memo- rials, I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey remain longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of friends and companions; for indeed there is something of companionship between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of his- tory, which is continually growing faint and obscure; but the intercourse between the author and his fellowmen is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself ; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may pos- terity be grateftil to his memory ; for he has left it an in- heritance, not of empty names and sounding actions, but 210 Works of U/a8l?ipo;toi) Iruirjo; whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language. From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll toward that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchers of the kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn, I met with some illustrious name, or the cogni- zance of some powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies: some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together; warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle ; prelates, with crosiers and miters ; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying, as it were, in state. In glanc- ing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were tread- ing a mansion of that fabled city where every being had been suddenly transmuted into stone. I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm ; the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast ; the face was almost covered by the morion ; the legs were crossed in token of the warrior's having been en- gaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader; of one of those military enthusiasts who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits form the connect- ing link between fact and fiction between the history and the fairy tale. There is something extremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, decorated, as they are, with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are gen- erally found; and in considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fictions, the chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the wars for the Sepulcher of Christ. They are the relics of tunes utterly gone by ; of beings passed from recollection ; of customs and manners with which ours have 211 no affinity. They are like objects from some strange and dis- tant land, of which we have no certain knowledge, and about which all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is something extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if hi the sleep of death or hi the supplication of the dying hour. They have an effect in- finitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the overwrought conceits and allegorical groups, which abound on modern monuments. I have been struck, also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral in- scriptions. There was a noble way, hi former times, of say- ing things simply, and yet saying them proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and honorable lineage than one which affirms, of a noble house, that "all the brothers were brave, arid all the sisters virtuous." In the opposite transept of Poet's Corner stands a monu- ment which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art ; but which, to me, appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as he lanches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the specter. But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unneces- sary terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love? The grave should be surrounded by everything that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead ; or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence from without occasionally reaches the ear: the 212 U/orKs of rumbling of the passing equipage ; the murmur of the mul- titude ; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around; and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along and beating against the very walls of the sepulcher. I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away ; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent ; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps leads up to it, through a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and deli- cately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchers. On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of archi- tecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into universal ornament, in crusted with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pin- nacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords ; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulcher of its founder his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous 213 tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing. There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence; this strange mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems of living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feel- ing of loneliness than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and then* esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once borne be- fore them, my imagination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land ; glit- tering with the splendor of jeweled rank and military array ; alive with the tread of many feet, and the hum of an admir- ing multitude. All had passed away ; the silence of death had settled again upon the place ; interrupted only by the casual chirping of birds, which had found their way into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and pen- dents sure signs of solitariness and desertion. When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were those of men scattered far and wide about the world ; some tossing upon distant seas; some under arms in distant lands; some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets : all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy honors the melancholy reward of a monument. Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance of the equality of the grave which brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulcher of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulcher continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary 214 U/orKs of U/asl?ii)<$to!> lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bear- ing her national emblem the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the checkered and disastrous story of poor Mary. The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were grad- ually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place : "For in the silent grave no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, No careful father's counsel nothing's heard, For nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust, and an endless darkness." Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord with this mighty build- ing ! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulcher vocal! And now they rise in triumphant acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and roll ing it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What 215 solemn sweeping concords! It grows more and more dense and powerful it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls the ear is stunned the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee it is rising from the earth to heaven the very soul seems rapt away, and floated upward on this swelling tide of harmony ! I sat for some tune lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening were gradually thickening around me ; the monu- ments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the dis- tant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. I arose, and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchers of various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs ; where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and states- men, lie mouldering in "their beds of darkness." Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power; here it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulcher. Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness? to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive? how soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass away ; and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multi- tude? For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some natures 216 U/or^s of U/a8l?in$tor) which leads them to sport with awful and hallowed things; and there are base minds which delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject homage and groveling servility which they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funeral ornaments ; the scepter has been stolen from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some proof how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered; some mutilated; some covered with ribaldry and insult all more or less outraged and dishonored ! The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the painted windows in the high vaults above me : the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the un- certain light ; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already falling into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my rec- ollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchers but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of re- iterated homilies on the emptiness of renown and the cer- tainty of oblivion? It is, indeed, the empire of Death; his great shadowy palace ; where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and f orgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name 1 Time is ever silently turning Jl?e Sketo^-BooK 217 over his pages ; we are too much engrossed by the story of the present to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection ; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. ' ' Our fathers, ' ' says Sir Thomas Brown, "find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades into fable ; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscription moulders from the tablet; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand and their epitaphs but 'Characters written in the dust? What is the security of the tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalm- ment? The remains of Alexander the Great have been scat- tered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. "The Egyptian mummies which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now con- sumeth; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams. ' ' * What then is to insure this pile, which now towers above me, from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? The time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shat- tered tower when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death; and the ivy twine round the fallen column; and the fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollec- tion; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. * Sir Thomas Brown. * * *10 VOL. I. JM.8 U/ork of CHRISTMAS "But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of his good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of him." Hue and Cry after Christmas "A man might then behold At Christmas, in each hall, Good fires to curb the cold, And meat for great and small. The neighbors were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true, The poor from the gates were not chidden, When this old cap was new." Old Song THERE is nothing in England that exercises a more de- lightful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of the holyday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morn- ing of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it ; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous than at pres- ent. I regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holyday revel from which it has derived so many of its themes as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping to- gether their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hal- lowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring : they dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement : they gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony. It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announce- ment of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are con- tinually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementos of childhood. There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times, we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere. ' ' The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptu- 220 U/orK of ousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn ; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep de- licious blue and its cloudy magnificence all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sen- sibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living kindness which lie in the quiet re- cesses of our bosoms ; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity. The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on en- tering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the even- ing fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each countenance into a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hos- pitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent than by the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hah 1 , claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security with which we look round upon the comfortable chamber, and the scene of domestic hilarity? The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holydays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country lif e ; and they were in former days par- ticularly observant of the religious and social rights of Christ- Tl?e SKetel?-Bool<; 221 mas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good fel- lowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage wel- comed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly; the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holyday cus- toms. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and cere- monials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are become matters of specu- lation and dispute among commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously : times wild and pict- uresque, which have furnished poetry with its richest mate- rials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of char- acters and manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels, where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its home- bred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, 222 UYorKe of U/asl?ir>$tor> Irvir> Iruir;$ was a group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls about the floor, showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a happy day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night. While the mutual greetings were going on between young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apart- ment. I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, and the Squire had evidently endeavored to re- store it to something of its primitive state. Over the heavy projecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a warrior in armor, standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enor- mous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the comers of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fish- ing-rods, and other sporting implements. The furniture was of the cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some articles of modern convenience had been added, and the oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole presented an odd mixture of parlor and hall. The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelm- ing fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which was an enormous log, glowing and blazing, and send- ing forth a vast volume of light and heat ; this I understood was the yule clog, which the Squire was particular in hav- ing brought hi and illumined on a Christmas eve, according to ancient custom.* * The yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, brought into the house with great ceremony on Christmas eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Some- times it was accompanied by Christmas candles; but in the cottages, the only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The yule clog was to burn all night; if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck. Herrick mentions it in one of his songs: 8Ketol?-BooK 237 It was really delightful to see the old Squire, seated in his hereditary elbow-chair, by the hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly up in his mas- ter's face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There is an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before I found myself as much at home as if I had been one of the family. Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, and around which were several family por- traits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly polished beaufet among the family plate. The table was abundantly spread with substantial fare; but the Squire made his sup- per of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk with rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for Christ- mas eve. I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in " Come bring with a noise, My merrie, merrie boys, The Christmas Log to the firing; While my good dame she Bids ye all be free, And drink to your hearts desiring." The yule clog is still burned in many farmhouses and kitchens in England, particularly in the north; and there are several superstitions connected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand remaining from the yule clog is carefully put away to light the next year's Christmas fire. 238 U/or^s of U/asJpfp^toi) Irvii}<$tor; Irulr><$ the conversation of the Squire and the parson that it was meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's head a dish formerly served up with much ceremony, and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great tables on Christmas day. "I like the old custom," said the Squire, "not merely be- cause it is stately and pleasing in itself, but because it was observed at the college at Oxford, at which I was educated. "When I hear the old song chanted, it brings to mind the time when I was young and gamesome and the noble old college hall and my fellow-students loitering about in their black gowns; many of whom, poor lads, are now in their graves!" The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such associations, and who was always more taken up with the text than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's ver- sion of the carol ; which, he affirmed, was different from that sung at college. He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commentator, to give the college reading, accompanied by sundry annotations ; addressing himself at first to the com- pany at large ; but finding their attention gradually diverted to other talk, and other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished, until he concluded his re- marks in an under voice, to a fat-headed old gentleman next him, who was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of turkey. * * The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas day is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable to such of my readers as are curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it entire: "The boar's head in hand bear I, Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary; And I pray you, my masters, be merry, Quot estis in convivio. Caput apri defero. Reddens laudes Domino. "The boar's head, as I understand, Is the rarest dish in all this land, 261 The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and pre- sented an epitome of country abundance, in this season of overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted to "ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it; being, as he added, "the standard of old English hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of expectation. " There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evidently something tradi- tional in their embellishments ; but about which, as I did not like to appear overcurious, I asked no questions. I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently decorated with peacocks' feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. This, the Squire confessed, with some little hesita- tion, was a pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most authentical ; but there had been such a mortality among the peacocks this season that he could not prevail upon himself to have one killed. * Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland Let us servire cantico. Caput apri defero, etc. "Our steward hath provided this In honor of the King of Bliss, Which on this day to be served is In Reginensi Atrio. Caput apri defero," etc. * The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertain- ments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt; at the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, "by cock and pie." The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast; and Massinger, in his "City Madam," gives some idea of the extrava- gance with which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden times: Men may talk of Country Cbristmasses. Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues: Their pheasants drench 'd with ambergris; the carcases of three fat toethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a siKjle peacock! 262 ll/or^s of U/asl?ir)<$toQ It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the other makeshifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he was endeavoring to follow up, though at humble distance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect shown to his whims by his children and relatives; who, indeed, entered readily into the full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in their parts ; having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of profound gravity with which the butler and other servants executed the duties assigned them, however eccentric. They had an old-fashioned look ; having, for the most part, been brought up in the household, and grown into keeping with the antiquated mansion, and the humors of its lord; and most probably looked upon all his whimsical regu- lations as the established laws of honorable housekeeping. When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed before the Squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation ; being the "Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christ- mas festivity. The contents had been prepared by the Squire himself ; for it was a beverage in the skillful mixture of which he particularly prided himself : alleging that it was too ab- struse and complex for the comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him; being composed of tho richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about the surface.* * The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine; with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs; in this way the nut-brown beverage is still prepared in some old families, and round the hearth of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and it is celebrated by Herrick in his "Twelfth Night": "Next crowne the bowle full With gentle Lamb's Wool, 263 The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming round the board, for every one to follow his example according to the primitive style; pronouncing it "the ancient fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met together." * There was much laughing and rallying, as the honest emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by the ladies. But when it reached Master Simon, he raised it in both hands, and, with the air of a boon companion, struck up an old Wassail Chanson : "The brown bowle, The merry brown bowle, As it goes round about-a, Fill Still, Let the world say what it will, And drink your fill all out-a. "The deep canne, The merry deep canne, As thou dost freely quaff -a, Sing Fling, Be as merry as a king, And sound a lusty laugh-a."f Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, how- ever, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, With store of ale too; And thus ye must doe To make the Wassaile a swinger." * "The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having his cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chap- pell (chaplain) was to answer with a song." Archceologia. f From Poor Robin's Almanack. 264 U/orKs of U/asl?ii}<$toi} gay widow, with whom he was accused of having a flirta- tion. This attack was commenced by the ladies ; but it was continued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gen- tleman next the parson, with the persevering assiduity of a slow hound; being one of those long-winded jokers who, though rather dull at starting game, are unrivaled for their talents in hunting it down. At every pause in the general conversation he renewed his bantering in pretty much the same terms ; winking hard at me with both eyes whenever he gave Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the sub- ject, as old bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform me, in an undertone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously fine woman and drove her own curricle. The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, and though the old hall may have resounded in its time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him ; and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity to freshen into smiles! The joyous disposition of the worthy Squire was perfectly contagious ; he was happy himself, and disposed to make all the world happy ; and the little eccen- tricities of his humor did but season, in a manner, the sweet- ness of his philanthropy. When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, became still more animated : many good things were broached which had been thought of during dinner, but which would not exactly do for a lady's ear ; and though I cannot posi- tively affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit produce much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredi- ent, and much too acid for some stomachs; but honest good- humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal to that, where the jokes are rather small, and the laughter abundant. 265 The Squire told several long stories of early college pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had been a sharer; though, in looking at the latter, it required some effort of imagination to figure such a little dark anatomy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures of what men may be made by their different lots in life : the Squire had left the university to live lustily on his paternal domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty and florid old age ; while the poor parson, on the contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and shadows of his study. Still there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire feebly glimmering in the bottom of his soul; and, as the Squire hinted at a sly story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid whom they once met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentleman made an "alphabet of faces," which, as far as I could decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was indicative of laughter; indeed, I have rarely met with an old gentleman that took absolute offense at the imputed gallantries of his youth. I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier and louder, as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew ; his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song about the wooing of a widow, which he informed me he had gathered from an excellent black-letter work entitled "Cupid's Solicitor for Love"; containing store of good advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend me ; the first verse was to this effect : "He that will woo a widow must not dally, He must make hay while the sun doth shine; He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine." This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made several attempts to tell a rather broad story of Joe * * *12 VOL. I. 266 ll/or^s of U/asl?ii}$toi) Miller, that was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck in the middle, everybody recollecting the latter part excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show the effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, and his wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this junct- ure, we were summoned to the drawing-room, and, I sus- pect, at the private instigation of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a proper love of decorum. After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was given up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy holyday season, and could not help stealing out of the drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. I found them at the game of blind-man's-buff. Master Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occasions to fulfill the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord of Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of the hall. The little beings were as busy about him as the mock fairies about Falstaff ; pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete pict- ure of a romp, was the chief tormentor ; and from the slyness with which Master Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was convenient. "When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the com- pany seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of * "At Christmasse there was in the Kinges house, wheresoever hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, and the like had ye in the house of every nobleman of honor; or good wor- shippe, were he spiritual! or temporall." STOW. 267 some cunning artificer of yore, which had been brought from the library for his particular accommodation. From this venerable piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, he was dealing forth strange accounts of the popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, with which he had become ac- quainted hi the course of his antiquarian researches. I am half inclined to think that the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men are very apt to be who live a recluse and studious life in a sequestered part of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled with the marvelous and supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peas- antry, concerning the effigy of the crusader, which lay on the tomb by the church altar. As it was the only monu- ment of the kind in that part of the country, it had always been regarded with feelings of superstition by the good wives of the village. It was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of the churchyard in stormy nights, par- ticularly when it thundered ; and one old woman whose cot- tage bordered on the churchyard had seen it through the windows of the church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and rest- lessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over which the specter kept watch ; and there was a story current of a sexton, in old times, who endeavored to break his way to the coffin at night ; but just as he reached it, re- ceived a violent blow from the marble hand of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the pavement. These tales were often laughed at by some of the sturdier among the rustics; yet, when night came on, there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led across the churchyard. From these and other anecdotes that followed, the cru- sader appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories 268 U/orKs of U/asl?iij celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was under the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Mis- rule ; and I observed that he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller personages of the pageant. The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, ac cording to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar and merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory by the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless, though giggling, Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance from all the char- acters, which, from its medley of costumes, seemed as though the old family portraits had skipped down from their frames to join in the sport. Different centuries were figuring at cross-hands and right and left; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons; and the days of Queen Bess jig- ging merrily down the middle, through a line of succeeding generations. The worthy Squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, not- withstanding that the latter was discoursing most authenti- cally on the ancient and stately dance of the Pavon, or pea- cock, from which he conceived the minuet to be derived.* For my part, I was in a continual excitement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild- eyed frolic and warm-hearted hos- pitality breaking out from among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and catching once more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also * Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pavo, a peacock, says: "It is a grave and majestic dance; the method of dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the motion whereof in dancing resembled that of a peacock." History of Music. 271 an interest in the scene, from the consideration that these fleeting customs were posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only family in England in which the whole of them were still punctiliously observed. There was a quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest : it was suited to the time and place ; and as the old manor-house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of long-departed years. But enough of Christmas and its gambols : it is time for me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the question asked by my graver readers, "To what purpose is all this how is the world to be made wiser by this talk?" Alas! is there not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the world? And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improvement? It is so much pleasanter to please than to instruct to play the companion rather than the preceptor. What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my sagest deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others? But in writing to amuse, if I fail the only evil is my own disappointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow if I can now and then penetrate through the gather- ing film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow-beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain. [THE following modicum of local history was lately put into my hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown wig and snuff-colored coat, with whom I became ac- 272 U/orl^s of quainted in the course of one of my tours of observation through the center of that great wilderness, the City. I confess that I was a little dubious, at first, whether it was not one of those apocryphal tales often passed off upon in- quiring travelers like myself; and which have brought our general character for veracity into such unmerited reproach. On making proper inquiries, however, I have received the most satisfactory assurances of the author's probity; and, in- deed, have been told that he is actually engaged in a full and particular account of the very interesting region in which he resides, of which the following may be considered merely as a foretaste.] LITTLE BRITAIN "What I write is most true .... I have a whole booke of cases lying by me, which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntie nts (within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity with me." NASH IN the center of the great City of London lies a small neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of Little Britain. Christ Church school and St. Bartholomew's hospital bound it on the west ; Smithfield and Long Lane on the north; Aldersgate Street, like an arm of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city ; while the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Lane, and the regions of New Gate. Over this lit- tle territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Pa- ternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave-Maria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly protection. This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient tunes, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to 273 the west, and trade, creeping on at their heels, took posses- sion of their deserted abodes. For some time, Little Britain became the great mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolific race of booksellers : these also gradually deserted it, and emigrating beyond the great strait of New Gate Street, settled down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's Churchyard ; where they continue to increase and multiply, even at the present day. But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears traces of its former splendor. There are several houses, ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes; and fruits and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains of what were once spa- cious and lordly family mansions, but which have in latter days been subdivided into several tenements. Here may often be found the family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing among the relics of anti- quated finery, in great rambling time-stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. The lanes and courts also contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale ; but, like your small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. These have their gable-ends to the street ; great bow-win- dows, with diamond panes set in lead ; grotesque carvings ; and low-arched doorways. * In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the second floor of one of the smallest, but oldest edifices. My sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small panels, and set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular respect for three or four high-backed, * It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has included, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. 274 U/orKs of U/asl?ii?<$tOQ claw-footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen better days, and have doubt- less figured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me to keep together, and to look down with sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors; as I have seen decayed gentry carry a high head among the plebeian society with which they were reduced to associate. The whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow- window; on the panes of which are recorded the names of previous occupants for many generations ; mingled with scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, written in characters which I can scarcely decipher; and which extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an idle personage, with no apparent occupation, and pay my bill regularly every week, I am looked upon as the only independent gentleman of the neighborhood ; and being curi- ous to learn the internal state of a community so apparently shut up within itself, I have managed to work my way into all the concerns and secrets of the place. Little Britain may truly be called the heart's-core of the city ; the stronghold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of London as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great preservation many of the holyday games and customs of yore. The in- habitants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove- Tuesday ; hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at Michael- mas; they send love-letters on Valentine's Day; burn the Pope on the Fifth of November, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held in superstitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their grounds as the only true English wines all others being considered vile outlandish beverages. Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world: such as the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls ; the figures that strike the hours at St. Dun- 8Keto!?-BooK 275 etan's clock; the Monument ; the lions in the Tower ; and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still believe in dreams and fortune-telling; and an old woman that lives in Bull- and- Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses ; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There are even many ghost stories current, particularly concerning the old man- sion-houses ; in several of which it is said strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full-bot- tomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lap- pets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up and down the great waste chambers, on moonlight nights; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses. Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of the most important of the former is a tall dry old gentle- man of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and projections; with a brown circle round each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is much thought of by the old women, who consider him as a kind of conjurer, because he has two or three stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of al- manacs and newspapers, and is much given to poring over alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions ; which last phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He has always some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers, with their doses ; and thus at the same time puts both soul and body into an up- roar. He is a great believer in omens and predictions ; and has the prophecies of Robert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make so much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day; and he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his customers and disciples, until they were nearly frightened out of their wits. He has lately 276 U/orK of got hold of a popular legend or prophecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying current among the ancient Sybils, who treasure up these things, that when the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place. This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church; and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jowl, in the yard of his workshop. "Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may go star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrologers." Since these portentous weathercocks have thus laid their heads together, wonderful events had already occurred. The good old king, notwithstanding that he had lived eighty -two years, had all at once given up the ghost ; another king had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had died suddenly another, hi France, had been murdered; there had been radical meetings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes at Manchester the great plot in Cato Street ; and, above all, the Queen had returned to England ! All these sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme with a mysterious look and a dismal shake of the head ; and being taken with his drugs, and associated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title page of tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the minds of the people in Little Britain. They shake their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, and observe that they never expected any good to come of taking down that steeple, which, in old times, told nothing but glad tidings, as the history of Whittington and his cat bears witness. The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese- monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family .277 mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed, he is a man of no little standing and importance ; and his re- nown extends through Huggin Lane, and Lad Lane, and even unto Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much taken in the affairs of state, having read the Sunday papers for the last half century, together with the "Gentleman's Maga- zine," Rapin's "History of England," and the "Naval Chronicle." His head is stored with invaluable maxims which have borne the test of time and use for centuries. It is his firm opinion that "it is a moral impossible," so long as England is true to herself, that anything can shake her: and he has much to say on the subject of the national debt; which, somehow or other, he proves to be a great national bulwark and blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having become rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure and see the world. He has therefore made several excursions to Hampstead, High- gate, and other neighboring towns, where he has passed whole afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis through a telescope, and endeavoring to descry the steeple of St. Bar- tholomew's. Not a stage-coachman of Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches his hat as he passes ; and he is considered quite a patron at the coach-office of the Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His family have been very urgent for him to make an expedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of these new gimcracks the steamboats, and indeed thinks himself too advanced in life to undertake sea-voyages. Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and party spirit ran very high at one time, in consequence of two rival "Burial Societies" being set up in the place. One held its meeting at the Swan and Horseshoe, and was pat- ronized by the cheesemonger; the other at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary : it is needless to say that the latter was the most flourishing. I have passed an evening or two at each, and have acquired much 278 U/orKs of U/asl?ii)$toi) valuable information as to the best mode of being buried; the comparative merits of churchyards ; together with divers hints on the subject of patent iron coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its bearings, as to the legality of pro- hibiting the latter on account of their durability. The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily died away of late; but they were for a long time prevailing themes of con- troversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely so- licitous of funeral honors, and of lying comfortably in their graves. Besides these two funeral societies, there is a third of quite a different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good-humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly pub- lican of the name of Wagstaff , and bearing for insignia a re- splendent half -moon, with a most seductive bunch of grapes. The whole edifice is covered with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer; such as "Truman, Hanbury and Co.'s Entire," "Wine, Rum, and Brandy Vaults, " "Old Tom, Rum, and Compounds,*' etc. This, indeed, has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus, from time immemorial. It has always been in the family of the "Wagstaffs, so that its history is tolerably preserved by the present landlord. It was much frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the wits of Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff prin- cipally prides himself upon, is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his famous walking-staff. This, however, is considered as rather a dubious and vainglorious boast of the landlord. The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes by the name of "The Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They abound in all catches, glees, and choice stories that are tradi- tional in the place, and not to be met with in any other part of the metropolis. There is a madcap undertaker, who is in- imitable at a merry song ; but the life of the club, and indeed .279 the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors were all wags before him, and he has inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from generation to generation as heirlooms. He is a dap- per little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red face with a moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair be- hind. At the opening of every club night, he is called in to sing his "Confession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl from Gammer Gurton's needle. He sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as he received it from his father's lips ; for it had been a standing favorite at the Half -Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written; nay, he affirms that his predecessors have often had the honor of singing it before the nobility and gentry at Christ- mas mummeries, when Little Britain was in all its glory.* * As mine host of the Half -Moon's Confession of Faith may not be familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the cur- rent songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would observe, that the whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and clattering of pewter pots. "I cannot eate but lytle meate, My stomacke is not good, But sure I thinke that I can drinke With him that weares a hood. Though I go bare take ye no care, I nothing am a colde, I stuff my skyn so full within, Of joly good ale and olde. Chorus. "Back and syde go bare, go bare, Both foot and hand go colde, But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe, , -, : Whether it be new or olde. "I have no rost, but a nut brown toste And a crab laid in the fyre ; A little breade shall do me steade, Much breade I not desyre. No frost nor snow, nor winde I trowe, Can hurt me if I wolde, 280 U/orKs of U/as!?iij$toi) In/ir>$ It would do one's heart good to hear on a club-night the shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue from this jovial mansion. At such tunes the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into a confectioner's window, or snuffing up the steams of a cook-shop. There are two annual events which produce great stir and sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholomew's Fair, and the Lord Mayor's day. During the time of the Fair, which is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gossiping and gadding about. The late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with an irruption of strange figures and faces; every tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from the taproom, morning, noon, and night; and at each " I am so wrapt and throwly lapt Of joly good ale and olde. Chorus. "Back and syde go bare, go bare, eto ' 'And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, Loveth well good ale to seeke, Full oft drynkes she, tyll ye may see The teares run down her cheeke. Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle, Even as a maulte-worme sholde, And sayth, sweete harte, I tooke my parte Of this joly good ale and olde. Chorus. "Back and syde go bare, go bare, etc. "Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, They shall not mysse to have the blisse, Good ale doth bring men to. And all poor soules that have scowred bowles, Or have them lustily trolde, God save the ly ves of them and their wives, Whether they be yonge or olde. Chorus. "Back and syde go bare, go bare, etc." 281 window may be seen some group of boon companions, with half -shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling and prozing, and singing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum of private fam- ilies, which, I must say, is rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors, is no proof against this Saturnalia. There is no such thing as keeping maid servants within doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding with Punch and the Puppet Show; the Flying Horses; Signior Polito; the Fire-Eater; the celebrated Mr. Paap; and the Irish Giant. The children, too, lavish all their holyday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles. But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach with six horses as the summit of human splendor ; and his procession, with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his train, as the grand- est of earthly pageants. How they exult in the idea that the King himself dare not enter the city without first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar, and asking permission of the Lord Mayor ; for if he did, heaven and earth ! there is no knowing what might be the consequence. The man in armor who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, has orders to cut down everybody that offends against the dig- nity of the city ; and then there is the little man with a vel- vet porringer on his head, who sits at the window of the state coach and holds the city sword, as long as a pike-staff Od's blood ! if he once draws that sword, Majesty itself is not safe ! Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an effectual barrier against all internal foes ; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw him- self into the Tower, call in the train bands, and put the standing army of Beef -eaters under arms, and he may bid defiance to the world ! Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and 282 U/orKs of U/asl?ii?$top Iruii)$ its own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart to this great fungus metropolis. I have pleased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy John Bullism were garnered up, like seed-corn, to re- new the national character, when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony that prevailed throughout it; for though there might now and then be a few clashes of opinion between the adherents of the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial societies, yet these were but transient clouds, and soon passed away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted with a shake of the hand, and never abused each other except behind their backs. I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at which I have been present ; where we played at All-Fours, Pope- Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games : and where we sometimes had a good old English country dance, to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverly. Once a year also the neighbors would gather together, and go on a gypsy party to Epping Forest. It would have done any man's heart good to see the merriment that took place here, as we banqueted on the grass under the trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry undertaker! After dinner, too, the young folks would play at blindman's-buff and hide-and- seek ; and it was amusing to see them tangled among the briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now and then squeak from among the bushes. The elder folks would gather round the cheesemonger and the apothecary to hear them talk poli- tics; for they generally brought out a newspaper in their pockets to pass away time in the country. They would now and then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument; but their disputes were always adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella-maker in a double chin, who, never exactly comprehending the subject, managed, somehow or other, to decide in favor of both parties. All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, 283 are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and inno- vation creep in; factions arise; and families now and then spring up, whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into confusion. Thus in latter days has the tranquil- lity of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners threatened with total subversion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. The family of the Lambs had long been among the most thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased when old Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop and put his name on a brass plate on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of be- ing a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore three towering ostrich feathers on her head. The family never got over it; they were immediately smitten with a passion for high life ; set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the errand-boy's hat, and have been the talk and detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since. They could no longer be induced to play at Pope- Joan or blindman's-buff; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain ; and they took to reading novels, talking bad French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother, too, who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts; and he confounded the worthy folks exceed- ingly by talking about Kean, the Opera, and the "Edinbro' Review." What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ; but they had a great deal of genteel company from Theo- bald's Road, Red-lion Square, and other parts toward the west. There were several beaux of their brother's acquaint- ance from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton Garden ; and not less than three Aldermen's ladies with their daughters. This was not to be forgotten or forgiven. All Little Britain was 284 U/or^s of U/asbin$toi? in an uproar with the smacking of whips, the lashing of mis- erable horses, and the rattling and jingling of hackney- coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping their nightcaps out at every window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by ; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies that kept a lookout from a house just opposite the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every one that knocked at the door. This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements with her quality acquaintance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some of her old cronies, "quite," as she would say, "in a friendly way"; and it is equally true that her invitations were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would condescend to thrum an Irish melody for them on the piano ; and they would listen with wonderful in- terest to Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's fam- ily of Portsokenward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved their consciences, and averted the reproaches of their confederates, by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation everything that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout all to pieces. The only one of the family that could not be made fash- ionable was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough hearty old fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoebrush, and a broad face mottled like his own beef. It was hi vain that the daughters always spoke of him as the "old gentleman," addressed him as "papa," in tones of in- finite softness, and endeavored to coax him into a dressing- gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature would break through all their glozings. He 285 had a hearty vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible. His very jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder; and he persisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at two o'clock, and having a "bit of sausage with his tea." He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his family. He found his old comrades gradually growing cold and civil to him; no longer laughing at his jokes; and now and then throwing out a fling at "some people,'* and a hint about "quality binding." This both nettled and per- plexed the honest butcher; and his wife and daughters, with the consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advan- tage of the circumstances, at length prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's; to sit after dinner by himself, and take his pint of port a liquor he detested and to nod in his chair, in solitary and dismal gentility. The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux ; and talking and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves of every good lady within hearing. They even went so far as to at- tempt patronage, and actually induced a French dancing- master to set up in the neighborhood ; but the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and did so persecute the poor Gaul that he was fain to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such precipitation that he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely the overflowing of their zeal for good old English manners, and their horror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent contempt they were so vociferous in expressing for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection had taken hold ; and that my neighbors, after condemning, were beginning to fol- low their example. I overheard my landlady importuning her husband to let their daughters have one quarter at French and music, and that they might take a few lessons in qua 286 U/orl^s of U/asl>ii?$tor? Irvii)<} drilles ; I even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than five French bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little Britain. I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neighbor- hood; might die, or might run away with attorneys' appren- tices ; and that quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the community. But unluckily a rival power arose. An opulent oil-man died, and left a widow with a large jointure and a family of buxom daughters. The young ladies had long been repining in secret at the parsimony of a prudent father, which kept down all their elegant aspirings. Their ambition being now no longer restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly took the field against the family of the butcher. It is true that the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances ; but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs ap- peared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be behindhand ; and though they might not boast of as good company, yet they had double the number, and were twice as merry. The whole community has at length divided itself into fashionable factions, under the banners of these two families. The old games of Pope- J oan and Tom-come-tickle-me are en- tirely discarded ; there is no such thing as getting up an hon- est country-dance ; and on my attempting to kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed; the Miss Lambs having pronounced it "shocking vulgar. ' ' Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the most fashionable part of Little Britain ; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross- Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears ; and 287 what will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, with all his talent at prognostics, to determine ; though I ap- prehend that it will terminate in the total downfall of genuine John Bullism. The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore in high favor with both parties, and have to hear all their cab- inet councils and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have committed myself most horribly with both parties, by abusing their op- ponents. I might manage to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly accommodating one, but I cannot to my ap- prehensions if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a recon- ciliation, and compare notes, I am ruined! I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and am actually looking out for some other nest in this great city, where old English manners are still kept up; where French is neither eaten, drank, danced, nor spoken; and where there are no fashionable families of retired tradesmen. This found, I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old house about my ears bid a long, though a sor- rowful adieu to my present abode and leave the rival fac- tions of the Lambs and the Trotters to divide the distracted empire of Little Britain. STRATFORD-ON-AVON "Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream; The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head." GARRICK To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feel- ing of something like independence and territorial conse- 288 U/orks of quence, when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The armchair is his throne, the poker his scepter, and the little parlor, of some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of lif e ; it is a sunny mo- ment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day ; and he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. "Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?" thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow- chair, and cast a complacent look about the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so abdicat- ing my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being de- posed, and putting the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as a pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamed all night of Shakespeare, the Jubilee, and David Garrick. The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which we sometimes have in early spring; for it was about the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had sud- denly given way ; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; and a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty. I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his 289 father's craft of wool-combing. It is a small mean-looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-cor- ners. The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peas- ant; and present a simple, but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and gar- nished with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very matchlock with which Shakespeare shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box; which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir "Walter Raleigh ; the sword also with which he played Hamlet ; and the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb! There was an ample supply also of Shakespeare's mulberry-tree, which seems to have as ex- traordinary powers of self -multiplication as the wood of the true cross; of which there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shake- speare's chair. It stands in the chimney-nook of a small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may many a tune have sat when a boy, watching the slowly-revolving spit, with all the longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, listening to the crones and gossips of Strat- ford, dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the custom of every one who visits the house to sit : whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard, I am at a loss to say; I merely mention the fact; and mine hostess privately assured me that, though built of * * *13 VOL. I. 290 U/orKs of U/asl?ii}$toi) solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be new-bottomed at least once hi three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the history of this extraor- dinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile nat- ure of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter ; for though sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old chimney-corner. I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am very willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men ; and would ad- vise all travelers who travel for their gratification to be the same. "What is it to us whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality? There is nothing like resolute good-humored credulity in these matters; and on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, unluckily for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own composition, which set all belief in her consan- guinity at defiance. From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and re- tired : the river runs murmuring at the foot of the church- yard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown with grass ; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half -covered with moss, which has like- wise tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have built 291 their nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirping ; and rooks are sail- ing and cawing about its lofty gray spire. In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed sexton, and accompanied him home to get the key of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows ; and was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which pervade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and prayer-book, and the drawer contained the family library, composed of about "hah a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that important article of cottage furniture, ticked on the opposite side of the room; with a bright warm- ing-pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man's horn- handled Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In one corner sat the old man's granddaughter sew- ing, a pretty blue-eyed girl and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his companion from childhood. They had played together in infancy ; they had worked together in manhood ; they were now tottering about and gossiping away the evening of life ; and in a short time they will probably be buried together in the neighboring churchyard. It is not often that we see two streams of ex- istence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side; it is only in such quiet "bosom scenes" of life that they are to be met with. I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing 292 U/orKs of new to impart. The long interval, during which Shake- speare's writings lay in comparative neglect, has spread its shadow over history; and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely anything remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures. The sexton and his companion had been employed as car- penters, on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who, ac- cording to the sexton, was "a short punch man, very lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakespeare's mulberry - tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign quick- ener of literary conception. I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shake- speare house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her valuable and inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly her remains of the mulberry-tree; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to Shakespeare having been born in her house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb; the latter having comparatively but few visitors. Thus it is that his- torians differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge into different channels, even at the fountain-head. We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented with carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture and embellishments superior to those of most country churches. There are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutch- eons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the 293 spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, and which have in them something extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of the grave which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds : "Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare To dig the dust inclosed here. Blessed be he that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones." Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely arched forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he was as much characterized among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age at the time of his decease fifty-three years; an untimely death for the world : for what fruit might not have been ex- pected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered, as it was, from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favor ! The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, through which one might have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with the remains so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, should be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished and the aperture closed again. He told me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but could see neither coflm nor bones ; nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakespeare. 294 U/orl^s of Next to his grave are those of his wife, his favorite daugh- ter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe, of usurious memory ; on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything that is not connected with Shakespeare. His idea pervades the place the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect con- fidence : other traces of him may be false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement, there was something intense and thrilling in the idea that, in very truth, the remains of Shakespeare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place ; and as I passed through the churchyard, I plucked a branch from one of the yew-trees, the only relic that I have brought from Stratford. I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devo- tion, but I had a desire to see the old family-seat of the Lucys at Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shake- speare, in company with some of the roisterers of Stratford, com- mitted his youthful offense of deer-stealing. In this hare-brained exploit we are told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in doleful cap- tivity. When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have been galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the park gate at Charlecot.* * The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon: "A parliament member, a justice of peace, At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it. Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. He thinks himself great; Yet an asse in his state, We allow by his ears with but asses to mate. If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, Then sing lowsie Lucj r , whatever befall it." 295 This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the Knight so incensed him that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer- stalker. Shakespeare did not wait to brave the united puis- sance of a Knight of the Shire and a country attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon, and his paternal trade; wandered away to London; became a hanger-on to the theaters ; then an actor ; and, finally, wrote for the stage; and thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber, and the world gained an immortal poet. He retained, how- ever, for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself in his writings ; but in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original of Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by the Justice's armorial bearings, which, like those of the Knight, had white luces * in the quarterings. Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften and explain away this early transgression of the poet ; but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his situation and turn of mind. Shakespeare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic temperament has naturally something in it of the vagabond. When left to itself, it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in everything eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall turn out a great rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shakespeare's mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have as daringly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws. I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he * The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon, about Charlecot. 296 U/orKs of U/asl?ir)<$too Irvir>$ was to be found in the company of all kinds of odd and anomalous characters; that he associated with all the mad- caps of the place, and was one of those unlucky urchins at mention of whom old men shake their heads and predict that they will one day come to the gallows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and as yet untamed, imagination, as something delightfully adventur- ous.* The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are * A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and associates in his youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his "Picturesque Views on the Avon." About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeo- manry used to meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. Among others, the people of Stratford were called out to prove the strength of their heads: and in the number of the champions was Shakespeare, who, in spite of the proverb that "they who drink beer will think beer," was as true to his ale as Fal- staff to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to carry them off the field. They had scarcely marched a mile, when, their legs failing them, they were forced to lie down under a crab-tree, where they passed the night. It is still standing, and goes by the name of Shake- speare's tree. In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed re- turning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drunk with "Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, Drudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, Beggarly Broom, and drunken Bedford." "The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the epithets thus given them: the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the pipe and tabor; Hillborough is now called Haunted Hillborough; and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." peculiarly interesting from being connected with this whimsi- cal but eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house stood at little more than three miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from which Shakespeare must have derived his earli- est ideas of rural imagery. The country was yet naked and leafless; but English scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of the weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing over the senses ; to see the moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the green sprout and the tender blade ; and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. The cold snowdrop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before the cottages. The bleating of the new- dropped lambs was faintly heard from the fields. The spar- row twittered about the thatched eaves and budding hedges; the robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain ; and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pour- ing forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little song- ster, mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind Shakespeare's ex- quisite little song in "Cymbeline" : "Hark! hark! the lark at heav'n's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs, On chaliced flowers that lies. "And winking mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With every thing that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise." 298 U/orKs of Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground : everything is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. Every old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate knowl- edge of rustic life and manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions which he has woven like witch- craft into his dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popular amusement in winter evenings "to sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars." * My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and windings through a wide and fertile valley : sometimes glit- tering from among willows, which fringed its borders ; some- times disappearing among groves, or beneath green banks ; and sometimes rambling out into full view, and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, while all the soft intervening landscape lies in a manner en- chained in the silver links of the Avon. After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields and under hedgerows to a private gate of the park ; there was a stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; there being a public right of way through the grounds. I delight in these hospitable estates, in which every one has a kind of property at least as far as the footpath is concerned. It hi some * Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these fireside fancies. "And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs.Jpans, fauns, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, cal- cars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin-good-fellow, the sporne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hellwaine, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowes." Tl?e SKetolp-BooK 299 measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks and pleasure - grounds thrown open for his recreation. He breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as the lord of the soil ; and if he has no* the privilege of calling all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of paying for it and keeping it in order. I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the treetops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, with nothing to inter- rupt the view but a distant statue ; and a vagrant deer stalk- ing like a shadow across the opening. There is something about these stately old avenues that has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended similarity of form, but from their bearing the evi- dence of long duration, and of having had their origin in a period of time with which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also the long-settled dignity and proudly concentrated independence of an ancient family; and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend ob- serve, when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that "money could do much with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there was no such thing as suddenly building up an avenue of oaks." It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shakespeare's commentators have sup- posed he derived his noble forest meditations of Jacques, and the enchanting woodland pictures in "As You Like It." It is in lonely wanderings through such scenes that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into reverie and rapture ; vague but ex- 300 U/or^s of U/asl?ir>$toi} quisite images and ideas keep breaking upon it ; and we revel in a mute and almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in some such mood, and perhaps under one of those very trees before me, which threw their broad shades over the grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little song which breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary : "Under the green-wood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry throat Unto the sweet bird's note, Come hither, come hither, come hither, Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather." I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large build- ing of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from the park into a kind of courtyard in front of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbican; being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers; though evidently for mere ornament, instead of defense. The front of the house is completely in the old style ; with stone shafted casements, a great bow- window of heavy stone- work, and a portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just at the foot of a gently sloping bank, which sweeps down from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feed- ing or reposing upon its borders ; and swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I contemplated the vener- fl?e SKetG^-BooK 301 able old mansion, I called to mind Falstaff's encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference and real vanity of the latter : "Falstaff. You have here a goodly dwelling and a rich. "Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John: marry, good air." Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion in the days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of stillness and solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the courtyard was locked ; there was no show of servants bust- ling about the place; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer harried by the moss-troopers of Strat- ford. The only sign of domestic life that I met with was a white cat, stealing with wary look and stealthy pace toward the stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial power which was so strenu- ously manifested in the case of the bard. After prowling about for some tune, I at length found my way to a lateral portal, which was the everyday entrance to the mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness of her order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater part has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of living : there is a fine old oaken stair- case; and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still retains much of the appearance it must have had in the days of Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty ; and at one end is a gallery, in which stands an organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, which for- merly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family portraits. There is a wide hospitable fire- place, calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, for- merly the rallying place of winter festivity. On the opposite 302 U/orKs of side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow-window, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the courtyard. Here are em- blazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to observe in the quarterings the three white luces by which the character of Sir Thomas was first iden- tified with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of the "Merry Wives of Windsor," where the Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having "beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken into his lodge." The poet had, no doubt, the offenses of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the family pride and vin- dictive threats of the puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas. "Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star-Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty Sir John Falstaff s, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, Esq. "Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. "Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. "Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, master parson; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, Armigero. "Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hun- dred years. "Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and all his ancestors that come after him may; they may give the dozen white luces in their coat. "Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. "Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no fear of Got in a riot: the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. "Shallow. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it!" Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir Peter Lely of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me that this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of the family estate, among which was . 303 that part of the park where Shakespeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands thus lost have not been en- tirely regained by the family, even at the present day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm. The picture which most attracted my attention was a great painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in the latter part of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper as- sured me that it was his son ; the only likeness extant of the former being an effigy upon his tomb in the church of the neighboring hamlet of Charlecot. The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet; white shoes with roses in them; and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, "a cane-colored beard." His lady is seated on the op- posite side of the picture in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children have a most venerable stiffness and formal- ity of dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in the foreground, and one of the children holds a bow ; all intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, and archery so indispensable to an accomplished gentleman in those days.* I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had disappeared; for I had hoped to meet with the stately * Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes: "His housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs, and serving-men attendant on their kennels; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks: "He kept all sorts of hounds that run, buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, span- iels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest of terriers, hounds, and spaniels." 304 U/orKs of U/asl?ii>$toi? Iruir>$ elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country Squire of former days was wont to sway the scepter of empire over his rural domains; and in which it might be presumed the re- doubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state, when the recreant Shakespeare was brought before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased my- self with the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the morning after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural po- tentate, surrounded by his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving-men with their badges ; while the luck- less culprit was brought in, forlorn and chapfallen, in the custody of game-keepers, huntsmen and whippers-in, and fol- lowed by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half -opened doors; while from the gallery the fair daughters of the Knight leaned gracefully forward eying the youthful prisoner with that pity "that dwells in womanhood." "Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus trem- bling before the brief authority of a country Squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the delight of princes ; the theme of all tongues and ages ; the dictator to the human mind ; and was to confer immortality on his op- pressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the Justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Slender "to a last year's pippen of his own graffing, with a dish of carraways" ; but I had already spent so much of the day in my rambling that I was obliged to give up any further investigations. "When about to take my leave, I was gratified by the civil en- treaties of the housekeeper and butler that I would take some refreshment an instance of good old hospitality, which, I grieve to say, we castle-hunters seldom meet with in mod- ern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the present representative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shakespeare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow 305 importunate iia this respect, as witness his pressing instances to Falstaff. "By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not away to-night. ... I will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admit- ted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused. . . . Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged hens; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell 'William Cook.'" I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and characters connected with it that I seemed to be actually living among them. Everything brought them, as it were, before my eyes ; and as the door of the dining-room opened, I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Slender quavering forth his favorite ditty : "Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, And welcome merry Shrove-tide!" On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the very face of nature ; to give to things and places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this "working-day world" into a perfect fairyland. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shakespeare I had been walking all day in a complete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings; with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power; yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jacques soliloquize beneath his oak; had beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring through the woodlands; and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow down to the gentle Master Slen- der, and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions ; who has spread exquisite and 306 U/orKe of unbought pleasures in my checkered path ; and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life ! As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor could his name have derived from be- ing mingled in dusty companionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude? What would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum! The solicitude about the grave may be but the offspring of an overwrought sensibility ; but human nature is made up of foibles and preju- dices; and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no applause so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honor, among his kindred and his early friends. And when the weary heart and failing head begin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should return to it cov- ered with renown ; that his name should become the boast and glory of his native place ; that his ashes should be relig- iously guarded as its most precious treasure; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful con- templation, should one day become the beacon, towering amid the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! 307 TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER "I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hun- gry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not." Speech of an Indian Chief THERE is something in the character and habits of the North American savage, taken in connection with the scenery over which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, bound- less forests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, wonderfully striking and sublime. He is formed for the wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, simple, and enduring; fitted to grapple with diffi- culties, and to support privations. There seems but little soil in his heart for the growth of the kindly virtues; and yet, if we would but take the trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity, which look up his character from casual observation, we should find him linked to his f ellowman of civilized life by more of those sym- pathies and affections than are usually ascribed to him. It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged by the white men. They have been dispossessed of their hereditary possessions by mercenary and frequently wanton warfare ; and their characters have been traduced by bigoted and interested writers. The colonist has often treated them like beasts of the forest ; and the author has endeavored to justify him in his outrages. The former found it easier to exterminate than to civilize the latter to vilify than to dis- criminate. The appellations of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to sanction the hostilities of both; and thus the poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted and not because they woe gmhy T bat because they Ignorant. Tne rlghte of 40 BBiagjBi bare seldom been properly ap- nmiiiBil ! uiipnilnl In UK uliih MIJII In peace, be has too (Aw been the dope of rtftil traffic ; in war, be has been regarded as a ferociouB anonaLp whose fife OF A^ntlf was & ere preramtion and con? imiMja ManiscrneDy wasteful of Kfe "when hfe own safety IB cinl BIH^IBI ml ^ and he is ^bettered by nnponity ; and Ktttle mrac} is to be expected hnn wnen he feds tbe snug of the lentfle, and is con* f J|^ , _ . ^ _ _ . M ^ OK tne power to oestronr. Tne same prejudices which weze indulged thus eniy, ex- ^nlaritMBd adt Mia iiiwnrt" a*y m "CjBFBUn leazned , hare, it is true, with ***M dihgenoe, endeavored to mvestijsate and record **** real ^"**-fifirPnft a*Mt immo"mi of idie Indian tribes; Jna AnMncan gotta ment, too, has wisely to "******! i*^sMt** a friendly AIMJ ior~ toward tiimii-. JMM to nrovBct' TIMBU iniiii fraud Tne current opunonof the TTuKaiTi character,. is too apt to be formed from the miserable hindni wnich mfiest <*^ liiBinffHf and nang on the skirts of "m me* are too connnonly composed of degenerate corrupted and enfeebled by 110 vices of society, with* benefited by its crrOiiation. That proud independ- ^m^f* liit'wi TdHtiiipii itiK* iitjmi nular of savage virtue, has fobric \Mftf FB Their Bfiiiritft are Iminiilialbnil and debaeed by a aenae of in- fenority z and their native courage cowed and daunted by thesoperKr knowled^ and power of their enh^itened neigh- To protect off the wMte liiii in, BO purctaae off bad &om IB pcnutted; nor aor penc* allowed to reeenne of 30 withering airs that will sometimes breathe dpfmhrtim ovei a whole region of fertility. It has enervated their strength, multiplied their diseases, and superinduced upon their orig- inal barbarity the low vices of artificial life. It has given them a thousand superfluous wants, whfle it has diminished their means of mere existence. It has driven before it the animal* of the chase, who fly from the sound of the ax and the smoke of the settlement, and seek refuge in the depth* of remoter forests and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find the Indians on our frontiers to be mere wrecks and remnants of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, and sunk into precarious and vagabond existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless pov- erty, a canker of the mind unknown in savage life, corrodes their spirits and blights every free and noble quality of their natures. They become drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter Hke vagrants about the set- tlements, among spacious dwellings, replete with elaborate comforts, "which only render thpm sensible of the compara- tive wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury ample board before their eyes; but they are excluded from the banquet. Plenty revels over the fields; but they are starving in the midst of its abundance : the whole wilderness has blossomed into a garden; but they feel as reptiles that infest it. How different was their state, while yet the undisputed lords of the soil! Their wants were few. and the means of gratification within their reach. They saw every one round them sharing the same lot. enduring the same hardships, feed- ing on the same aliments, arraved in th<* amft rude gar- ments. No roof then rose but was open to the homeless stranger; no smoke curled among the trees but he was wel- come to sit down by its fire and join the hunter in his repast. "For," says an old historian of Xew England, "their life is so void of care, and they are so loving also, that they make use of those things they enjoy as common goods, and are therein so compassionate, that rather than one should starve 310 U/orKs of U7a8l?tr;$toi> Iruii)<} through want, they would starve all ; thus do they pass their time merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content with their own, which some men esteem so meanly of." Such were the Indians, while in the pride and energy of their primitive natures; they resemble those wild plants which thrive best in the shades of the forest, but shrink from the hand of cultivation, and perish beneath the influence of the sun. In discussing the savage character, writers have been too prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exag- geration, instead of the candid temper of true philosophy. They have not sufficiently considered the peculiar circum- stances in which the Indians have been placed, and the peculiar principles under which they have been educated. No being acts more rigidly from rule than the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated according to some general maxims early implanted hi his mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, but few ; but then he conforms to them all the white man abounds in laws of religion, morals, and manners, but how many does he violate ! A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness with which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to hostilities. The intercourse of the white men with the Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppres- sive, and insulting. They seldom treat them with that con- fidence and frankness which are indispensable to real friend- ship ; nor is sufficient caution observed not to offend against those feelings of pride or superstition which often prompt the Indian to hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest. The solitary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are not diffused over so wide a surface as those of the white man ; but they run in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his affections, his superstitions, are all directed toward fewer objects ; but the wounds inflicted on them are proportionably severe, and furnish motives of hos- tility which we cannot sufficiently appreciate. Where a Tl?e SKetolj-BooK 311 community is also limited in number, and forms one great patriarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of the whole ; and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instantaneously diffused. One council- fire is sufficient for the discussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the fighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator awakens their martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a kind of religious desperation, by the visions of the prophet and the dreamer. An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in an old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The planters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the Sachem's mother of some skins with which it had been decorated. The Indians are remarkable for the reverence which they enter- tain for the sepulchers of their kindred. Tribes that have passed generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when by chance they have been traveling in the vicinity, have been known to turn aside from the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accurate tradition, have crossed th country for miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, where the bones of their tribe were anciently deposited ; and there have passed hours in silent meditation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been violated, gathered his men together, and ad- dressed them in the following beautifully simple and pathetic harangue ; a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial piety in a savage. "When last the glorious light of all the sky was under- neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled ; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, 'Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee 312 U/orK of warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take revenge of those wild people, who have defaced my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and honorable customs? See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the com- mon people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and implores thy aid against this thievish people, who have newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation. ' This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to get some strength, and recollected my spirits that were fled, and determined to demand your coun- sel and assistance." I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and generous motives, which our inattention to Indian char- acter and customs prevents our properly appreciating. Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes called nations, were never so formidable in their numbers but that the loss of several warriors was sensibly felt ; this was particularly the case when they had been fre- quently engaged in warfare ; and many an instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, that had long been formi- dable to its neighbors, has been broken up and driven away by the capture and massacre of its principal fighting men. There was a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor to be merciless; not so much to gratify any cruel revenge as to provide for future security. The Indians had also the superstitious belief, frequent among barbarous nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, that the manes of their friends who had fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, who are not thus sacrificed, are adopted into their families in the place of the slain, and are treated with the confidence and affection of relatives and friends; nay, so hospitable and tender is their Tfce 8Ketel?-BooK 313 entertainment, that when the alternative is offered them, they will often prefer to remain with their adopted brethren, rather than return to the home and the friends of their youth. The cruelty of the Indians toward their prisoners has been heightened since the colonization of the whites. "What was formerly a compliance with policy and superstition, has been exasperated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the gradual destroyers of their race. They go forth to battle, smarting with injuries and indignities which they have indi- vidually suffered, and they are driven to madness and despair by tbe wide-spreading desolation and the overwhelming ruin of European warfare. The whites have too frequently set them an example of violence, by burning their villages and laying waste their slender means of subsistence ; and yet they wonder that savages do not show moderation and magna- nimity toward those who have left them nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treach- erous, because they use stratagem hi warfare, in preference to open force; but in this they are fully justified by their rude code of honor. They are early taught that stratagem is praiseworthy: the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take every advantage of his foe: he triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which he has been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone to subtilty than open valor, owing to his physical weakness in comparison with other animals. They are endowed with natural weapons of de- fense: with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons; but man has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his encounters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; and when he perversely turns his hostility against his fellow man, he at first continues the same subtle mode of warfare. The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to * * *14 VOL. I. 314 U/orl^s of our enemy, with the least harm to ourselves ; and this of course is to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous courage which induces us to despise the suggestions of pru- dence, and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the off- spring of society, and produced by education. It is honor- able, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those yearnings after personal ease and security, which society has con- demned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame; and thus the dread of real evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil which exists but in the imagination. It has been cherished and stimulated also by various means. It has been the theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splendors of fiction; and even the historian has for- gotten the sober gravity of narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been its reward: monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill and opulence its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation's gratitude and ad- miration. Thus artificially excited, courage has risen to an extraordinary and factitious degree of heroism ; and, arrayed in all the glorious "pomp and circumstance of war," this turbulent quality has ever been able to eclipse many of those quiet, but invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble the human character, and swell the tide of human happiness. But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibi- tion of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and adventure are congenial to his nature; or rather seem necessary to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to his existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, he is always prepared for fight, and lives with his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in fearful singleness through the solitudes of ocean as the bird mingles among clouds and storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of 315 air; so the Indian holds his course, silent, solitary, but un- daunted, through the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions may vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade of the knight-errant. He traverses vast forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no obstacles to his wander- ings : in his light canoe of bark, he sports like a feather on their waves, and darts with the swiftness of an arrow down the roaring rapids of the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers of the chase ; he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the panther, and the buffalo; and sleeps among the thunders of the cataract. No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which he sustains its cruelest affliction. Indeed,* we here behold him rising superior to the white man, in consequence of his peculiar education. The latter rushes to glorious death at the cannon's mouth; the former calmly contemplates its approach, f and triumphantly endures it, amid the varied torments of surrounding foes, and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in taunting his persecutors, and provoking their ingenuity of torture; and as the devouring flames prey on his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an unconquered heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness that he dies without a groan. Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early his- torians have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through, which throw a degree of melancholy luster on their memories. Facts are occasionally to be met with in the rude annals of the eastern provinces, which, though recorded with the color- ing of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for themselves; and will be dwelt on with applause and sympathy when prejudice shall have passed away. 316 U/orKs of U/a&l?io$tor> Irufr;$ In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In one place we read of the surprisal of an Indian fort hi the night, when the wigwams were wrapped in flames, and the miserable inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting to escape,, "all being dispatched and ended in the course of an hour. ' ' After a series of similar transactions, ' ' our soldiers, ' ' as the historian piously observes, "being resolved by God's assistance to make a final destruction of them," the unhappy savages being hunted from their homes and fortresses, and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty but gallant band, the sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, with their wives and children, took refuge in a swamp. Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by de- spair; with hearts bursting with grief at the destruc- tion of their tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their defeat, they refuse4 to ask their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death to submission. As the night drew on, they were surrounded in their dismal retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, their enemy "plied them with shot all the time, by which means many were killed and buried in the mire." In the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day some few broke through the besiegers and escaped into the woods : "the rest were left to the conquerors, of which many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit still and be shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore for mercy. When the day broke upon this handful of forlorn, but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, "saw several heaps of them sitting close together, upon whom they discharged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol-bullets at a time ; putting the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of them ; so as, besides those that were found dead, 317 many more were killed and sunk into the mire, and never were minded more by friend or foe. ' ' Can anyone read this plain unvarnished tale, without admiring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the lofti- ness of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self- taught heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of human nature? When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, they found the sena'tors clothed in their robes and seated with stern tranquillity in their curule chairs ; in this manner they suffered death without resistance or even sup- plication. Such conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and magnanimous in the hapless Indians, it was reviled as obstinate and sullen. How truly are we the dupes of show and circumstance ! How different is virtue, clothed in purple and enthroned in state, from virtue naked and destitute, and perishing obscurely in a wilderness ! But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The eastern tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests that sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of them in the thickly-settled States of New England, excepting here and there the Indian name of a village or a stream. And such must sooner or later be the fate of those other tribes which skirt the frontiers and have occasionally been inveigled from their forests to mingle in the wars of white men. In a little while, and they will go the way that their brethren have gone before. The few hordes which still linger about the shores of Huron and Superior, and the tributary streams of the Mississippi, will share the fate of those tribes that once spread over Massachusetts and Con- necticut and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the Susquehanna; and of those various nations that flourished about the Potowmac and the Rappahanoc, and that peopled the forests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like a vapor from the face of the earth; their very history will be lost in f orgetf ulness ; and "the places that now know them will know them no more forever." Or if, per- 318 U/orKs of U/asl?lo$toi) Iruip<} chance, some dubious memorial of them should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the poet, to people in imagination his glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he venture upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness ; should he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled; driven from their native abodes and the sepulchers of their fathers ; hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and sent down with violence and butchery to the grave posterity will either turn with horror and incredulity from the tale, or blush with in- dignation at the inhumanity of their forefathers. "We are driven back," said an old warrior, "until we can retreat no further our hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are nearly extinguished a little longer and the white man will cease to persecute us for we shall cease to exist." PHILIP OF POKANOKET AN INDIAN MEMOIR "As monumental bronze unchanged his look: A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook; Train'd, from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier, The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive fearing but the shame of fear A stoic of the woods a man without a fear." CAMPBELL IT is to be regretted that those early writers who treated of the discovery and settlement of America have not given us more particular and candid accounts of the remarkable characters that flourished in savage life. The scanty anec- dotes which have reached us are full of peculiarity and in- terest ; they furnish us with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in a comparatively primitive state and what he owes to civilization. There is something of the 319 charm of discovery in lighting upon these wild and unex- plored tracts of human nature ; in witnessing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment ; and perceiving those gen- erous and romantic qualities which have been artificially cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude magnificence. In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his fellow men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and peculiar traits of native character are refined away, or softened down by the leveling influence of what is termed good breeding; and he practices so many petty deceptions, and affects so many generous sentiments, for the purposes of popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from his artificial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints and refinements of polished life, and, hi a great degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment; and thus the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, who would study Nature in its wild- ness and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. These reflections arose on casually looking through a vol- ume of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great bitterness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the settlers of New England. It is painful to perceive, even from these partial narratives, how the footsteps of civ- ilization may be traced in the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the colonists were moved to hostility by the lust of conquest; how merciless and exterminating was their war- fare. The imagination shrinks at the idea : how many intel- lectual beings were hunted from the earth how many brave and noble hearts, of Nature's sterling coinage, were broken down and trampled in the dust ! 320 U/orKs of U/asl?ii>$toij Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massa- chusetts and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a number of contemporary Sachems, who reigned over the Pequods, the Narrhagansets, the Wampanoags, and the other eastern tribes, at the time of the first settlement of New Eng- land : a band of native untaught heroes, who made the most generous struggle of which human nature is capable ; fighting to the last gasp in the cause of their country, without a hope of victory or a thought of renown. "Worthy of an age of poetry, and fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, like gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight of tradition. * When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the N"ew World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situa- tion was to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in number, and that number rapidly perishing away through sickness and hardships ; surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage tribes ; exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter and the vicissitudes of an ever-shif ting climate ; their minds were filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing pre- served them from sinking into despondency but the strong excitement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wam- panoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty num- ber of the strangers, and expelling them from his territories into which they had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a generous friendship, and extended toward them the rites of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by a * While correcting the proof-sheets of this article, the author i* informed that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished a heroic poem on the story of Philip of Pokanoket. 321 mere handful of followers ; entered into a solemn league of peace and amity ; sold them a portion of the soil, and prom- ised to secure for them the good-will of his savage allies. Whatever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been im- peached. He continued a firm and magnanimous friend of the white men ; suffering them to extend their possessions and to strengthen themselves in the land, and betraying no jealousy of their increasing power and prosperity. Shortly before his death he came once more to New Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the purpose of renewing the covenant of peace and of securing it to his posterity. At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries, and stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw off his people from their ancient faith; but, finding the English obstinately opposed to any such condition, he mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they had been named by the English), to the residence of a principal settler, recommending mutual kindness and confidence, and entreating that the same love and amity which had existed between the white men and himself might be continued after- ward with his children. The good old Sachem died in peace, and was happily gathered to his fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe; his children remained behind to experience the ingratitude of white men. His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial conduct of the strangers excited his indignation; and he beheld with uneasiness their exterminating wars with the neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of plotting with the Narrhagansets to rise against the English and drive them from the land. It is impossible to say whether this accusation was warranted by facts or was grounded on mere suspicions. It is evident, 322 U/orl^s of however, by the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel conscious of the rapid increase of their power and to grow harsh and in- considerate in their treatment of the natives. They dis- patched an armed force to seize upon Alexander and to bring him before their court. He was traced to his woodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting house, where he was re- posing with a band of his followers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The suddenness of his arrest, and the outrage offered to his sovereign dignity, so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud savage as to throw him into a raging fever ; he was permitted to return home on condition of send- ing his son as a pledge for his reappearance ; but the blow he had received was fatal, and before he reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit. The successor of Alexander was Metamocet, or King Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him an object of great jealousy and apprehension, and he was ac- cused of having always cherished a secret and implacable hostility toward the whites. Such may very probably and very naturally have been the case. He considered them as origi- nally but mere intruders into the country, who had presumed upon indulgence and were extending an influence baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race of his countrymen melt- ing before them from the face of the earth ; their territories slipping from their hands and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered and dependent. It may be said that the soil was originally purchased by the settlers ; but who does not know the nature of Indian purchases in the early periods of coloni- zation? The Europeans always made thrifty bargains, through their superior adroitness in traffic ; and they gained vast ac- cessions of territory by easily-provoked hostilities. An un- cultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements of law, by which an injury may be gradually and legally in- flicted. Leading facts are all by which he judges; and it was 323 enough for Philip to know, that before the intrusion of the Europeans his countrymen were lords of the soil and that now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. But whatever may have been his feelings of general hos- tility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, he suppressed them for the present, renewed the contract with the settlers, and resided peaceably for many years at Pokanoket, or, as it was called by the English, Mount Hope,* the ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at first but vague and in- definite, began to acquire form and substance ; and he was at length charged with attempting to instigate the various eastern tribes to rise at once, and, by a simultaneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to assign the proper credit due to these early accusations against the Indians. There was a prone- ness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence on the part of the whites, that gave weight and importance to every idle tale. Informers abounded, where tale-bearing met with countenance and reward; and the sword was readily unsheathed, when its success was certain, and it carved out empire. The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose natural cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he had received among the settlers. He changed his faith and his allegiance two or three times, with a facility that evinced the looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as Philip's confidential secretary and counselor, and had enjoyed his bounty and protection. Finding, how- ever, that the clouds of adversity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his service and went over to the whites ; and, hi order to gain their favor, charged his former bene- factor with plotting against their safety. A rigorous inves- * Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 324 U/orKs of U/a8l?ip$toi) tigation took place. Philip and several of his subjects sub- mitted to be examined, but nothing was proved against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too far to retract; they had previously determined that Philip was a dangerous neighbor; they had publicly evinced their distrust, and had done enough to insure his hostility : according, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruction had become necessary to their security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was shortly after found dead in a pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one of whom was a friend and counselor of Philip, were apprehended and tried, and, on the testimony of one very questionable witness, were condemned and executed as murderers. This treatment of his subjects and ignominious punish- ment of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet, awakened him to the gathering storm, and he de- termined to trust himself no longer in the power of the white men. The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled hi his mind ; and he had a further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the Narrhagansets, who, after manfully facing his accusers be- fore a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, had been perfidiously dispatched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered his fighting men about him; persuaded all strangers that he could to join his cause ; sent the women and children to the Narrhagansets for safety; and where- ever he appeared was continually surrounded by armed warriors. "When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischiev- ous and committed various petty depredations. In one of their maraudings a warrior was fired upon and killed by a settler. This was the signal for open hostilities ; the Indians 325 pressed to revenge the death of their comrade and the alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth colony. In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times we meet with many indications of the diseased state of the public mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, and the wildness of their situation, among trackless forests and savage tribes, had disposed the colonists to superstitious fan- cies and had filled their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. They were much given also to a belief in omens. The troubles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great and public calam- ities. The perfect arm of an Indian bow appeared in the air at New Plymouth, which was looked upon by the inhabitants as a "prodigious apparition." At Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in their neighborhood, "was heard the report of a great piece of ordnance, with the shaking of the earth and a considerable echo."* Others were alarmed on a still sunshiny morning, by the discharge of guns and muskets ; bullets seemed to whistle past them and the noise of drums resounded in the air, seeming to pass away to the westward ; others fancied that they heard the galloping of horses over their heads; and certain monstrous births which took place about the time filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to natural phenomena ; to the north- ern lights which occur vividly in those latitudes ; the meteors which explode in the air ; the casual rushing of a blast through the top branches of the forest; the crash of falling trees or disrupted rocks; and to those other uncouth sounds and echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely amid the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These may have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have been exaggerated by the love for the marvelous, and listened to with that avidity with which we devour whatever is fearful * The Rev. Increase Mather's History. of and mysterious. The universal currency of these supersti- tious fancies and the grave record made of them by one of the learned men of the day, are strongly characteristic of the times. The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and savages. On the part of the whites, it was conducted with superior skill and success ; but with a wastefulness of the blood and a disregard of the natural rights of their antagonists : on the part of the Indians it was waged with the desperation of men fearless of death, and who had nothing to expect from peace, but humiliation, dependence and decay. The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy clergyman of the time, who dwells with horror and indigna- tion on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, while he mentions with applause the most sanguinary atroc- ities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a traitor; without considering that he was a true-born prince, gallantly fighting at the. head of his subjects to avenge the wrongs of his family ; to retrieve the tottering power of his line, and to deliver his native land from the oppression of usurping strangers. The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and, had it not been prematurely discovered, might have been overwhelming in its consequences. The war that actually broke out was but a war of detail; a mere succession of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prowess of Philip ; and where- ever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations that have been given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind; a fertility in expedients; a con- tempt of suffering and hardship; and an unconquerable reso- lution that command our sympathy and applause. Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that skirted the settlements, and were almost imper- 327 vious to anything but a wild beast or an Indian. Here he gathered together his forces, like the storm accumulating its stores of mischief in the bosom of the thunder-cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There were now and then indications of these impending ravages that filled the minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension. The report of a distant gun would perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland, where there was known to be no white man; the cattle which had been wandering in the woods would sometimes return home wounded, or an Indian or two would be seen lurking about the skirts of the forests, and suddenly disappearing, as the lightning will sometimes be seen playing silently about the edge of the cloud that is brewing up the tempest. Though sometimes pursued, and even surrounded by the settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would be lost to all search or inquiry until he again emerged at some far distant quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his strongholds were the great swamps or morasses which extend in some parts of New England, composed of loose bogs of deep black mud, perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain foot- ing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds rendered them almost impracticable to the white man, though the Indian could thread their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven with a band of his followers. The English did not dare to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark and frightful recesses, where they might perish in fens and miry pits or be shot down by lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance to the neck and began to build a fort, with the thought of starving out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of night, leaving the women and children 328 U/or^s of U/asl?ii} feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom . he reviles. "Philip," he says, "like a savage wild beast, having been hunted by the English forces through the woods above a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death came by divine permission to execute vengeance upon him." Even at this last refuge of desperation and despair a sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking- place. Defeated, but not dismayed crushed to the earth, but not humiliated he seemed to grow more haughty be- neath disaster, and to experience a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune ; but great minds rise above it. The very idea of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers who proposed an ex- pedient of peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were immediately dispatched to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. Before he was aware of their approach, they had begun to surround him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet ; all resistance was vain; he rushed forth from his covert and made a headlong attempt at escape, but was shot through the heart by a rene- gado Indian of his own nation. Such is the scanty story of the brave but unfortunate King Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dishon- ored when dead. If, however, we consider even the preju- diced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty character, sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate and respect for his memory. We find that, amid all the harassing cares and ferocious 335 passions of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feel- ings of connubial love and paternal tenderness, and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity of his "be- loved wife and only son" is mentioned with exultation, as causing him poignant misery : the death of any near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities; but the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, and to have bereaved him of all further comfort. He was a patriot, attached to his native soil a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their wrongs a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, and with an un- tamable love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the forests, or in the dismal and fam- ished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to submission and live dependent and despised in the ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior, and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the historian, he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, and went down, like a lonely bark, founder- ing amid darkness and tempest without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle. 336 U/orKs f U/asl?ir)^toij JOHN BULL "An old song, made by an aged old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. "With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks; With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen that maintained half a dozen old cooks. Like an old courtier," etc. Old Song THERE is no species of humor in which the English more excel than that which consists in caricaturing and giving ludicrous appellations or nicknames. In this way they have whimsically designated, not merely individuals, but nations ; and in their fondness for pushing a joke, they have not spared even themselves. One would think that, in personify- ing itself, a nation would be apt to picture something grand, heroic and imposing; but it is characteristic of the peculiar humor of the English, and of their love for what is blunt, comic and familiar, that they have embodied their national oddities in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most private foibles in a laughable point of view ; and have been so successful in their delineation that there is scarcely a being hi actual existence more absolutely present to the public mind, than that eccentric personage John Bull. Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the nation, and thus to give reality to what at first may have been painted in a great measure from the imagination. Men are apt to 33? acquire peculiarities that are continually ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal which they have formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the broad caricature that is per- petually before their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or gross- ness ; and this I have especially noticed among those truly home-bred and genuine sons of the soil who have never migrated beyond the sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should be a little uncouth in speech, and apt to utter imper- tinent truths, he confesses that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If he now and then flies into an unreasonable burst of passion about trifles, he observes that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his passion is over in a moment and he bears no malice. If he betrays a coarse- ness of taste, and an insensibility to foreign refinements, he thanks Heaven for his ignorance he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and knickknacks. His very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under the plea of munificence for John is always more generous than wise. Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict him- self of being the honestest fellow in existence. However little, therefore, the character may have suited in the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, or rather they have adapted themselves to each other ; and a stranger who wishes to study English peculiarities may gather much valuable information from the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one of those fertile humorists that are continually throwing out new portraits, and presenting different aspects from different points of view ; and, often as he has been described, I cannot resist the tempta- tion to give a slight sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter- of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich ***15 VOL. I. 338 U/orJ{8 of prose. There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor more than in wit; is jolly rather than gay; melancholy rather than morose ; can easily be moved to a sudden tear, or sur- prised into a broad laugh ; but he loathes sentiment and has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you allow him to have his humor and to talk about himself ; and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life and purse, however soundly he may be cudgeled. In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy -minded personage, who thinks not merely for himself and family, but for all the country round, and is most generally disposed to be every- body's champion. He is continually volunteering his services to settle his neighbors' affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter of consequence without asking his advice ; though he seldom engages in any friendly office of the kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with all parties and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the noble science of defense, and having accomplished himself in the use of his limbs and his weapons, and become a perfect master at box- ing and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant of his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to fumble with the head of his cudgel and consider whether his interest or honor does not require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed, he has extended his relations of pride and policy so completely over the whole country that no event can take place without infringing some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in his little domain, with these filaments stretching forth in every direction, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old spider, who has woven his web over a whole chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, with- out startling his repose and causing him to sally forth wrath- fully from his den. Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow 339 at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of contention. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he only relishes the beginning of an affray ; he always goes into a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling even when victorious; and though no one fights with more obsti- nacy to carry a contested point, yet, when the battle is over, and he comes to the reconciliation, he is so much taken up with the mere shaking of hands that he is apt to let hi 3 antagonist pocket all that they have been quarreling about. It is not, therefore, fighting that he ought so much to be on his guard against as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him out of a farthing ; but put him in a good humor, and you may bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. He is like a stout ship, which will weather the roughest storm un- injured, but roll its masts overboard in the succeeding calm. He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad; of pulling out a long purse ; flinging his money bravely about at boxing-matches, horse-races, cock-fights, and carrying a high head among " gentlemen of the fancy"; but immediately after one of these fits of extravagance he will be taken with violent qualms of economy; stop short at the most trivial expenditure; talk desperately of being ruined and brought upon the parish ; and in such moods will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill without violent altercation. He is, in fact, the most punctual and discontented paymaster in the world ; drawing his coin out of his breeches pocket with infinite reluctance; paying to the uttermost farthing, but accom- panying every guinea with a growl. With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful provider and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how he may afford to be extravagant; for he will begrudge himself a beefsteak and pint of port one day that he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors on the next. His domestic establishment is enormously expensive : not so much from any great outward parade, as from the great 340 U/orKs of U7a8l?ip^top The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged by her companions, but without envy ; for it was surpassed by the unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her manners. It might be truly said of her "This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever Ban on the greensward: nothing she does or seems, But smacks of something greater than herself; Too noble for this place." The village was one of those sequestered spots which still retains some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural festivals and holyday pastimes, and still kept up some faint observance of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, had been promoted by its present pastor, who was a lover of old customs, and one of those simple Christians that think their mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good will among mankind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from year to year in the center of the village green ; on May-day it was decorated with garlands and streamers; and a queen or lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, and distribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque situation of the village, and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes, would often attract the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on one May-day, was a young officer, whose regiment had been recently quartered hi the neighborhood. He was charmed with the native taste that pervaded this village pageant; but, above all, with the dawning loveliness of the queen of May. It was the village favorite who was crowned with flowers, and blushing and Bmiling hi all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to make her acquaintance ; he gradually won his way into her intimacy ; and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in which young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He never even talked of love; but there are modes of mak- 351 ing it, more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of the voice, the thousand tendernesses which ema- nate from every word, and look, and action these form the true eloquence of love, and can always be felt and under- stood, but never described. Can we wonder that they should readily win a heart, young, guileless, and susceptible? As to her, she loved almost unconsciously ; she scarcely inquired what was the growing passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, or what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked not to the future. When present, his looks and words occupied her whole attention ; when absent, she thought but of what had passed at their recent inter- view. She would wander with him through the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to see new beauties in nature ; he talked in the language of polite and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear the witcheries of romance and poetry. Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between the sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant fig- ure of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his military attire, might at first have charmed her eye ; but it was not these that had captivated her heart. Her attachment had something in it of idolatry; she looked up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt in his society the enthu- siasm of a mind naturally delicate and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen perception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinctions of rank and fortune she thought nothing ; it was the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from those of the rustic society to which she had been accustomed, that elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him with charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek would mantle with enthusiasm ; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative unworthiness. Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his passion was 352 U/orKs of mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the connection in levity ; for he had often heard his brother officers boast of their village conquests and thought some triumph of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart had not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a wandering and a dissipated life ; it caught fire from the very flame it sought to kindle, and before he was aware of the nature of his situation he became really in love. "What was he to do? There were the old obstacles which so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank in life the prejudices of titled connections his dependence upon a proud and unyielding father all forbade him to think of matrimony: but when he looked down upon this inno- cent being, so tender and confiding, there was a purity in her manners, a blamelessness in her life, and a bewitching modesty in her looks, that awed down every licentious feel- ing. In vain did he try to fortify himself by a thousand heartless examples of men of fashion, and to chill the glow of generous sentiment with that cold derisive levity with which he had heard them talk of female virtue; whenever he came into her presence, she was still surrounded by that mysterious but impassive charm of virgin purity in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought can live. The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to the continent completed the confusion of his mind. He re- mained for a short time in a state of the most painful irreso- lution; he hesitated to communicate the tidings until the day for marching was at hand, when he gave her the intelligence in the course of an evening ramble. The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It broke hi at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked upon it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with the guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom and kissed the tears from her soft cheek, nor did he meet with a repulse, for there are moments of mingled sorrow and tender- ness which hallow the caresses of affection. He was natur- Tfoe SKetct?-Bool{ 353 ally impetuous, and the sight of beauty apparently yielding in his arms, the confidence of his power over her, and the dread of losing her forever, all conspired to overwhelm his better feelings he ventured to propose that she should leave her home and be the companion of his fortunes. He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and fal- tered at his own baseness ; but so innocent of mind was his in- tended victim that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his meaning, and why she should leave her native village and the humble roof of her parents. When at last the nature of his proposals flashed upon her pure mind the effect was withering. She did not weep she did not break forth into reproaches she said not a word but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper, gave him a look of anguish that pierced to his very soul, and, clasping her hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's cottage. The officer retired, confounded, humiliated and repentant. It is uncertain what might have been the result of the conflict of his feelings had not his thoughts been diverted by the bustle of departure. New scenes, new pleasures and new companions soon dissipated his self-reproach and stifled his tenderness. Yet, amid the stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and village simplicity the white cottage the footpath along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm and listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious affection. The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruc- tion of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faintings and hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld from her window the march of the departing troops. She had seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in triumph, amid the sound of drum and trumpet and the pomp of arms. She strained a last aching gaze after him as the morning sun 354 U/or^s of glittered about his figure and his plume waved in the breeze ; he passed away like a bright vision from her sight and left her all in darkness. It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after- story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She avoided society and wandered out alone in the walks she had most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an evening sitting in the porch of the village church, and the milk-maids, returning from the fields, would now and then overhear her singing some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her devotions at church ; and as the old people saw her approach, so wasted away, yet with a hectic bloom, and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses round the form, they would make way for her. as for something spiritual, and, looking after her, would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had entertained resentment against her lover, it was extinguished. She was incapable of angry passions, and in a moment of saddened tenderness she penned him a farewell letter. It was couched in the simplest language, but touch- ing from its very simplicity. She told him that she was dying and did not conceal from him that his conduct was the cause. She even depicted the sufferings which she had ex- perienced; but concluded with saying that she could not die in peace until she had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing. By degrees her strength declined and she could no longer leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint, nor imparted to any one the malady that was 355 preying on her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's name ; but would lay her head on her mother's bosom and weep in silence. Her poor parents hung, in mute anxiety, over this fading blossom of their hopes, still flattering them- selves that it might again revive to freshness, and that the bright unearthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek might be the promise of returning health. In this way she was seated between them one Sunday afternoon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle, which her own hands had trained round the window. Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible ; it spoke of the vanity of worldly things and the joys of heaven; it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant vil- lage church the bell had tolled for the evening service the last villager was lagging into the porch and everything had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sick- ness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over some faces, had given to hers the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue eye. Was she thinking of her faithless lover? or were her thoughts wandering to that distant church- yard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered? Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard a horseman gal- loped to the cottage he dismounted before the window the poor girl gave a faint exclamation and sunk back in her chair : it was her repentant lover ! He rushed into the house and flew to clasp her to his bosom ; but her wasted form her death-like countenance so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation smote him to the soul, and he threw himself in an agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise she attempted to extend her trembling hand her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was articulated she looked down upon him with a smile of unutterable tenderness and closed her eyes forever ! Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village 356 U/orKs of U/aslpir^tor; Iruir><$ story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have but little novelty to recommend them. In the present rage also for strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and insignificant, but they interested me strongly at the time ; and, taken in connection with the affecting cere- mony which I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my mind than many circumstances of a more striking nature. I have passed through the place since and visited the church again from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a wintry evening; the trees were stripped of their foliage, the churchyard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been planted about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf unin- jured. The church door was open and I stepped in. There hung the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral : the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen many monuments where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of the spec- tator ; but I have met with none that spoke more touchingly to my heart than this simple but delicate memento of departed innocence. THE ANGLER "This day dame Nature seem'd in love, The lusty sap began to move, Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines, And birds had drawn their valentines. The jealous trout that low did lie, Rose at a well dissembled fly. There stood my friend, with patient skill, Attending of his trembling quill." SIR H. WOTTON IT is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run away from his family and betake himself to a seafaring life 357 from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I suspect that, in like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle- rods in hand, may trace the origin of their passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studying his ' ' Complete Angler' ' several years since, in company with a knot of friends in America, and, moreover, that we were all completely bitten with the angling mania. It was early in the year, but as soon as the weather was auspicious, and that the spring began to melt into the verge of summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the country as stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading books of chivalry. One of our party had equaled the Don in the fullness of his equipments; being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. He wore a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred pockets ; a pair of stout shoes and leathern gaiters ; a basket slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod ; a landing net, and a score of other inconveniences only to be found in the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of stare and wonderment among the country folk, who had never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of La Mancha among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the highlands of the Hudson a most unfortunate place for the execution of those piscatory tactics which had been invented along the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was one of those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties enough to fill the sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the trees threw their broad balancing sprays, and long nameless weeds hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping with diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs, and, after this termagant career, would steal forth into open day with the most placid demure face imagi- 358 U/orl^s of U/asl?ii?<$toi7 nable; as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after filling her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dim- pling out of doors, swimming and courtesying, and smiling upon all the world. How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such times, through some bosom of green meadow land among the mountains; where the quiet was only interrupted by the occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among the clover, or the sound of a woodcutter's ax from the neighbor- ing forest! For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport that required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled above half an hour before I had completely "satisfied the sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is something like poetry a man must be born to it. I hooked myself instead of the fish ; tangled my line in every tree ; lost my bait ; broke my rod ; until I gave up the attempt in despair and passed the day under the trees reading old Izaak ; satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that had bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. My companions, however, were more persevering in their delu- sion. I have them at this moment before my eyes, stealing along the border of the brook, where it lay open to the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising with 'hollow scream as they break in upon his rarely-invaded haunt; the kingfisher watching them suspi- ciously from his dry tree, that overhangs the deep black mill- pond in the gorge of the hills; the tortoise letting himself slip sidewise from off the stone or log on which he is sunning himself, and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they approach and spreading an alarm throughout the watery world around. I recollect, also, that, after toiling and watching and creeping about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lub- berly country urchin came down from the hills with a rod 359 made from a branch of a tree ; a few yards of twine ; and, as heaven shall help me ! I believe a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile earth-worm and in half an hour caught more fish than we had nibbles throughout the day. But above all, I recollect the "good, honest, wholesome, hungry" repast which we made under a beech- tree just by a spring of pure sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill; and how, when it was over, one of the party read old Izaak Walton's scene with the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass and built castles in a bright pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. All this may appear like mere egotism ; yet I cannot refrain from uttering these recollections which are passing like a strain of music over my mind, and have been called up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed not long since. In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beau- tiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a group seated on the margin. On approaching, I found it to consist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very much, but very carefully, patched, betokening poverty, honestly come by, and decently maintained. His face bore the marks of former storms, but present fair weather ; its furrows had been worn into a habitual smile ; his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had altogether the good- humored air of a constitutional philosopher, who was dis- posed to take the world as it went. One of his companions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to any gentle- man's fish-pond in the neighborhood in the darkest night. The other was a tall, awkward country lad, with a lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was busied examining the maw of a trout which he had just killed, to discover by its contents what insects were sea- sonable for bait ; and was lecturing on the subject to his com- panions, who appeared to listen with infinite deference. I have a kind feeling toward all "brothers of the angle," ever 360 U/orKs of U/asl?ip$tor> since I read Izaak Walton. They are men, he affirms, of a "mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit"; and my esteem for them has been increased since I met with an old "Tretyse of fishing with the Angle," in which are set forth many of the maxims of their inoffensive fraternity. "Take goode hede," sayth this honest little tretyse, "that in going about your disportes ye open no man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall not use this foresaid crafti disport for no covetousness to the increasing and sparing of your money only, but principally for your solace and to cause the helth of your body and specyally of your soule." * I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler be- fore me an exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite drew me toward him. I could not but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped from one part of the brook to another ; waving his rod in the air, to keep the line from dragging on the ground, or catching among the bushes ; and the adroit- ness with which he would throw his fly to any particular place; sometimes skimming it lightly along a little rapid; sometimes casting it into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank, in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile, he was giving instruc- tions to his two disciples ; showing them the manner in which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, and play them along the surface of the stream. The scene brought to my mind the instructions of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The country around was of that pastoral kind which Walton is fond of describing. It was a part of the great plain of * From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more industrious and devout employment than it is generally considered. "For when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge, ye will not desyre greatly e many persons with you, which might let you of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge effectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydleness, which is a principall cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is right well known." 361 Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where the inferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows. The day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and sunshiny ; with now and then a soft dropping shower that sowed the whole earth with dia- monds. I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving instruc- tions in his art, I kept company with him almost the whole day ; wandering along the banks of the stream, and listening to his talk. He was very communicative, having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age; and I fancy was a little flat- tered by having an opportunity of displaying his piscatory lore ; for who does not like now and then to play the sage? He had been much of a rambler in his day ; and had passed some years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, where he had entered into trade, and had been ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He had afterward experienced many ups and downs in life, until he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by a cannon-ball, at the bat- tle of Camperdown. This was the only stroke of real good fortune he had ever experienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with some small paternal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he re- tired to his native village, where he lived quietly and inde- pendently, and devoted the remainder of his life to the * 'noble art of angling." I found that he had read Izaak "Walton attentively, and he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted about the world, he was satisfied that the world, hi itself, was good and beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in different countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor and kindness, appearing to look only on the good side of things ; and, above all, he was almost the only man I had ever met with who had been an unfortunate adventurer in * * *16 VOL. I. 362 U/orK of America, and had honesty and magnanimity enough to take the fault to his own door and not to curse the country. The lad that was receiving his instructions I learned was the son and heir apparent of a fat old widow, who kept the village inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, and much courted by the idle, gentleman-like personages of the place. In taking him under his care, therefore, the old man had probably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room, and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. There is certainly something in angling, if we could for- get, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted on worms and insects, that tends to produce a gen- tleness of spirit and a pure serenity of mind. As the En- glish are methodical even in their recreations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, it has been reduced among them to perfect rule and system. Indeed, it is an amusement pe- culiarly adapted to the mild and cultivated scenery of Eng- land, where every roughness has been softened away from the landscape. It is delightful to saunter along those limpid streams which wander, like veins of silver, through the bosom of this beautiful country ; leading one through a di- versity of small home scenery ; sometimes winding through ornamented grounds; sometimes brimming along through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled with sweet- smelling flowers; sometimes venturing in sight of villages and hamlets, and then running capriciously away into shady retirements. The sweetness and serenity of nature, and the quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing; which are now and then agreeably inter- rupted by the song of a bird, the distant whistle of the peas- ant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish, leaping out of the still water and skimming transiently about its glassy surface. "When I would beget content," says Izaak "Walton, "and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other little living creatures that are not 3G3 only created, but fed (man knows not how), by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in Him. ' ' I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the same innocent and happy spirit : "Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place ; Where I may see my quill or cork down sink, With eager bite of Pike, or Bleak, or Dace, And on the world and my creator think: While some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace ; And others spend their time in base excess Of wine, or worse, in war or wantonness. "Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill, So I the fields and meadows green may view, And daily by fresh rivers walk at will Among the daisies and the violets blue, Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil." * On parting with the old angler, I inquired after his place of abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the village a few evenings afterward, I had the curiosity to seek him out. I found him living in a small cottage, containing only one room, but a perfect curiosity in its method and ar- rangement. It was on the skirts of the village, on a green bank, a little back from the road, with a small garden in front, stocked with kitchen herbs and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a weathercock. The interior was fitted up in a truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and convenience having been acquired on the berth- deck of a man-of-war. A hammock was slung from the ceil- ing, which in the daytime was lashed up so as to take but little room. From the center of the chamber hung a model of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table, and a large sea-chest, formed the principal movables. * J. Davors. 364 U/orKs of U/asl?ii?<$toi} About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such as "Ad- miral Hosier's Ghost," "All in the Downs," and "Tom Bowling," intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, among which the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place. The mantel-piece was decorated with seashells; over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two woodcuts of most bitter- looking naval commanders. His implements for angling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the room. On a shelf was arranged his library, containing a work on angling, much worn ; a Bible covered with canvas ; an odd volume or two of voyages ; a nautical almanack, and a book of songs. His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated himself, in the course of one of his voyages ; and which ut- tered a variety of sea phrases, with the hoarse rattling tone of a veteran boatswain. The establishment reminded me of that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe ; it was kept in neat order, everything being "stowed away" with the regularity of a ship of war; and he informed me that he "scoured the deck every morning, and swept it between meals." I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung in the center of his cage. He had been angling all day, and gave me a history of his sport with as much minuteness as a general would talk over a campaign ; being particularly animated in relating the manner in which he had taken a large trout, which had completely tasked all his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the inn. How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age ; and to behold a poor fellow like this, after being tempest- tossed through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet har- bor in the evening of his days ! His happiness, however, sprung from within himself, and was independent of external circum- stances ; for he had that inexhaustible good-nature which is the most precious gift of Heaven ; spreading itself like oil 365 over the troubled sea of thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather. On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was a universal favorite hi the village, and the oracle of .the tap- room ; where he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sindbad, astonished them with his stories of strange lands, and shipwrecks, and sea-fights. He was much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neighborhood; had taught sev- eral of them the art of angling, and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being principally passed about the neighboring streams, when the weather and season were favorable; and at other times he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing tackle for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets, and flies, for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his particular request that when he died he should be buried in a green spot, which he could see from his seat in church, and which he had marked out ever since he was a boy, and had thought of when far from home on the raging sea, in danger of being food for the fishes it was the spot where his father and mother had been buried. I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ; but I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy "brother of the angle," who has made me more than ever in love with the theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in the practice of his art; and I will conclude this rambling sketch in the words of honest Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing of St. Peter's Master upon my reader, "and upon all that are true lovers of virtue; and dare trust in His providence; and be quiet; and go a angling." 366 U/orKs of U/asl?ir>$top THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW (POUND AMONG THE PAPERS OP THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER) "A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half -shut eye ; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky." Castle of Indolence IN the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappaan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given it, we are told, in former days, by the good house- wives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authen- tic. Not far from this village, perhaps about three miles, there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squir- rel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. From the listless repose of the place and the peculiar char- acter of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the settlement ; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices hi the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight super- stitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the night- mare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball in some nameless battle during tho revolutionary war, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying 368 U/or^s of along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church that is at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most au- thentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this specter, allege that, the body of the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the hollow like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak. Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows, and the specter is known at all the coun- try firesides by the name of The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have men- tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been be- fore they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative to dream dreams and see ap- paritions. I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, manners and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such inces- sant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolv- ing in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question SketoI?-BooK 3G9 whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, ''tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scare- crow eloped from a cornfield. His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs, the windows partly glazed and partly patched with leaves of copy-books. It was most in- geniously secured at vacant hours by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window-shut- ters ; so that, though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, 370 U/orl^s of might be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master hi the tone of menace or command ; or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowl- edge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, that ever bore in mind the golden maxim, "spare the rod and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity, taking the burden off the backs of the weak and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence ; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called " doing his duty by their parents" ; and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that "he would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live." When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holyday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely suf- ficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an ana- conda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the 371 rounds of the neighborhood with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms ; helped to make hay ; mended the fences ; took the horses to water ; drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his lit- tle empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing- master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers ; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice" re- sounded far above all the rest of the congregation, and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the oppo- site side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Icha- bod Crane. Thus by divers little makeshifts, in that in- genious way which is commonly denominated "by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of head-work, to have a wonderfully easy life of it. The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being considered 372 U/orKs of U/asl?ii}<$toi) a kind of idle gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appear- ance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea- table of a farmhouse and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between ser- vices on Sundays ! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees ; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones, or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond ; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travel- ing gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house, so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's "History of New England Witchcraft," in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed. He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvelous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; and both- had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swal- low. It was often his delight, after his school was dis- missed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schcolhouse, and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful wood- land, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his Tl?e SKeteb-Boofc 373 excited imagination : the moan of the whip-poor-will * from the hill-side ; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm ; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the sud- den rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly hi the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncom- mon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance,, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blun- dering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody, "in linked sweetness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and sput- tering along the hearth, and listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; and would frighten them wofully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars, and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy ! But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud- * The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. B receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. 374 U/orKs of U/asl?ii?<$toi) Iruir>$ dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no specter dared to show its face, it was dearly pur- chased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homeward. "What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amid the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night ! With what wist- ful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted specter, beset his very path! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him ! and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phan- toms of the mind, that walk in darkness : and though he had seen many specters in his time, and had been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils ; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together; and that was a woman. Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a sub- stantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; plump as a partridge, ripe and melting and rosy- cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even hi her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the 375 ornaments of pure yellow gold which her great-great-grand- mother had brought over from Saardam ; the tempting stom- acher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short pet- ticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round. Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex ; and it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal- hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm ; but within these, everything was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a barrel, and then stole spark- ling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn that might have served for a church, every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm ; the flail was busily re- sounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and cooing, and bow- ing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks ; regiments of turkeys 876 U/orKs of U/asl?io^toi) Irv/ir>$ were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea-fowls fret- ting about it like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior and a fine gentle- man, clapping his burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devour- ing mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting pig run- ning about, with a pudding in its belly and an apple in its mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed hi a comfortable pie and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy, and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent compe- tency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey, but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages ; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which sur- rounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea how they might be read- ily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and pre- sented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with house- 377 hold trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee or the Lord knows where ! When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers. The low projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, vari- ous utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neigh- boring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use ; and a great spinning-wheel at one end and a churn at the other showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wonderful Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the center of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun ; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom ; ears of Indian corn and strings of dried apples and peaches hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch shells decorated the mantel-piece ; strings of various colored birds' eggs were suspended above it ; a great ostrich egg was hung from the center of the room, and a corner cupboard, know- ingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china. From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these re- gions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a 378 U/orKs of U/asl?io<$toi) Irvii?<} knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily conquered adversaries, to contend with; and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass and walls of ada- mant to the castle-keep, where the lady of his heart was con- fined; all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the center of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country co- quette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices., which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments, and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers who beset every portal to her heart ; keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against any new competitor. Among these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roistering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rung with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had received the nickname of Brom Bones, by which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock-fights, and with the ascendency which bodily strength always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that admitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good-humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions of his own stamp, who regarded him as their model, and at the T^e SKeteI?-BooK 379 head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather, he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunt- ing fox's tail; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks, and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!" The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good- will ; and when any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whis- pered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Cer- tain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours ; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in despair and carried the war into other quarters. Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mix- ture of pliability and perseverance in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed be- neath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away jerk! he was as erect and carried his head as high as ever. 880 U/orl^R of To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently- insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of sing- ing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that he had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy indul- gent soul ; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and like a reasonable man, and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage the poultry ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden war- rior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most val- iantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. I profess not to know t ow women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access; yrhile others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for a man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He that wins a thousand common hearts, is therefore entitled to some renown ; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones j and from the Tbe 81 a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin ; which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe ; and that may be the reason why the road has been al- tered of late years, so as to approach the church by the bor- der of the mill-pond. The schoolhouse being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the plow-boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. POSTSCRIPT FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER THE preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient city of the Manhattoes, * at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow in pepper- and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face ; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave New York. 8KetoI?-BooK 399 and rather severe face throughout ; now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds when they have reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided, and silence was re- stored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and stick- ing the other a-kimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceed- ingly sage motion of the head and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove. The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most logically to prove : "That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleasures provided we will but take a joke as we find it ; "That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to have rough riding of it; "Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heiress is a certain step to high preferment in the State." The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocina- tion of the syllogism ; while, methought, the one in pepper- and-salt eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed, that all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the extravagant there were one or two points on which he had his doubts : "Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I don't believe one-half of it myself." D. K. 400 U/orKa of U/ael?ip$toi) L'ENVOY "Go, little booke, Gk>d send thee good passage, And specially let this be thy pray ere, Unto them all that thee will read or hear, Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, Thee to correct, in any part or all." CHAUCER'S Bell Dame sans Mercie IN concluding a second volume of the Sketch-Book, the Author cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with which his first has been received, and of the liberal dis- position that has been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by others, he has found to be a singularly gentle and good- natured race ; it is true that each has hi turn objected to some one or two articles, and that these individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would amount almost to a total condemna- tion of his work ; but then he has been consoled by observing that what one has particularly censured, another has as par- ticularly praised: and thus, the encomiums being set off against the objections, he finds his work, upon the whole, commended far beyond its deserts. He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this kind favor by not following the counsel that has been liberally bestowed upon him ; for where abundance of valuable advice is given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if he should go astray. He only can say, in his vindication, that he faith- fully determined, for a time, to govern himself in his second volume by the opinions passed upon his first ; but he was soon brought to a stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly advised him to avoid the ludicrous ; another, to shun the pathetic ; a third assured him that he was tolerable 401 at description, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone; while a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knack at turning a story, and was really entertaining when in a pen- sive mood, but was grievously mistaken if he imagined him- self to possess a spark of humor. Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in turn closed some particular path, but left him all the world beside to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels would, in fact, be to stand still. He remained for a time sadly embarrassed ; when, all at once, the thought struck him to ramble on as he had begun; that his work being mis- cellaneous, and written for different humors, it could not be expected that anyone would be pleased with the whole ; but that if it should contain something to suit each reader, his end would be completely answered. Few guests sit down to a varied table with an equal appetite for every dish. One has an elegant horror of a roasted pig ; another holds a curry or a devil in utter abomination ; a third cannot tolerate the an- cient flavor of venison and wild fowl ; and a fourth, of truly masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt on those knickknacks here and there dished up for the ladies Thus each article is condemned in its turn; and yet, amid this va- riety of appetites, seldom does a dish go away from the table without being tasted and relished by some one or other of the guests. With these considerations he ventures to serve up this second volume in the same heterogeneous way with his first ; simply requesting the reader, if he should find here and there something to please him, to rest assured that it was written expressly for intelligent readers like himself; but entreating him, should he find anything to dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those articles which the Author has been obliged to write for readers of a less refined taste. To be serious. The Author is conscious of the numerous faults and imperfections of his work ; and well aware how little he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of author- ship. His deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence aris- 402 U/orl^s of ing from his peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in a strange land, and appearing before a public wlrch he has been accustomed, from childhood, to regard with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. He is full of solicitude to de- serve their approbation, yet finds that very solicitude contin- ually embarrassing his powers, and depriving him of that ease and confidence which are necessary to successful exer- tion. Still the kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go on, hoping that in tune he may acquire a steadier footing; and thus he proceeds, half -venturing, half -shrink- ing, surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering at his own temerity. END OP ' * THE SKETCH-BOOK " LEGENDS OF THE CONQUEST OF SPAIN PREFACE FEW events in history have been so signal and striking in their main circumstances, and so overwhelming and enduring in their consequences, as that of the conquest of Spain by the Saracens ; yet there are few where the motives, and char- acters, and actions of the agents have been enveloped in more doubt and contradiction. As in the memorable story of the Fall of Troy, we have to make out, as well as we can, the veritable details through the mists of poetic fiction ; yet poetry has so combined itself with, and lent its magic color- ing to, every fact, that, to strip it away, would be to reduce the story to a meager skeleton and rob it of all its charms. The storm of Moslem invasion that swept so suddenly over the peninsula, silenced for a time the faint voice of the muse, and drove the sons of learning from their cells. The pen was thrown aside to grasp the sword and spear, and men were too much taken up with battling against the evils which beset them on every side to find time or inclination to record them. When the nation had recovered in some degree from the effects of this astounding blow, or rather had become accus- tomed to the tremendous reverse which it produced, and sage men sought to inquire and write the particulars, it was too late to ascertain them in their exact verity. The gloom and melancholy that had overshadowed the land had given birth to a thousand superstitious fancies ; the woes and terrors of (403) 404 preface the past were clothed with supernatural miracles and portents, and the actors in the fearful drama had already assumed the dubious characteristics of romance. Or if a writer -from among the conquerors undertook to touch upon the theme, it was embellished with all the wild extravagancies of an ori- ental imagination; which afterward stole into the graver works of the monkish historians. Hence, the earliest chronicles which treat of the downfall of Spain, are apt to be tinctured with those saintly miracles which savor of the pious labors of the cloister, or those fanciful fictions that betray their Arabian authors. Yet, from these apocryphal sources, the most legitimate and ac- credited Spanish histories have taken their rise, as pure rivers may be traced up to the fens and mantled pools of a morass. It is true, the authors, with cautious discrimination, have discarded those particulars too startling for belief, and have culled only such as, from their probability and congruity, might be safely recorded as historical facts; yet, scarce one of these but has been connected in the original with some romantic fiction, and, even in its divorced state, bears traces of its former alliance. To discard, however, everything wild and marvelous in this portion of Spanish history, is to discard some of its most beautiful, instructive, and national features; it is to judge of Spain by the standard of probability suited to tamer and more prosaic countries. Spain is virtually a land of poetry and romance, where every-day life partakes of adventure, and where the least agitation or excitement carries every- thing up into extravagant enterprise and daring exploit. The Spaniards, in all ages, have been of swelling and brag- gart spirit, soaring in thought, pompous in word, and valiant, though vainglorious, in deed. Their heroic aims have tran- scended the cooler conceptions of their neighbors, and their reckless daring has borne them on to achievements which prudent enterprise could never have accomplished. Since the time, too, of the conquest and occupation of their country by the Arabs, a strong infusion of Oriental magnificence has of tl?e ^oijquest of Spafp 405 entered into the national character, and rendered the Span- iard distinct from every other nation of Europe. In the following pages, therefore, the author has ventured to dip more deeply into the enchanted fountains of old Spanish chronicles than has usually been done by those who, in modern times, have treated of the eventful period of the con- quest ; but in so doing, he trusts he will illustrate more fully the character of the people and the times. He has thought proper to throw these records into the form of legends, not claiming for them the authenticity of sober history, yet giv- ing nothing that has not historical foundation. All the facts herein contained, however extravagant some of them may be deemed, will be found in the works of sage and reverend chroniclers of yore, growing side by side with long acknowl- edged truths, and might be supported by learned and imposing references in the margin. THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK* CHAPTER ONE OF THE ANCIENT INHABITANTS OF SPAIN OF THE MISRULE OF WITIZA THE WICKED SPAIN, or Iberia, as it was called in ancient days, has been a country harassed from the earliest times by the in- vader. The Celts, the Greeks, the Phenecians, the Cartha- genians, by turns, or simultaneously, infringed its territories ; * Many of the facts in this legend are taken from an old chronicle, written in quaint and antiquated Spanish, and professing to be a trans- lation from the Arabian chronicle of the Moor Basis, by Mohammad, a Moslem writer, and Gil Perez, a Spanish priest. It is supposed to be a piece of literary mosaic work, made up from both Spanish and Ara- bian chronicles; yet, from this work most of the Spanish historians have drawn their particulars felative to the fortunes of Don Roderick. 406 ltforl{8 of drove the native Iberians from their rightful homes, and established colonies and founded cities in the land. It subse- quently fell into the all-grasping power of Rome, remaining for some time a subjugated province; and when that gigantic empire crumbled into pieces, the Suevi, the Alani, and the Vandals, those barbarians of the north, overran and ravaged this devoted country, and portioned out the soil among them. Then* sway was not of long duration. In the fifth century the Goths, who were then the allies of Rome, undertook the reconquest of Iberia, and succeeded, after a desperate struggle of three years' duration. They drove before them the bar- barous hordes, their predecessors, intermarried, and incorpo- rated themselves with the original inhabitants, and founded a powerful and splendid empire, comprising the Iberian pen- insula, the ancient Narbonnaise, afterward called Gallia Gotica, or Gothic Gaul, and a part of the African coast called Tingitania. A new nation was, in a manner, produced by this mixture of the Goths and Iberians. Sprang frpm a union of warrior races, reared and nurtured amid the din of arms, the Gothic Spaniards, if they may so be termed, were a warlike, unquiet, yet high-minded and heroic people. Their simple and abstemious habits, their contempt for toil and suffering, and their love of daring enterprise, fitted them for a soldier's life. So addicted were they to war that, when they had no external foes to contend with, they fought with one another; and, when engaged in battle, says an old chronicler, the very thunders and lightnings of heaven could not separate them.* For two centuries and a half the Gothic power remained unshaken, and the scepter was wielded by twenty-five suc- cessive kings. The crown was elective, in a council of pala- tines, composed of the bishops and nobles, who, while they swore allegiance to the newly -made sovereign, bound him by a reciprocal oath to be faithful to his trust. Their choice * Florian de Ocampo, lib. 3, c. 12. Justin Abrer. Trog. Pomp. L. 44. Bleda. Cronica, L. 2, c. 8. Ce$ei?d& of tl?e Providence for the future salvation of Spain. The other object of his suspicion was Theodofredo, who lived retired from court. The violence of Witiza reached him even in his retirement. His eyes were put out, and he was immured within a castle at Cordova. Roderick, the youthful son of Theodofredo, escaped to Italy, where he received protection from the Romans. Witiza now considering himself secure upon the throne, gave the reins to his licentious passions, and soon, by his tyranny and sensuality, acquired the appellation of Witiza the Wicked. Despising the old Gothic continence, and yielding to the example of the sect of Mahomet, which suited his lascivious temperament, he indulged in a plurality of wives and concubines, encouraging his subjects to do the same. Nay, he even sought to gain the sanction of the church to his excesses, promulgating a law by which the clergy were released from their vows of celibacy, and per- mitted to marry and to entertain paramours. The sovereign Pontiff Constantino threatened to depose and excommunicate him, unless he abrogated this licentious law; but Witiza set him at defiance, threatening, like his Gothic predecessor Alaric, to assail the eternal city with his troops, and make spoil of her accumulated treasures.* "We will adorn our damsels," said he, "with the jewels of Rome, and replenish our coffers from the mint of St. Peter. ' ' Some of the clergy opposed themselves to the innovating spirit of the monarch, and endeavored from the pulpits to rally the people to the pure doctrines of their faith ; but they were deposed from their sacred office and banished as sedi- tious mischief-makers. The church of Toledo continued refractory ; the archbishop Sindaredo, it is true, was disposed to accommodate himself to the corruptions of the times, but the prebendaries battled intrepidly against the new laws of the monarch, and stood manfully in defense of their vows of * Chron. de Luitprando 709. Abarca, Analee de Aragon (e) Ma- hometismo, Fol. 5. Ce$ei?d8 of tl?e ^orjquest of Spair? 409 chastity. "Since the church of Toledo will not yield itself to our will," said Witiza, "it shall have two husbands." So saying, he appointed his own brother Oppas, at that time archbishop of Seville, to take a seat with Sindaredo, in the episcopal chair of Toledo, and made him primate of Spain. He was a priest after his own heart, and seconded him in all his profligate abuses. It was in vain the denunciations of the church were fulminated from the chair of St. Peter; Witiza threw off all allegiance to the Roman Pontiff, threatening with pain of death those who should obey the papal mandates. "We will suffer no foreign ecclesiastic, with triple crown," said he, "to domineer over our dominions." The Jews had been banished from the country during the preceding reign, but Witiza permitted them to return, and even bestowed upon their synagogues privileges of which he had despoiled the churches. The children of Israel, when scattered throughout the earth by the fall of Jerusalem, had carried with them into other lands the gainful arcana of traffic, and were especially noted as opulent money-changers and curious dealers in gold and silver and precious stones ; on this occasion, therefore, they were enabled, it is said, to repay the monarch for his protection by bags of money and caskets of sparkling gems, the rich product of their Oriental com- merce. The kingdom at this time enjoyed external peace, but there were symptoms of internal discontent. Witiza took the alarm ; he remembered the ancient turbulence of the nation, and its proneness to internal feuds. Issuing secret orders, therefore, in all directions, he dismantled most of the cities, and demolished the castles and fortresses that might serve as rallying points for the factious. He disarmed the people also, and converted the weapons of war into the implements of peace. It seemed, in fact, as if the millennium were dawning upon the land, for the sword was beaten into a plowshare and the spear into a priming-hook. While thus the ancient martial fire of the nation was ex- ***18 VOL. I. 410 U/orKs of U/a8bJi)$tOQ tinguished, its morals likewise were corrupted. The altars were abandoned, the churches closed, wide disorder and sen- suality prevailed throughout the land, so that, according to the old chroniclers, within the compass of a few short years, "Witiza the Wicked taught all Spain to sin." CHAPTER TWO THE RISE OF DON RODERICK HIS GOVERNMENT WOE to the ruler who founds his hope of sway on the weakness or corruption of the people. The very measures taken by Witiza to perpetuate his power insured his down- fall. While the whole nation, under his licentious rule, was sinking into vice and effeminacy, and the arm of war was unstrung, the youthful Roderick, son of Theodofredo, was training up for action in the stern but wholesome school of adversity. He instructed himself in the use of arms ; became adroit and vigorous by varied exercises ; learned to despise all danger, and inured himself to hunger and watchfulness and the rigor of the seasons. His merits and misfortunes procured him many friends among the Romans ; and when, being arrived at a fitting age, he undertook to revenge the wrongs of his father and his kindred, a host of brave and hardy soldiers flocked to his standard. With these he made his sudden appearance in Spain. The friends of his house and the disaffected of all classes hastened to join him, and he advanced rapidly and without opposition, through an unarmed and enervated land. Witiza saw too late the evil he had brought upon himself. He made a hasty levy, and took the field with a scantily equipped and undisciplined host, but was easily routed and made prisoner, and the whole kingdom submitted to Don Roderick. The ancient city of Toledo, the royal residence of the Ce<$etyd8 of tl?e Conquest of Spaiij 411 Gothic kings, was the scene of high festivity and solemn ceremonial on the coronation of the victor. Whether he was elected to the throne according to the Gothic usage, or seized it by the right of conquest, is a matter of dispute among his- torians, but all agree that the nation submitted cheerfully to his sway, and looked forward to prosperity and happiness under their newly elevated monarch. His appearance and character seemed to justify the anticipation. He was in the splendor of youth, and of a majestic presence. His soul was bold and daring, and elevated by lofty desires. He had a sagacity that penetrated the thoughts of men, and a magnifi- cent spirit that won all hearts. Such is the picture which ancient writers give of Don Roderick, when, with all the stern and simple virtues unimpaired, which he had acquired in adversity and exile, and flushed with the triumph of a pious revenge, he ascended the Gothic throne. Prosperity, however, is the real touchstone of the human heart ; no sooner did Roderick find himself in possession of the crown, than the love of power and the jealousy of rule were awakened in his breast. His first measure was against Witiza, who was brought in chains into his presence. Rod- erick beheld the captive monarch with an unpitying eye, re- membering only his wrongs and cruelties to his father. "Let the evils he has inflicted on others be visited upon his own head," said he; "as he did unto Theodofredo, even so be it done unto him." So the eyes of Witiza were put out, and he was thrown into the same dungeon at Cordova in which Theodofredo had languished. There he passed the brief remnant of his days in perpetual darkness, a prey to wretch- edness and remorse. Roderick now cast an uneasy and suspicious eye upon Evan and Siseburto, the two sons of Witiza. Fearful lest they should foment some secret rebellion, he banished them the kingdom. They took refuge in the Spanish domin- ions in Africa, where they were received and harbored by Requila, governor of Tangier, out of gratitude for favors which he had received from their late father. There they of remained to brood over their fallen fortunes, and to aid in working out the future woes of Spain. Their uncle Oppas, bishop of Seville, who had been made co-partner, by Witiza, in the archiepiscopal chair at Toledo, would have likewise f alien under the suspicion of the king ; but he was a man of consummate art, and vast exterior sanc- tity, and won upon the good graces of the monarch. He was suffered, therefore, to retain his sacred office at Seville; but the see of Toledo was given in charge to the venerable Urbino ; and the law of "Witiza was revoked that dispensed the clergy from their vows of celibacy. The jealousy of Roderick for the security of his crown was soon again aroused, and his measures were prompt and severe. Having been informed that the governors of certain castles and fortresses in Castile and Andalusia had conspired against him, he caused them to be put to death and their strongholds to be demolished. He now went on to imitate the pernicious policy of his predecessor, throwing down walls and towers, disarming the people, and thus incapacitating them from rebellion. A few cities were permitted to retain their fortifications, but these were intrusted to alcaydes in whom he had especial confidence; the greater part of the kingdom was left defenseless; the nobles, who had been roused to temporary manhood during the recent stir of war, sunk back into the inglorious state of inaction which had dis- graced them during the reign of Witiza, passing their time in feasting and dancing to the sound of loose and wanton minstrelsy.* It was scarcely possible to recognize in these idle wassailers and soft voluptuaries the descendants of the stern and frugal warriors of the frozen north ; who had braved flood and mountain, and heat and cold, and had battled their way to empire across half a world in arms. They surrounded their youthful monarch, it is true, with a blaze of military pomp. Nothing could surpass the splendor of their arms, which were embossed and enameled, and en * Mariana, Hist. Esp. L. 6, c. 21. Ce$ei?ds of tl?e ^opqucst of Spain; 413 riched with gold and jewels and curious devices ; nothing could be more gallant and glorious than their array; it was all plume and banner and silken pageantry, the gorgeous trap- pings for tilt and tourney and courtly revel ; but the iron soul of war was wanting. How rare it is to learn wisdom from the misfortunes of others. With the fate of Witiza full before his eyes, Don Roderick indulged in the same pernicious errors, and was doomed, in like manner, to prepare the way for his own perdition. OF THE LOVES OF RODERICK AND THE PRINCESS ELYATA As yet the heart of Roderick, occupied by the struggles of his early life, by warlike enterprises and by the inquietudes of newly-gotten power, had been insensible to the charms of women; but hi the present voluptuous calm, the amorous propensities of his nature assumed their sway. There are divers accounts of the youthful beauty who first found favor in his eyes, and was elevated by him to the throne. "We fol- low in our legend the details of an Arabian chronicler,* au- thenticated by a Spanish poet, f Let those who dispute our facts produce better authority for their contradiction. Among the few fortified places that had not been dis- mantled by Don Roderick was the ancient city of Denia, situated on the Mediterranean coast, and defended on a rock- built castle that overlooked the sea. The Alcayde of the castle, with many of the people of Denia, was one day on his knees in the chapel, imploring the "Virgin to allay a tempest which was strewing the coast with wrecks, when a sentinel brought word that a Moorish cruiser was standing for the land. The Alcayde gave orders to ring * Perdida de Espafla por Abulcasim Tar if Abentarique, lib. 1. f Lope de Vega. 414 UYorKs of U/asl?ip$top the alarm bells, light signal fires on the hilltops, and rouse the country, for the coast was subject to cruel maraudings from the Barbary cruisers. In a little while the horsemen of the neighborhood were seen pricking along the beach, armed with such weapons as they could find, and the Alcayde and his scanty garrison de- scended from the hill. In the meantime the Moorish bark came rolling and pitching toward the land. As it drew near, the rich carving and gilding with which it was decorated, its silken bandaroles and banks of crimson oars, showed it to be no warlike vessel, but a sumptuous galiot destined for state and ceremony. It bore the marks of the tempest ; the masts were broken, the oars shattered, and fragments of snowy sails and silken awnings were fluttering hi the blast. As the galiot grounded upon the sand, the impatient rab- ble rushed into the surf to capture and make spoil; but were awed into admiration and respect by the appearance of the illustrious company on board. There were Moors of both sexes sumptuously arrayed, and adorned with pre- cious jewels, bearing the demeanor of persons of lofty rank. Among them shone conspicuous a youthful beauty, mag- nificently attired, to whom all seemed to pay reverence. Several of the Moors surrounded her with drawn swords, threatening death to any that approached; others sprang from the bark, and, throwing themselves on their knees be- fore the Alcayde, implored him, by his royal honor and courtesy as a knight, to protect a royal virgin from injury and insult. "You behold before you,'* said they, "the only daughter of the king of Algiers, the betrothed bride of the son of the king of Tunis. We were conducting her to the court of her expecting bridegroom, when a tempest drove us from our course, and compelled us to take refuge on your coast. Be not more cruel than the tempest, but deal nobly with that which even sea and storm have spared." The Alcayde listened to their prayers. He conducted the princess and her train to the castle, where every honor due Ce$ei?d8 of tfye $toi) Iruir><$ intrusted with the military government of the Spanish pos- sessions on the African coast of the strait, which at that time were threatened by the Arabs of the East, the followers of Mahomet, who were advancing their victorious standard to the extremity of Western Africa. Count Julian established his seat of government at Ceuta, the frontier bulwark and one of the far-famed gates of the Mediterranean Sea. Here he boldly faced and held in check the torrent of Moslem invasion. Don Julian was a man of an active, but irregular genius, and a grasping ambition ; he had a love for power and grand- eur, in which he was joined by his haughty countess; and they could ill brook the downfall of their house as threatened by the fate of Witiza. They had hastened, therefore, to pay their court to the newly elevated monarch, and to assure him of their fidelity to his interests. Roderick was readily persuaded of the sincerity of Count Julian ; he was aware of his merits as a soldier and a gov- ernor, and continued him in his important command : honor- ing him with many other marks of implicit confidence. Count Julian sought to confirm this confidence by every proof of devotion. It was a custom among the Goths to rear many of the children of the most illustrious families in the royal household. They served as pages to the king, and hand- maids and ladies of honor to the queen, and were instructed in all manner of accomplishments befitting their gentle blood. "When about to depart for Ceuta, to resume his command, Don Julian brought his daughter Florinda to present her to the sovereigns. She was a beautiful virgin that had not as yet attained to womanhood. "I confide her to your protec- tion," said he to the king, "to be unto her as a father; and to have her trained in the paths of virtue. I can leave with you no dearer pledge of my loyalty." the Gothic Kings. Comes Spathariorum, custodum corporis Regis Profectus. Hunc et Propospatharium appellatum existimo. Pair. Pant, de Offic. Goth. of tl?e Sopquest of 8pafi> 419 King Roderick received the timid and blushing maiden into his paternal care ; promising to watch over her happiness with a parent's eye, and that she should be enrolled among the most cherished attendants of the queen. With this assur- ance of the welfare of his child, Count Julian departed, well pleased, for his government at Ceuta. CHAPTER FIVE THE STORY OP PLOBINDA THE beautiful daughter of Count Julian was received with great favor by the Queen Exilona and admitted among the noble damsels that attended upon her person. Here she lived in honor and apparent security, and surrounded by innocent delights. To gratify his queen, Don Roderick had built for her rural recreation a palace without the walls of Toledo, on the banks of the Tagus. It stood in the midst of a garden, adorned after the luxurious style of the East. The air was perfumed by fragrant shrubs and flowers; the groves re- sounded with the song of the nightingale, while the gush of fountains and waterfalls, and the distant murmur of the Tagus, made it a delightful retreat during the sultry days of summer. The charm of perfect privacy also reigned through- out the place, for the garden walls were high, and numerous guards kept watch without to protect it from all intrusion. In this delicious abode, more befitting an Oriental volupt- uary than a Gothic king, Don Roderick was accustomed to while away much of that time which should have been de- voted to the toilsome cares of government. The very security and peace which he had produced throughout his dominions by his precautions to abolish the means and habitudes of war, had effected a disastrous change in his character. The hardy and heroic qualities which had conducted him to the throne were softened in the lap of indulgence. Surrounded by the pleasures of an idle and effeminate court, and beguiled by 420 U/orKs of U/al?ii7$toij the example of his degenerate nobles, he gave way to a fatal sensuality that had lain dormant in his nature during the virtuous days of his adversity. The mere love of female beauty had first enamored him of Exilona, and the same passion, fostered by voluptuous idleness, now betrayed him into the commission of an act fatal to himself and Spain. The following is the story of his error as gathered from an old chronicle and legend. In a remote part of the palace was an apartment devoted to the queen. It was like an eastern harem, shut up from the foot of man, and where the king himself but rarely en- tered. It had its own courts and gardens and fountains, where the queen was wont to recreate herself with her dam- sels, as she had been accustomed to do in the jealous privacy of her father's palace. One sultry day, the king, instead of taking his siesta, or mid-day slumber, repaired to this apartment to seek the so- ciety of the queen. In passing through a small oratory, he was drawn by the sound of female voices to a casement over- hung with myrtles and jessamines. It looked into an interior garden or court, set out with orange-trees, in the midst of which was a marble fountain, surrounded by a grassy bank, enameled with flowers. It was the high noontide of a summer day, when, in sultry Spain, the landscape trembles to the eye, and all nature seeks repose, except the grasshopper, that pipes his lulling note to the herdsman as he sleeps beneath the shade. Around the fountain were several of the damsels of the queen, who, confident of the sacred privacy of the place, were yielding in that cool retreat to the indulgence prompted by the season and the hour. Some lay asleep on the flowery bank ; others sat on the margin of the fountain, talking and laughing, as they bathed their feet in its limpid waters, and King Roderick beheld delicate limbs shining through the wave that might rival the marble in whiteness. Among the damsels was one who had come from the Barbary coast with the queen. Her complexion had the dark of tl?e 423 it. I will advance theo to rank and dignity, and place thee above the proudest females of my court. Thy father, too, shall be more exalted and endowed than any noble in my realm." The soft eye of Morinda kindled at these words. "Senior,** said she, "the line I spring from can receive no dignity by means so vile ; and my father would rather die than purchase rank and power by the dishonor of his child. But I see," continued she, "that your majesty speaks in this manner only to try me. You may have thought me light and simple and unworthy to attend upon the queen. I pray your majesty to pardon me, that I have taken your pleasantry in such serious part." In this way the agitated maiden sought to evade the ad- dresses of the monarch, but still her cheek was blanched and her lip quivered as she spoke. The king pressed her hand to his lips with fervor. "May ruin seize me," cried he, "if I speak to prove theo. My heart, my kingdom, are at thy command. Only be mine, and thou shalt rule absolute mistress of myself and my domains." The damsel- rose from the earth where she had hitherto knelt, and her whole countenance glowed with virtuous indig- nation. "My lord," said she, "I am your subject, and in your power ; take my lif e if it be your pleasure, but nothing shall tempt me to commit a crime which would be treason to the queen, disgrace to my father, agony to my mother, and perdition to myself." With these words she left the garden, and the king, for the moment, was too much awed by her indignant virtue to oppose her departure. We shall pass briefly over the succeeding events of the story of Florinda, about which so much has been said and sung by chronicler and bard : for the sober page of history should be carefully chastened from all scenes that might inflame a wanton imagination, leaving them to poems and romances, and such like highly seasoned works of fantasy and recreation. 424 U/orKs of Let it suffice to say that Don Roderick pursued his suit to the beautiful Florinda, his passion being more and more inflamed by the resistance of the virtuous damsel. At length, forgetting what was due to helpless beauty, to his own honor as a knight, and his word as a sovereign, he triumphed over her weakness by base and unmanly violence. There are not wanting those who affirm that the hapless Florinda lent a yielding ear to the solicitations of the mon- arch, and her name has been treated with opprobrium in sev- eral of the ancient chronicles and legendary ballads that have transmitted, from generation to generation, the story of the woes of Spain. In very truth, however, she appears to have been a guiltless victim, resisting, as far as helpless female could resist, the arts and intrigues of a powerful monarch, who had naught to check the indulgence of his will, and bewailing her disgrace with a poignancy that shows how dearly she had prized her honor. In the first paroxysm of her grief she wrote a letter to her father, blotted with her tears and almost incoherent from her agitation. "Would to God, my father," said she, "that the earth had opened and swallowed me ere I had been reduced to write these lines. I blush to tell thee what it is not proper to conceal. Alas, my father! thou hast intrusted thy lamb to the guardianship of the lion. Thy daughter has been dis- honored, the royal cradle of the Goths polluted, and our line- age insulted and disgraced. Hasten, my father, to rescue your child from the power of the spoiler, and to vindicate the honor of your house." "When Florinda had written these lines, she summoned a youthful esquire, who had been a page in the service of her father. ' ' Saddle thy steed, ' ' said she, * * and if thou dost aspire to knightly honor, or hope for lady's grace ; if thou hast fealty for thy lord, or devotion to his daughter, speed swiftly upon my errand. Rest not, halt not, spare not the spur, but hie thee day and night until thou reach the sea; take the first bark, and haste with sail and oar to Ceuta, nor pause until thou give this letter to the count my father." The youth Ceque8t of Spafij 425 put the letter in his bosom. "Trust me, lady," said he, "1 will neither halt, nor turn aside, nor cast a look behind, until I reach Count Julian." He mounted his fleet steed, sped his way across the bridge, and soon left behind him the verdant valley of the Tagus. CHAPTER SIX DON RODERICK RECEIVES AN EXTRAORDINARY EMBASSY THE heart of Don Roderick was not so depraved by sen- suality but that the wrong he had been guilty of toward the innocent Florinda, and the disgrace he had inflicted on her house, weighed heavy on his spirits, and a cloud began to gather on his once clear and unwrinkled brow. Heaven, at this time, say the old Spanish chronicles, permitted a marvelous intimation of the wrath with which it intended to visit the monarch and his people, in punish- ment of their sins ; nor are we, say the same orthodox writers, to startle and withhold our faith when we meet in the page of discreet and sober history with these signs and portents, which transcend the probabilities of ordinary lif e ; for the revolutions of empires and the downfall of mighty kings are awful events that shake the physical as well as the moral world, and are often announced by forerunning marvels and prodigious omens. With such like cautious preliminaries do the wary but credulous historiographers of yore usher in a marvelous event of prophecy and enchantment, linked in ancient story with the fortunes of Don Roderick, but which modern doubters would fain hold up as an apocryphal tradition of Arabian origin. Now, so it happened, according to the legend, that about this time, as King Roderick was seated one day on his throne, surrounded by his nobles, in the ancient city of Toledo, two men of venerable appearance entered the hall of audience. Their snowy beards descended to their breasts, and their gray hairs were bound with ivy. They were arrayed in 426 UYorKs of U/asl?ii7<$toi> white garments of foreign or antiquated fashion, which swept the ground, and were cinctured with girdles, wrought with the signs of the zodiac, from which were suspended enormous bunches of keys of every variety of form. Having approached the throne and made obeisance: "Know, O king," said one of the old men, "that in days of yore, when Hercules of Lybia, surnamed the strong, had set up his pillars at the ocean strait, he erected a tower near to this ancient city of Toledo. He built it of prodigious strength, and finished it with magic art, shutting up within it a fearful secret, never to be penetrated without peril and disaster. To protect this terribly mystery he closed the entrance to the edifice with a ponderous door of iron, secured by a great lock of steel, and he left a command that every king who should succeed him should add another lock to the portal ; denouncing woe and destruction on him who should eventually unfold the secret of the tower. "The guardianship of the portal was given to our ances- tors, and has continued in our family, from generation to generation, since the days of Hercules. Several kings, from time to time, have caused the gate to be thrown open, and have attempted to enter, but have paid dearly for their temerity. Some have perished within the threshold, others have been overwhelmed with horror at tremendous sounds, which shook the foundations of the earth, and have hastened to reclose the door and secure it with its thousand locks. Thus, since the days of Hercules, the inmost recesses of the pile have never been penetrated by mortal man, and a pro- found mystery continues to prevail over this great enchant- ment. This, O king, is all we have to relate; and our errand is to entreat thee to repair to the tower and affix thy lock to the portal, as has been done by all thy predecessors." Having thus said, the ancient men made a profound rever- ence and departed from the presence chamber.* * Perdida de Espafia por Abulcasim Tarif Abentarique, 1. 1, c. 6. Cronica del Rey Don Rodrigo por el moro Rasis, 1. 1, c. 1. Bleda Cron. cap. vii. of tfye 429 ever, that, but for their different hues, they might be taken for one entire stone. They were arranged with marvelous cunning so as to represent battles and warlike deeds of times and heroes long since passed away, and the whole surface was so admirably polished that the stones were as lustrous as glass, and reflected the rays of the sun with such resplendent brightness as to dazzle all beholders.* King Roderick and his courtiers arrived wondering and amazed at the foot of the rock. Here there was a narrow arched way cut through the living stone : the only entrance to the tower. It was closed by a massive iron gate covered with rusty locks of divers workmanship and in the fashion of different centuries, which had been affixed by the pre- decessors of Don Roderick. On either side of the portal stood the two ancient guardians of the tower, laden with the keys appertaining to the locks. The king alighted, and approaching the portals, ordered the guardians to unlock the gate. The hoary headed men drew back with terror. "Alas!" cried they, "what is it your majesty requires of us. Would you have the mis- chiefs of this tower unbound, and let loose to shake the earth to its foundations?" The venerable archbishop Urbino likewise implored him not to disturb a mystery which had been held sacred from generation to generation within the memory of man, and which even Csesar himself, when sovereign of Spain, had not ventured to invade. The youthful cavaliers, however, were eager to pursue the adventure, and encouraged him in his rash curiosity. "Come what come may," exclaimed Don Roderick, "I am resolved to penetrate the mystery of this tower." So saying, he again commanded the guardians to unlock the portal. The ancient men obeyed with fear and trembling, but their hands shook with age, and when they applied the * From the minute account of the good friar, drawn from the ancient chronicles, it would appear that the walls of the tower were pictured in mosaic work. 430 tt/orKs of U/asl?ii7<$tOQ keys the locks were so rusted by time, or of such strange workmanship, that they resisted their feeble efforts, where- upon the young cavaliers pressed forward and lent their aid. Still the locks were so numerous and difficult that with all their eagerness and strength a great part of the day was exhausted before the whole of them could be mastered. When the last bolt had yielded to the key, the guardians and the reverend archbishop again entreated the king to pause and reflect. "Whatever is within this tower," said they, "is as yet harmless and lies bound under a mighty spell : venture not then to open a door which may let forth a flood of evil upon the land." But the anger of the king was roused, and he ordered that the portal should be in- stantly thrown open. In vain, however, did one after an- other exert his strength, and equally in vain did the cavaliers unite their forces, and apply their shoulders to the gate; though there was neither bar nor bolt remaining it was per- fectly immovable. The patience of the king was now exhausted, and he ad- vanced to apply his hand; scarcely, however, did he touch the iron gate, when it swung slowly open, uttering, as it were, a dismal groan, as it turned reluctantly upon its hinges. A cold, damp wind issued forth, accompanied by a tempestu- ous sound. The hearts of the ancient guardians quaked within them, and their knees smote together; but several of the youthful cavaliers rushed in, eager to gratify their curi- osity, or to signalize themselves in this redoubtable enter- prise. They had scarcely advanced a few paces, however, when they recoiled, overcome by the baleful air, or by some fearful vision.* Upon this, the kin^ ordered that fires should be kindled to dispel the darkness, and to correct the noxious and long imprisoned air ; he then led the way into the inte- rior ; but, though stout of heart, he advanced with awe and hesitation. After proceeding a short distance, he entered a hall, or * Bleda. Cronica, cap. 7. Ce$ei)d8 of tl?e Qopquest of Spafi) 431 ante-chamber, on tho opposite side of which was a door, and before it, on a pedestal, stood a gigantic figure, of the color of bronze, and of a terrible aspect. It held a huge mace, which it whirled incessantly, giving such cruel and resound- ing blows upon the earth as to prevent all further entrance. The king paused at sight of this appalling figure, for whether it were a living being, or a statue of magic artifice, he could not tell. On its breast was a scroll, whereon was inscribed in large letters, " I do my duty."* After a little while Roderick plucked up heart and addressed it with great solemnity: "Whatever thou be,'* said he, "know that I come not to violate this sanctuary, but to inquire into the mystery it contains ; I conjure thee, therefore, to let me pass in safety." Upon this the figure paused with uplifted mace, and the king and his train passed unmolested through the door. They now entered a vast chamber, of a rare and sumptuous architecture, difficult to be described. The walls were in- crusted with the most precious gems, so joined together as to form one smooth and perfect surface. The lofty dome ap- peared to be self-supported, and was studded with gems lus- trous as the stars of the firmament. There was neither wood, nor any other common or base material to be seen throughout the edifice. There were no windows or other openings to admit the day, yet a radiant light was spread throughout the place, which seemed to shine from the walls, and to render every object distinctly visible. In the center of this hall stood a table of alabaster of the rarest workmanship, on which was inscribed in Greek char- acters, that Hercules Alcides, the Theban Greek, had founded this tower in the year of the world three thousand and six. Upon the table stood a golden casket, richly set round with precious stones, and closed with a lock of mother-of-pearl, and on the lid were inscribed the following words : "In this coffer is contained the mystery of the tower. * Bleda. Cronica, cap. 7. 432 U/orKs of U/aeljii^toi? The hand of none but a king can open it ; but let him beware! for marvelous events will be revealed to him, which are to take place before his death." King Roderick boldly seized upon the casket. The vener- able archbishop laid his hand upon his arm, and made a last remonstrance. "Forbear, my son!" said he, "desist while there is yet time. Look not into the mysterious decrees of Providence. God has hidden them in mercy from our sight, and it is impious to rend the veil by which they are con- cealed." "What have I to dread from a knowledge of the future?" replied Roderick, with an air of haughty presumption. "If good be destined me, I shall enjoy it by anticipation : if evil, I shall arm myself to meet it." So saying he rashly broke the lock. "Within the coffer he found nothing but a linen cloth, folded between two tablets of copper. On unfolding it he beheld painted on it figures of men on horseback, of fierce demeanor, clad in turbans and robes of various colors, after the fashion of the Arabs, with scimiters hanging from their necks and crossbows at their saddle backs, and they carried banners and pennons with divers devices. Above them was inscribed in Greek characters, "Rash monarch! behold the men who are to hurl thee from thy throne and subdue thy kingdom 1" At sight of these things the king was troubled in spirit, and dismay fell upon his attendants. While they were yet regarding the paintings, it seemed as if the figures began to move, and a faint sound of warlike tumult arose from the cloth, with the clash of cymbal and bray of trumpet, the neigh of steed and shout of army; but all was heard indis- tinctly, as if afar off, or in a reverie or dream. The more they gazed, the plainer became the motion and the louder the noise ; and the linen cloth rolled forth, and amplified, and spread out, as it were, a mighty banner, and filled the hall and mingled with the air, until its texture was no longer visible, or appeared as a transparent cloud. And the shad- owy figures became all in motion, and the din and uproar Ceo;ei)d8 of tl?e Sor>que8t of Spafp 433 became fiercer and fiercer; and whether the whole were an animated picture, or a vision, or an array of embodied spirits, conjured up by supernatural power, no one present could tell. They beheld before them a great field of battle, where Chris- tians and Moslems were engaged in deadly conflict. They heard the rush and tramp of steeds, the blast of trump and clarion, the clash of cymbal, and the stormy din of a thousand drums. There was the clash of swords, and maces, and battle-axes, with the whistling of arrows and the hurtling of darts and lances. The Christians quailed before the foe ; the infidels pressed upon them and put them to utter rout ; the standard of the cross was cast down, the banner of Spain was trodden under foot, the air resounded with shouts of triumph, with yells of fury, and with the groans of dying men. Amid the flying squadrons King Roderick beheld a crowned warrior, whose back was toward him, but whose armor and device were his own, and who was mounted on a white steed that resembled his own war-horse Orelia. In the confusion of the flight, the warrior was dismounted and was no longer to be seen, and Orelia galloped wildly through the field of battle without a rider. Roderick stayed to see no more, but rushed from the fatal hall, followed by his terrified attendants. They fled through the outer chamber, where the gigantic figure with the whirl- ing mace had disappeared from his pedestal, and on issuing into the open air, they found the two ancient guardians of the tower lying dead at the portal, as though they had been crushed by some mighty blow. All nature, which had been clear and serene, was now in wild uproar. The heavens were darkened by heavy clouds; loud bursts of thunder rent the air, and the earth was deluged with rain and rattling hail. The king ordered that the iron portal should be closed, but the door was immovable, and the cavaliers were dismayed by the tremendous turmoil and the mingled shouts and groans that continued to prevail within. The king and his train hastened back to Toledo, pursued and pelted by the tempest. The mountains shook and echoed with the thunder, trees * * *19 VOL. I. 434 U/orl^s of U/asb,ii)$tOQ Irvir?<} were uprooted and blown down, and the Tagus raged and roared and flowed above its banks. It seemed to the affrighted courtiers as if the phantom legions of the tower had issued forth and mingled with the storm, for amid the claps of thunder and the howling of the wind, they fancied they heard the sound of the drums and trumpets, the shouts of armies and the rush of steeds. Thus beaten by tempest and over- whelmed with horror, the king and his courtiers arrived at Toledo, clattering across the bridge of the Tagus, and entering the gate in headlong confusion as though they had been pursued by an enemy. In the morning the heavens were again serene, and all nature was restored to tranquillity. The king, therefore, issued forth with his cavaliers, and took the road to the tower, followed by a great multitude, for he was anxious once more to close the iron door and shut up those evils that threatened to overwhelm the laud. But lo! on coming in sight of the tower, a new wonder met their eyes. An eagle appeared high in the air, seeming to descend from heaven. He bore in his beak a burning brand, and lighting on the summit of the tower, fanned the fire with his wings. In a little while the edifice burst forth into a blaze as though it had been built of rosin, and the flames mounted into the air with a brilliancy more dazzling than the sun ; nor did they cease until every stone was consumed and the whole was re- duced to a heap of ashes. Then there came a vast flight of birds, small of size and sable of hue, darkening the sky like a cloud; and they descended and wheeled in circles round the ashes, causing so great a wind with their wings that the whole was borne up into the air, and scattered throughout all Spain, and wherever a particle of that ashes fell it was as a stain of blood. It is furthermore recorded by ancient men and writers of former days, that all those on whom this dust fell were afterward slain in battle, when the country was conquered by the Arabs, and that the destruction of thia necromantic tower was a sign and token of the approaching perdition of Spain. Ce<$ei?d8 of tl?e d8 of tl?e Sooquest of Spafi) 437 He took the letter from his bosom and presented it to his lord. As Count Julian read it his countenance darkened and fell. "This," said he, bitterly, "is my reward for serving a tyrant ; and these are the honors heaped on me by my country while fighting its battles in a foreign landl May evil over- take me, and infamy rest upon my name, if I cease until I have full measure of revenge." Count Julian was vehement in his passions and took no counsel in his wrath. His spirit was haughty in the extreme, but destitute of true magnanimity, and when once wounded, turned to gall and venom. A dark and malignant hatred entered into his soul, not only against Don Roderick, but against all Spain : he looked upon it as the scene of his dis- grace, a land in which his family was dishonored, and, in seeking to avenge the wrongs he had suffered from his sov- ereign, he meditated against his native country one of th# blackest schemes of treason that ever entered into the human heart. The plan of Count Julian was to hurl King Roderick from his throne, and to deliver all Spain into the hands of the in- fidels. In concerting and executing this treacherous plot it seemed as if his whole nature was changed; every lofty and generous sentiment was stifled, and he stooped to the meanest dissimulation. His first object was to extricate his family from the power of the king and to remove it from Spain before his treason should be known; his next, to deprive the country of its remaining means of defense against an invader. With these dark purposes at heart, but with an open and serene countenance, he crossed to Spain and repaired to the court at Toledo. Wherever he came he was hailed with acclamation, as a victorious general, and appeared in the presence of his sovereign radiant with the victory at Ceuta. Concealing from King Roderick his knowledge of the out- rage upon his house, he professed nothing but the most devoted loyalty and affection. The king loaded him with favors; seeking to appease hi 438 U/orKs of U/asl?ii?$toi> own conscience by heaping honors upon the father in atone- ment of the deadly wrong inflicted upon his child. He re- garded Count Julian, also, as a man able and experienced in warfare, and took his advice in all matters relating to the military affairs of the kingdom. The count magnified the dangers that threatened the frontier under his command, and prevailed upon the king to send thither the best horses and arms remaining from the time of Witiza, there being no need of them in the center of Spain, in its present tranquil state. The residue, at his suggestion, was stationed on the frontiers of Gallia; so that the kingdom was left almost wholly without defense against any sudden irruption from the south. Having thus artfully arranged his plans, and all things being prepared for his return to Africa, he obtained permis- sion to withdraw his daughter from the court, and leave her with her mother, the Countess Frandina, who, he pretended, lay dangerously ill at Algeziras. Count Julian issued out of the gate of the city, followed by a shining band of chosen followers, while beside him, on a palfrey, rode the pale and weeping Florinda. The populace hailed and blessed him as he passed, but his heart turned from them with loathing. As he crossed the bridge of the Tagus he looked back with a dark brow upon Toledo, and raised his mailed hand and shook it at the royal palace of King Roderick, which crested the rocky height. "A father's curse," said he, "be upon thee and thine ! may desolation fall upon thy dwelling, and confusion and defeat upon thy realm!" In his journeyings through the country he looked round him with a malignant eye ; the pipe of the shepherd and the song of the husbandman were as discord to his soul ; every sight and sound of human happiness sickened him at heart, and, in the bitterness of his spirit, he prayed that he might see the whole scene of prosperity laid waste with fire and sword by the invader. The story of domestic outrage and disgrace had already been made known to the Countess Frandina. When the Ce$er?ds of tl?e $toi> Irvii)$ by a mother's feelings, her speech aroused the assembled cavaliers to fury. The count took advantage of the excitement of the mo- ment to unfold his plan. The main object was to dethrone Don Roderick, and give the crown to the sons of the late King Witiza. By this means they would visit the sins of the tyrant upon his head, and, at the same time, restore the regal honors to their line. For this purpose their own force would be sufficient, but they might procure the aid of Muza ben Nosier, the Arabian general, in Mauritania, who would no doubt gladly send a part of his troops into Spain to assist in the enterprise. The plot thus suggested by Count Julian received the unholy sanction of Bishop Oppas, who engaged to aid it secretly with all his influence and means; for he had great wealth and possessions, and many retainers. The example of the reverend prelate determined all who might otherwise have wavered, and they bound themselves by dreadful oaths to be true to the conspiracy. Count Julian undertook to proceed to Africa, and seek the camp of Muza, to negotiate for his aid, while the bishop was to keep about the person of King Roderick, and lead him into the net prepared for him. All things being thus arranged, Count Julian gathered together his treasure, and taking his wife and daughter and all his household, abandoned the country he meant to betray ; embarking at Malaga for Ceuta. The gate in the wall of that city, through which they went forth, continued for ages to bear the name of Puerto, de la Cava, or the gate of the harlot ; for such was the opprobrious and unmerited appella- tion bestowed by the Moors on the unhappy Florinda.* * Bleda. Cap. 4, of tl?e Sorjquest of Spaii? 441 CHAPTER NINE SECRET VISIT OP COUNT JULIAN TO THE ARAB CAMP FIRST EXPEDITION OF TARIC EL TUERTO WHEN Count Julian had placed his family in security in Ceuta, surrounded by soldiery devoted to his fortunes, he took with him a few confidential followers, and departed in secret for the camp of the Arabian Emir, Muza ben Nosier. The camp was spread out in one of those pastoral valleys which lie at the feet of the Barbary hills, with the great range of the Atlas mountains towering in the distance. In the motley army here assembled were warriors of every tribe and nation that had been united by pact or conquest in the cause of Islam. There were those who had followed Muza from the fertile regions of Egypt, across the deserts of Barca, and those who had joined his standard from among the sunburned tribes of Mauritania. There were Saracen and Tartar, Syrian and Copt, and swarthy Moor; sumptuous warriors from the civilized cities of the east, and the gaunt and predatory rovers of the desert. The greater part of the army, however, was composed of Arabs ; but differing greatly from the first rude hordes that enlisted under the banner of Mahomet. Almost a century of continual wars with the cultivated nations of the east had rendered them accomplished warriors; and the occasional sojourn in luxurious countries and populous cities had acquainted them with the arts and habits of civilized life. Still the roving, restless, and predatory habits of the genuine son of Ishmael prevailed, in defiance of every change of chme or situation. Count Julian found the Arab conqueror Muza surrounded by somewhat of Oriental state and splendor. He was ad- vanced in life, but of a noble presence, and concealed his age by tinging his hair and beard with henna. The count as- sumed an air of soldier-like frankness and decision when he 442 U/orK of came into his presence. "Hitherto," said he, "we have been enemies, but I come to thee hi peace, and it rests with thee to make me the most devoted of thy friends. I have no longer country or king. Roderick the Goth is a usurper, and my deadly foe; he has wounded my honor in the tender- est point, and my country affords me no redress. Aid me in my vengeance, and I will deliver all Spain into thy hands : a land far exceeding in fertility and wealth all the vaunted regions thou hast conquered in Tingitania." The heart of Muza leaped with joy at these words, for he was a bold and ambitious conqueror, and, having overrun all western Africa, had often cast a wistful eye to the mountains of Spain, as he beheld them brightening beyond the waters of the strait. Still he possessed the caution of a veteran, and feared to engage in an enterprise of such moment, and to carry his arms into another division of the globe, without the approbation of his sovereign. Having drawn from Count Julian the particulars of his plan, and of the means he possessed to carry it into effect, he laid them before his confidential counselors and officers, and demanded their opinion. "These words of Count Julian," said he, "may be false and deceitful; or he may not possess the power to ful- fill his promises. The whole may be a pretended treason to draw us on to our destruction. It is more natural that he should be treacherous to us than to his country." Among the generals of Muza was a gaunt swarthy vet- eran, scarred with wounds; a very Arab, whose great de- light was roving and desperate enterprise, and who cared for nothing beyond his steed, his lance, and scimiter. He was a native of Damascus ; his name was Taric ben Zeyad, but, from having lost an eye, he was known among the Spaniards by the appellation of Taric el Tuerto, or Taric, the one-eyed. The hot blood of this veteran Ishmaelite was in a ferment when he heard of a new country to invade, and vast regions to subdue, and he dreaded lest the cautious hesitation of Muza should permit the glorious prize to escape them. "You speak doubtingly," said he, "of the words of this Christian Ce<$ei}ds of tfoe 9oijque8t of Spali) 443 cavalier, but their truth is easily to be ascertained. Give me four galleys and a handful of men, and I will depart with this Count Julian, skirt the Christian coast, and bring thee back tidings of the land, and of his means to put it in our power." The words of the veteran pleased Muza ben Nosier, and he gave his consent ; and Taric departed with four galleys and five hundred men, guided by the traitor Julian.* This first expedition of the Arabs against Spam took place, accord- ing to certain historians, in the year of our Lord seven hun- dred and twelve ; though others differ on this point, as indeed they do upon almost every point in this early period of Span- ish history. The date to which the judicious chroniclers incline, is that of seven hundred and ten, in the month of July. It would appear from some authorities, also, that the galleys of Taric cruised along the coasts of Andalusia and Lusitania, under the feigned character of merchant barks, nor is this at all improbable, while they were seeking merely to observe the land, and get a knowledge of the harbors. Wherever they touched, Count Julian dispatched emissaries to assemble his friends and adherents at an appointed place. They gathered together secretly at Gezira Alhadra, that is to say, the Green Island, where they held a conference with Count Julian in presence of Taric ben Zeyad. f Here they again avowed their readiness to flock to his standard when- ever it should be openly raised, and made known their vari- ous preparations for a rebellion. Taric was convinced, by all that he had seen and heard, that Count Julian had not de- ceived them, either as to his disposition or his means to be- tray his country. Indulging his Arab inclinations, he made an inroad into the land, collected great spoil and many cap- tives, and bore off his plunder in triumph to Muza, as a specimen of the riches to be gamed by the conquest of the Christian land.J * Beuter, Cron. Gem. de Espans, L. 1, c. 28. Marmol. Descrip. d Africa, L. 2, o. 10. f Bleda. Cron. o. 5. J Conde. Hist. Dom Arab, part 1, o. 8. 444 CHAPTER TEN LETTER OF MUZA TO THE CA1JPH SECOND EXPEDITION OF TARIC EL TUERTO ON hearing the tidings brought by Taric el Tuerto, and beholding the spoil he had collected, Muza wrote a letter to the Caliph Waled Almanzor, setting forth the traitorous proffer of Count Julian, and the probability, through his means, of making a successful invasion of Spam. " A new land," said he, "spreads itself out before our delighted eyes, and invitee our conquest. A land, too, that equals Syria in the fertility of its soil, and the serenity of its sky; Yemen, or Arabia the happy, in its delightful temperature; India in its flowers and spices; Hegiaz in its fruits and flowers; Cathay in its precious minerals, and Aden in the excellence of its ports and harbors. It is populous also, and wealthy; having many splendid cities and majestic monuments of an- cient art. What is to prevent this glorious land from be- coming the inheritance of the faithful? Already we have overcome the tribes of Berbery, of Zab, of Derar, of Zaara, Masamuda and Sus, and the victorious standard of Islam floats on the towers of Tangier. But four leagues of sea separate us from the opposite coast. One word from my sovereign, and the conquerors of Africa will pour their legions into Andalusia, rescue it from the domination of the unbeliever, and subdue it to the law of the Koran." * The caliph was overjoyed with the contents of the letter. "God is great!" exclaimed he, "and Mahomet is his prophet! It has been foretold by the embassador of God that his law should extend to the ultimate parts of the west, and be car- ried by the sword into new and unknown regions. Behold another land is opened for the triumphs of the faithful . It * Coode, part 1, o. 8. Ce$ei?d of tl?e Conquest of Spafi? 4io is the will of Allah, and be his sovereign will obeyed." So the caliph sent missives to Muza, authorizing him to under- take the conquest. Upon this there was a great stir of preparation, and numerous vessels were assembled and equipped at Tangier to convey the invading army across the straits. Twelve thou- sand men were chosen for this expedition : most of them light Arabian troops, seasoned in warfare, and fitted for hardy and rapid enterprise. Among them were many horsemen, mounted on fleet Arabian steeds. The whole was put under the command of the veteran, Taric el Tnerto, or the one- eyed, in whom Muza reposed implicit confidence as in a second self. Taric accepted the command with* joy; his martial fire was roused at the idea of having such an army under his sole command, and such a country to overrun, and he secretly determined never to return unless victorious. He chose a dark night to convey his troops across the straits of Hercules, and by break of day they began to dis- embark at Tarifa before the country had time to take the alarm. A few Christians hastily assembled from the neigh- borhood and opposed their landing, but were easily pat to flight. Taric stood on the seaside, and watched until the last squadron had landed, and all the horses, armor, and muni- tions of war were brought on shore; he then gave orders to set fire to the ships. The Moslems were struck with terror when they beheld their fleet wrapped in flames and smoke, and sinking beneath the waves. "How shall we escape," exclaimed they, "if the fortune of war should be against us?" "There is no escape for the coward!" cried Taric, "the brave man thinks of none; your only chance is victory." "But how without ships shall we ever return to our homes?" "Your home," replied Taric, "is before you; but you must win it with your swords." While Taric was yet talking with his followers, says one of the ancient chroniclers, a Christian female was descried waving a white pennon on a reed, in signal of peace. On being brought into the presence of Taric, she prostrated her- 446 UYorKs of U/asl?ii?$top self before him. "Senior," said she, "I am an ancient woman ; and it is now full sixty years past and gone since, as I was keeping vigils one winter's night by the fireside, I heard my father, who was an exceeding old man, read a prophecy said to have been written by a holy friar; and this was the purport of the prophecy, that a time would arrive when OUT country would be invaded and conquered by a people from Africa of a strange garb, a strange tongue, and a strange religion. They were to be led by a strong and valiant captain, who would be known by these signs : on his right shoulder he would have a hairy mole, and his right arm would be much longer than the left, and of such length as to enable hifn to cover his knee with his hand without bending his body. Taric listened to the old beldame with grave attention, and when she had concluded, he laid bare his shoulder, and lo! there was the mole as it had been described ; his right arm, also, was in verity found to exceed the other in length, though not to the degree that had been mentioned. Upon this the Arab host shouted for joy and felt assured of con- quest. The discreet Antonio Agapida, though he records this circumstance as it is set down in ancient chronicle, yet with- holds his belief from the pretended prophecy, considering the whole a cunning device of Taric to increase the courage of his troops. "Doubtless," says he, "there was a collusion between this ancient sybil and the crafty son of Ishmael ; for these infidel leaders were full of damnable inventions to work upon the superstitious fancies of their followers, and to in- spire them with a blind confidence in the success of their arms." Be this as it may, the veteran Taric took advantage of the excitement of his soldiery, and led them forward to gain possession of a stronghold, which was, in a manner, the key to all the adjacent country. This was a lofty mountain or promontory almost surrounded by the sea, and connected with the mainland by a narrow isthmus. It was called the Ce$ei?ds of tf?e Qopquest of Spair? 447 rock of Calpe, and, like the opposite rock of Ceuta, com- manded the entrance to the Mediterranean Sea. Here, in old times, Hercules had set up one of his pillars, and the city of Heraclea had been built. As Taric advanced against this promontory, he was op- posed by a hasty levy of the Christians, who had assembled under the banner of a Gothic noble of great power and im- portance, whose domains lay along the mountainous coast of the Mediterranean. The name of this Christian cavalier was Theodomir, but he has universally been called Tadmir by the Arabian historians, and is renowned as being the first com- mander that made any stand against the inroad of the Mos- lems. He was about forty years of age ; hardy, prompt, and sagacious ; and had all the Gothic nobles been equally vigi- lant and shrewd in their defense, the banner of Islam would never have triumphed over the land. Theodomir had but seventeen hundred men under his command, and these but rudely armed ; yet he made a reso- lute stand against the army of Taric, and defended the pass to the promontory with great valor. He was, at length, obliged to retreat, and Taric advanced and planted his stand- ard on the rock of Calpe, and fortified it as his stronghold, and as the means of securing an entrance into the land. To commemorate his first victory, he changed the name of the promontory, and called it Gibel Taric, or the mountain of Taric, but in process of time the name has gradually been altered to Gibraltar. In the meantime, the patriotic chieftain Theodomir, hav- ing collected his routed forces, encamped with them on the skirts of the mountains, and summoned the country round to join his standard. He sent off missives in all speed to the king, imparting in brief and blunt terms the news of the in- vasion, and craving assistance with equal frankness. "Sen- ior," said he, in his letter, "the legions of Africa % are upon us, but whether they come from heaven or earth I know not. They seem to have fallen from the clouds, for they have no ships. "We have been taken by surprise, overpowered by 448 U/orl^s of U/asl?ii?$toi} numbers, and obliged to retreat; and they have fortified themselves in our territory. Send us aid, senior, with instant speed, or rather, come yourself to our assistance."* CHAPTER ELEVEN MEASURES OF DON RODERICK ON HEARING OF THE INVA- SIONEXPEDITION OF ATAULPHO VISION OF TARIC WHEN Don Roderick heard that legions of turbaned troops had poured into the land from Africa, he called to mind the visions and predictions of the necromantic tower, and great fear came upon him. But, though sunk from his former hardihood and virtue, though enervated by indul- gence, and degraded in spirit by a consciousness of crime, he was resolute of soul, and roused himself to meet the coming danger. He summoned a hasty levy of horse and foot, amounting to forty thousand; but now were felt the effects of the crafty counsel of Count Julian; for the best of the horses and armor intended for the public service had been sent into Africa, and were really in possession of the traitors. Many nobles, it is true, took the field with the sumptuous array with which they had been accustomed to appear at tournaments and jousts, but most of their vassals were desti- tute of weapons, and cased in cuirasses of leather or suits of armor almost consumed by rust. They were without dis- cipline or animation; and their horses, like themselves, pampered by slothful peace, were little fitted to bear the heat, the dust, and toil of long campaigns. This army Don Roderick put under the command of his kinsman Ataulpho, a prince of the royal blood of the Goths, and of a noble and generous nature ; and he ordered him to march with all speed to meet the foe, and to recruit his forces on the way with the troops of Theodomir. In the meantime, Taric el Tuerto had received large * Conde. Part 1, c. 9. Ce$ei)ds of tl?e Qopquest of Spaip 449 re-enforcements from Africa, and the adherents of Count Julian, and all those discontented with the sway of Don Roderick, had flocked to his standard ; for many were de- ceived by the representations of Count Julian, and thought that the Arabs had come to aid him in placing the sons of Witiza upon the throne. Guided by the count, the troops of Taric penetrated into various parts of the country, and laid waste the land ; bringing back loads of spoil to their strong- hold at the rock of Calpe. The Prince Ataulpho marched with his army through Andalusia, and was joined by Theodomir with his troops; he met with various detachments of the enemy foraging the country, and had several bloody skirmishes ; but he succeeded in driving them before him, and they retreated to the rock of Calpe, where Taric lay gathered up with the main body of his army. The prince encamped not far from the bay which spreads itself out before the promontory. In the evening he dis- patched the veteran Theodomir, with a trumpet, to demand a parley of the Arab chieftain, who received the envoy in his tent surrounded by his captains. Theodomir was frank and abrupt in speech, for the most of his life had been passed far from courts. He delivered, in round terms, the message of the Prince Ataulpho; upbraiding the Arab general with his wanton invasion of the land, and summoning him to sur- render his army or to expect no mercy. The single eye of Taric el Tuerto glowed like a coal of fire at this message. "Tell your commander," replied he, "that I have crossed the strait to conquer Spain, nor will I return until I have accomplished my purpose. Tell him I have men skilled in war, and armed in proof, with whose aid I trust soon to give a good account of his rabble host." A murmur of applause passed through the assemblage of Moslem captains. Theodomir glanced on them a look of defiance, but his eye rested on a renegade Christian, one of his own ancient comrades, and a relation of Count Julian. "As to you, Don Greybeard," said he, "you who turn apos- 450 U/or^s of tate in your declining age, I here pronounce you a traitor to your God, your king and country ; and stand ready to prove it this instant upon your body, if field be granted me." The traitor knight was stung with rage at these words, for truth rendered them piercing to the heart. He would have immediately answered to the challenge, but Taric for- bade it, and ordered that the Christian envoy should be con- ducted from the camp. "'Tis well," replied Theodomir, ' ' God will give me the field which you deny. Let yon hoary apostate look to himself to-morrow in the battle, for I pledge myself to use my lance upon no other foe until it has shed his blood upon the native soil he has betrayed." So saying, he left the camp, nor could the Moslem chieftains help admiring the honest indignation of this patriot knight, while they secretly despised his renegade adversary. The ancient Moorish chroniclers relate many awful por- tents, and strange and mysterious visions, which appeared to the commanders of either army during this anxious night. Certainly it was a night of fearful suspense, and Moslem and Christian looked forward with doubt to the fortune of the coming day. The Spanish sentinel walked his pensive round, listening occasionally to the vague sounds from the distant rock of Calpe, and eying it as the mariner eyes the thunder cloud, pregnant with terror and destruction. The Arabs, too, from their lofty cliffs, beheld the numerous camp-fires of the Christians gradually lighted up, and saw that they were a powerful host; at the same time the night breeze brought to their ears the sullen roar of the sea which separated them from Africa. When they considered their perilous situation, an army on one side, with a whole nation aroused to re-enforce it, and on the other an impassable sea, the spirits of many of the warriors were cast down, and they repented the day when they had ventured into this hostile land. Taric marked their despondency, but said nothing. Scarce had the first streak of morning light trembled along the sea, however, when he summoned his principal warriors to his tent. "Be of good cheer," said he, "Allah is with us, and Ce$ei?d8 of tb.e Qopquest of Spair? 451 has sent his prophet to give assurance of his aid. Scarce had I retired to my tent last night when a man of a majestic and venerable presence stood before me. He was taller by a palm than the ordinary race of men, his flowing beard was of a golden hue, and his eyes were so bright that they seemed to send forth flashes of fire. I have heard the Emir Bahamet, and other ancient men, describe the Prophet, whom they had seen many times while on earth, and such was his form and lineament. 'Fear nothing, O Taric, from the morrow,' said he, ' I will be with thee hi the fight. Strike boldly, then, and conquer. Those of thy followers who survive the battle will have this land for an inheritance ; for those who fall, a man- sion in paradise is prepared, and immortal houris await their coming. ' He spake and vanished ; I heard a strain of celes- tial melody, and my tent was filled with the odors of Arabia the happy." "Such," says the Spanish chroniclers, "was another of the arts by which this arch son of Ishmael sought to animate the hearts of his followers; and the pretended vision has been recorded by the Arabian writers as a veritable occurrence. Marvelous, indeed, was the effect produced by it upon the infidel soldiery, who now cried out with eagerness to be led against the foe." CHAPTER TWELVE BATTLE OF CALPE FATE OF ATAULPHO THE gray summits of the rock of Calpe brightened with the first rays of morning, as the Christian army issued forth from its encampment. The Prince Ataulpho rode from squadron to squadron, animating his soldiers for the battle. "Never should we sheath our swords," said he, "while these infidels have a footing in the land. They are pent up within yon rocky mountain ; we must assail them in their rugged hold. We have a long day before us ; let not the setting sun ghine upon one of their host who is not a fugitive, a captive, or a corpse." 452 U/orks of U/asbip^toi? The words of the prince were received with shouts, and the army moved toward the promontory. As they advanced, they heard the clash of cymbals and the bray of trumpets, and the rocky bosom of the mountain glittered with helms and spears and scimiters; for the Arabs, inspired with fresh confidence by the words of Taric, were sallying forth, with flaunting banners, to the combat. The gaunt Arab chieftain stood upon a rock as his troops marched by ; his buckler was at his back, and he brandished in his hand a double-pointed spear. Calling upon the several leaders by their names, he exhorted them to direct their at- tacks against the Christian captains, and especially against Ataulpho, "for the chiefs being slain," said he, "their fol- lowers will vanish from before us like the morning mist." The Gothic nobles were easily to be distinguished by the splendor of their arms, but the Prince Ataulpho was con- spicuous above all the rest for the youthful grace and majesty of his appearance, and the bravery of his array. He was mounted on a superb Andalusian charger, richly caparisoned with crimson velvet, embroidered with gold. His surcoat was of like color and adornment, and the plumes that waved above his burnished helmet were of the purest white. Ten mounted pages, magnificently attired, followed him to the field, but their duty was not so much to fight as to attend upon their lord, and to furnish him with steed or weapon. The Christian troops, though irregular and undisciplined, were full of native courage ; for the old warrior spirit of their Gothic sires still glowed in their bosoms. There were two battalions of infantry, but Ataulpho stationed them in the rear, "for God forbid," said he, "that foot-soldiers should have the place of honor in the battle, when I have so many valiant cavaliers." As the armies drew nigh to each other, however, it was discovered that the advance of the Arabs was composed of infantry. Upon this the cavaliers checked their steeds, and requested that the foot soldiery might ad- vance and disperse this losel crew, holding it beneath their dignity to contend with pedestrian foes. The prince, how of tl?e Sopquest of Spafp 453 ever, commanded them to charge ; upon which, putting spurs to their steeds, they rushed upon the foe. The Arabs stood the shock manfully, receiving the horses upon the points of their lances ; many of the riders were shot down with bolts from crossbows, or stabbed with the pon- iards of the Moslems. The cavaliers succeeded, however, in breaking into the midst of the battalion and throwing it into confusion, cutting down some with their swords, transpiercing others with their spears, and trampling many under the hoofs of their horses. At this moment they were attacked by a band of Spanish horsemen, the recreant partisans of Count Julian. Their assault bore hard upon their countrymen, who were disordered by the contest with the foot-soldiers, and many a loyal Christian knight fell beneath the sword of an unnatural foe. The foremost among these recreant warriors was the rene- gado cavalier whom Theodomir had challenged in the tent of Taric. He dealt his blows about him with a powerful arm and with malignant fury, for nothing is more deadly than the hatred of an apostate. In the midst of his career he was espied by the hardy Theodomir, who came spurring to the encounter: "Traitor," cried he, "I have kept my vow. This lance has been held sacred from all other foes to make a passage for thy perjured soul." The renegade had been renowned for prowess before he became a traitor to his country, but guilt will sap the courage of the stoutest heart. When he beheld Theodomir rushing upon him, he would have turned and fled ; pride alone withheld him ; and, though an admirable master of defense, he lost all skill to ward the attack of his adversary. At the first assault the lance of Theodomir pierced him through and through; he fell to the earth, gnashed his teeth as he rolled hi the dust, but yielded his breath without uttering a word. The battle now became general, and lasted throughout the morning with varying success. The stratagem of Taric, however, began to produce its effect. The Christian leaders and most conspicuous cavaliers were singled out and sever- 454 U/orXs of U/asl?io^toi> Irvti?$ ally assailed by overpowering numbers. They fought desper- ately and performed miracles of prowess, but fell, one by one, beneath a thousand wounds. Still, the battle lingered on throughout a great part of the day, and as the declining sun shone through the clouds of dust, it seemed as if the conflict- ing hosts were wrapped in smoke and fire. The Prince Ataulpho saw that the fortune of battle was against him. He rode about the field calling out the names of the bravest of his knights, but few answered to his call ; the rest lay mangled on the field. With this handful of warriors he endeavored to retrieve the day, when he was assailed by Tenderos, a partisan of Count Julian, at the head of a body of recreant Christians. At sight of this new adversary, fire flashed from the eyes of the prince, for Tenderos had been brought up in his father's palace. "Well dost thou, traitor!" cried he, "to attack the son of thy lord, who gave thee bread; thou, who hast betrayed thy country and thy God!" So saying, he seized a lance from one of his pages, and charged furiously upon the apostate ; but Tenderos met him in mid career, and the lance of the prince was shivered upon his shield. Ataulpho then grasped his mace, which hung at his saddle bow, and a doubtful fight ensued. Tenderos was powerful of frame and superior in the use of his weapons, but the curse of treason seemed to paralyze his arm. He wounded Ataulpho slightly between the greaves of his armor, but the prince dealt a blow with his mace that crushed through helm and skull and reached the brains ; and Tenderos fell dead to earth, his armor rattling as he fell. At the same moment, a javelin hurled by an Arab trans- pierced the horse of Ataulpho, which sunk beneath him. The prince seized the reins of the steed of Tenderos, but the faithful animal, as though he knew him to be the foe of his late lord, reared and plunged and refused to let him mount. The prince, however, used him as a shield to ward off the press of foes, while with his sword he defended himself against those in front of him. Taric ben Zeyad arrived at Ce$ei?ds of tl?e prince, and borne about the field of battle, with the sound of trumpets, atabals and cymbals. When the Christians beheld the surcoat, and knew the features of the prince, they were struck with horror, and heart and hand failed them. Theodomir endeavored in vain to rally them; they threw by their weapons and fled; and they continued to fly, and the enemy to pursue and slay them, until the darkness of the night. The Moslems then returned and plundered the Christian camp, where they found abun- dant spoil. CHAPTER THIRTEEN TERROR OF THE COUNTRY RODERICK ROUSES HIMSELF TO ARMS THE scattered fugitives of the Christian army spread ter- ror throughout the land. The inhabitants of the towns and villages gathered around them as they applied at their gates for food, or lay themselves down faint and wounded beside the public fountains. When they related the tale of their de- feat, old men shook their heads and groaned, and the women uttered cries and lamentations. So strange and unlooked- for a calamity filled them with consternation and despair; for it was long since the alarm of war had sounded in their land, and this was a warfare that carried chains and slavery and all kinds of horrors in its train. Don Roderick was seated with his beauteous queen, Exilona, in the royal palace which crowned the rocky sum- mit of Toledo, when the bearer of ill-tidings came galloping over the bridge of the Tagus. "What tidings from the army?" demanded the king, as the panting messenger was brought into his presence. "Tidings of great woe," ex- claimed the soldier. "The prince has fallen in battle. I saw his head and surcoat upon a Moorish lance and the army was overthrown and fled." At hearing these words, Roderick covered his face with Ce^epds of tl?e 0 U7orK8 of who were present looked upon this as an evil omen, and counseled tie king not to set forward on his march that day ; but, disregarding all auguries and portents, he ordered the royal banner to be put upon a lance and gave it in charge of another standard bearer : then commanding the trumpets to be sounded, he departed at the head of his host to seek the enemy. The field where this great army assembled was called, from the solemn pledge given by the nobles and the soldiery, El campo de la verdad; or, The field of Truth ; a name, says the sage chronicler Abulcasim, which it bears even to the present day.* CHAPTER FOURTEEN MARCH OF THE GOTHIC ARMY ENCAMPMENT ON THE BANKS OP THE GU AD ALETE MYSTERIOUS PREDICTIONS OF A PALMER CONDUCT OF PELISTES THEREUPON THE hopes of Andalusia revived as this mighty host stretched in lengthening lines along its fertile plains ; from morn until night it continued to pour along, with sound of drum and trumpet; it was led on by the proudest nobles and bravest cavaliers in the land, and, had it possessed arms and discipline, might have undertaken the conquest of the world. After a few days' march, Don Roderick arrived in sight of the Moslem army, encamped on the banks of the Guada- lete,f where that beautiful stream winds through the fertile land of Xeres. The infidel host was far inferior in number to the Christians, but then it was composed of hardy and dexterous troops, seasoned to war and admirably armed. The camp shone gloriously in the setting sun, and resounded with the clash of cymbal, the note of the trumpet, and the neighing of fiery Arabian steeds. There were swarthy * La Perdida de Espana, cap. 9. Bleda, Lib. 2, c. 8. f This name was given to it subsequently by the Arabs. It signifies the River of Death. Vide Pedruza, HisK Granad, p. 3, c. 1. Ce$ei>ds of tl?e ^opquest of Spali? 461 troops from every nation of the African coast, together with legions from Syria and Egypt, while the light Bedouins were careering about the adjacent plain. What grieved and in- censed the spirits of the Christian warriors, however, was to behold, a little apart from the Moslem host, an encampment of Spanish cavaliers, with the banner of Count Julian waving above their tents. They were ten thousand in number, valiant and hardy men, the most experienced of Spanish soldiery, most of them having served in the African wars ; they were well armed and appointed also, with the weapons of which the count had beguiled his sovereign; and it was a grievous sight to behold such good soldiers arrayed against their country and their faith. The Christians pitched their tents about the hour of ves- pers, at a short league distant from the enemy, and remained gazing with anxiety and awe upon this barbaric host that had caused such terror and desolation in the land: for the first sight of a hostile encampment in a country disused to war is terrible to the newly enlisted soldier. A marvelous occurrence is recorded by the Arabian chroniclers as having taken place in the Christian camp, but discreet Spanish writers relate it with much modification, and consider it a stratagem of the wily Bishop Oppas, to sound the loyalty of the Christian cavaliers. As several leaders of the army were seated with the bishop in his tent, conversing on the dubious fortunes of the approaching contest, an ancient pilgrim appeared at the en- trance. He was bowed down with years, his snowy beard descended to his girdle, and he supported his tottering steps with a palmer's staff. The cavaliers rose and received him with great reverence as he advanced within the tent. Hold- ing up his withered hand, "Woe, woe to Spain!" exclaimed he, "for the vial of the wrath of heaven is about to be poured out. Listen, warriors, and take warning. Four months since, having performed my pilgrimage to the sepulcher of our Lord in Palestine, I was on my return toward my native land. Wearied and way-worn, I lay down one night to sleep 462 U/or^s of beneath a palm tree, by the side of a fountain, when I was awakened by a voice saying unto me, in soft accents, 'Son of sorrow, why sleepest thou?' I opened my eyes and beheld one of fair and beauteous countenance, in shining apparel, and with glorious wings, standing by the f ountain ; and I said, 'Who art thou, who callest upon me in this deep hour of the night?' " 'Fear not,' replied the stranger, 'I am an angel from heaven, sent to reveal unto thee the fate of thy country. Behold, the sins of Roderick have come up before God, and his anger is kindled against him, and he has given him up to be invaded and destroyed. Hasten then to Spain and seek the camp of thy countrymen. Warn them that such only shall be saved as shall abandon Roderick ; but those who adhere to him shall share his punishment and shall fall under the sword of the invader.' " The pilgrim ceased and passed forth from the tent ; certain of the cavaliers followed him to detain him, that they might converse further with him about these matters, but he was no- where to be found. The sentinel before the tent said, "I saw no one come forth, but it was as if a blast of wind passed by me, and there was a rustling as of dry leaves." The cavaliers remained looking upon each other with astonishment. The Bishop Oppas sat with his eyes fixed upon the ground and shadowed by his overhanging brow. At length, breaking silence, in a low and faltering voice : "Doubtless," said he, "this message is from God; and since He has taken compassion upon us and given us notice of His impending judgment, it behooves us to hold grave council, and determine how best we may accomplish His will and avert His displeasure." The chiefs still remained silent as men confounded. Among them was a veteran noble named Pelistes. He had distinguished himself in the African wars, fighting side by side with Count Julian; but the latter had never dared to tamper with his faith, for he knew his stern integrity. Pelistes had brought with him to the camp his only son, who of tl?e fashions, gave a splendid appearance to their host ; as they marched, a cloud of dust arose and partly hid them from the sight, but still there would break forth flashes of steel and gleams of burnished gold, like rays of vivid lightning; while the sound of drum and trumpet, and the clash of Moorish cymbal, were as the warlike thunder within that stormy cloud of battle. As the armies drew near each other, the sun disappeared among gathering clouds, and the gloom of the day was in- creased by the columns of dust which rose from either host. At length the trumpets sounded for the encounter. The battle commenced with showers of arrows, stones and javelins. The Christian foot-soldiers fought to disadvantage, the greater part being destitute of helm or buckler. A battalion of light Arabian horsemen, led by a Greek renegade named Magued el Rumi, careered in front of the Christian line, launching their darts, and then wheeling off beyond the reach of the missiles hurled after them. Theodomir now brought up his seasoned troops into the action, seconded by the veteran Pelistes, and in a little while the battle became furious and promiscuous. It was glorious to behold the old Gothic valor shining forth in this hour of fearful trial. Wherever the Moslems fell, the Christians rushed forward, seized upon their horses and stripped them of their armor and their weapons. They fought desperately and successfully, for they fought for their country and their faith. The battle raged for several hours ; the field was strown with slain, and the Moors, overcome by the multitude and fury of their foes, began to falter. When Taric beheld his troops retreating before the enemy, he threw himself before them, and, rising in his stirrups, "Oh, Moslems! conquerors of Africa!" cried he, "whither would you fly? The sea is behind you, the enemy before; you have no hope but in your valor and the help of God. Do as I do and the day is ours!" With these words he put spurs to his horse and sprung among the enemy, striking to right and left, cutting down Ce$epds of tl?e Sopquest of Spair? 473 and destroying, while his steed, fierce as himself, trampled upon the foot-soldiers, and tore them with his teeth. At this moment a mighty shout arose in various parts of the field; the noontide hour had arrived. The Bishop Oppas with the two princes, who had hitherto kept their bands out of the fight, suddenly went over to the enemy, and turned their weapons upon their astonished countrymen. From that moment the fortune of the day was changed, and the field of battle became a scene of wild confusion and bloody mas- sacre. The Christians knew not whom to contend with, or whom to trust. It seemed as if madness had seized upon their friends and kinsmen, and that their worst enemies were among themselves. The courage of Don Roderick rose with his danger. Throwing off the cumbrous robes of royalty and descend- ing from his car, he sprang upon his steed Orelia, grasped his lance and buckler, and endeavored to rally his retreating troops. He was surrounded and assailed by a multitude of his own traitorous subjects, but defended himself with won- drous prowess. The enemy thickened around him ; his loyal band of cavaliers were slain, bravely fighting in his defense ; the last that was seen of the king was in the midst of the enemy, dealing death at every blow. A complete panic fell upon the Christians; they threw away their arms and fled in all directions. They were pur- sued with dreadful slaughter, until the darkness of the night rendered it impossible to distinguish friend from foe. Taric then called off his troops from the pursuit, and took posses- sion of the royal camp; and the couch which had been pressed so uneasily on the preceding night by Don Roderick now yielded sound repose to his conqueror.* * This battle is called indiscriminately by historians the battle of Guadalete, or of Xeres, from the neighborhood of that city. 474 U/orKs of U/asl?io^tor> Irufr)$ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN THB FIELD OP BATTLE AFTER THE DEFEAT THE FATE OF RODERICK ON the morning after the battle, the Arab leader Taric ben Zeyad rode over the bloody field of the Guadalete, strewed with the ruins of those splendid armies which had so lately passed like glorious pageants along the river banks. There Moor and Christian, horseman and horse, lay gashed with hideous wounds ; and the river, still red with blood, was filled with the bodies of the slain. The gaunt Arab was as a wolf roaming through the fold he had laid waste. On every side his eye reveled on the ruin of the country, on the wrecks of haughty Spain. There lay the flower of her youth- ful chivalry, mangled and destroyed, and the strength of her yeomanry prostrated in the dust. The Gothic noble lay con- founded with his vassals ; the peasant with the prince ; all ranks and dignities were mingled in one bloody massacre. When Taric had surveyed the field, he caused the spoils of the dead and the plunder of the camp to be brought before him. The booty was immense. There were massy chains, and rare jewels of gold; pearls and precious stones; rich silks and brocades, and all other luxurious decorations in which the Gothic nobles had indulged in the latter times of their degeneracy. A vast amount of treasure was likewise found, which had been brought by Roderick for the expenses of the war. Taric then ordered that the bodies of the Moslem warriors should be interred ; as for those of the Christians, they were gathered in heaps, and vast pyres of wood were formed on which they were consumed. The flames of these pyres rose high in the air, and were seen afar off in the night ; and when the Christians beheld them from the neighboring hills, they beat their breasts and tore their hair, and lamented over Ce$ei?de of tl?e quest of Spair? 479 account of another marvel of the city of Toledo. This an- cient city, which dates its existence almost from the time of the flood, claiming as its founder Tubal, the son of Japhet, and grandson of Noah,* has been the warrior hold of many generations, and a strange diversity of races. It bears traces of the artifices and devices of its various occupants, and is full of mysteries and subjects for antiquarian con- jecture and perplexity. It is built upon a high rocky prom- ontory, with the Tagus brawling round its base, and is overlooked by cragged and precipitous hills. These hills abound with clefts and caverns; and the promontory itself, on which the city is built, bears traces of vaults and subter- raneous habitations, which are occasionally discovered under the ruins of ancient houses, or beneath the churches and convents. These are supposed by some to have been the habitations or retreats of the primitive inhabitants ; for it was the cus- tom of the ancients, according to Pliny, to make caves in high and rocky places, and live hi them through fear of floods; and such a precaution, says the worthy Don Pedro de Roxas, in his history of Toledo, was natural enough among the first Toledans, seeing that they founded their city shortly after the deluge, while the memory of it was still fresh in their minds. Some have supposed these secret caves and vaults to have been places of concealment of the inhabitants and their treas- ure during times of war and violence ; or rude temples for the performance of religious ceremonies in times of persecu- tion. There are not wanting other, and grave writers, who give them a still darker purpose. In these caves, say they, were taught the diabolical mysteries of magic ; and here were performed those infernal ceremonies and incantations hor- rible in the eyes of God and man. "History," says the worthy Don Pedro de Roxas, "is full of accounts that the magi taught and performed their magic and their supersti- * Salazar, Hist. Gran. Cardinal, Prologo, vol. 1, plan 1. 480 U/orKs of U/as!?ir?^toi? tious rites in profound caves and secret places; because as this art of the devil was prohibited from the very origin of Christianity, they always sought for hidden places in which to practice it." In the time of the Moors this art, we are told, was publicly taught at their universities, the same as astronomy, philosophy, and mathematics, and at no place was it cultivated with more success than at Toledo. Hence this city has ever been darkly renowned for mystic science ; insomuch that the magic art was called by the French, and by other nations, the Arfce Toledana. Of all the marvels, however, of this ancient, picturesque, romantic, and necromantic city, none in modern times sur- pass the cave of Hercules, if we may take the account of Don Pedro de Boxas for authentic. The entrance to this cave is within the church of San Gines, situated in nearly the highest part of the city. The portal is secured by massy doors, opening within the walls of the church, but which are kept rigorously closed. The cavern extends under the city and beneath the bed of the Tagus to the distance of three leagues beyond. It is, in some places, of rare architecture, built of small stones curiously wrought, and supported by columns and arches. In the year 1546 an account of this cavern was given to the archbishop and cardinal Don Juan Martinez Siliceo, who, desirous of examining it, ordered the entrance to be cleaned. A number of persons furnished with provisions, lanterns and cords, then went in, and having proceeded about half a league, came to a place where there was a kind of chapel or temple, having a table or altar, with several statues of bronze in niches or on pedestals. "While they were regarding this mysterious scene of ancient worship or incantation, one of the statues fell, with a noise that echoed through the cavern, and smote the hearts of the adventurers with terror. Recovering from their alarm they proceeded onward, but were soon again dismayed by a roaring and rushing sound that increased as they advanced. It was made by a furious and turbulent stream, the dark waters of of tl?e Sooquest of Spaii? 481 which were too deep and broad and rapid to be crossed. By this time their hearts were so chilled with awe, and their thoughts so bewildered, that they could not seek any other passage by which they might advance; so they turned back and hastened out of the cave. It was nightfall when they sallied forth, and they were so much affected by the terror they had undergone, and by the cold and damp air of the cavern, to which they were the more sensible from its being in the summer, that all of them fell sick and several of them died. Whether the archbishop was encouraged to pursue his research and gratify his curiosity, the history does not mention. Alonzo Telles de Meneses, in his history of the world, records, that not long before his time a boy of Toledo, being threatened with punishment by his master, fled and took refuge in this cave. Fancying his pursuer at his heels, he took no heed of the obscurity or coldness of the cave, but kept groping and blundering forward, until he came forth at three leagues' distance from the city. Another and very popular story of this cave, current among the common people, was, that in its remote recesses lay concealed a great treasure of gold, left there by the Romans. Whoever would reach this precious hoard must pass through several caves or grottoes ; each having its par- ticular terror, and all under the guardianship of a ferocious dog, who has the key of all the gates and watches day and night. At the approach of any one he shows his teeth and makes a hideous growling; but no adventurer after wealth has had courage to brave a contest with this terrific cer- berus. The most intrepid candidate on record was a poor man who had lost his all, and had those grand incentives to des- perate enterprise, a wife and a large family of children. Hearing the story of this cave, he determined to venture alone in search of the treasure. He accordingly entered and wandered many hours, bewildered, about the cave. Often would he have returned, but the thoughts of his wife and * * *21 VOL. I. 482 U/orl^s of children urged him on. At length he arrived near to the place where he supposed the treasure lay hidden ; but here, to his dismay, he beheld the floor of the cavern strewn with human bones; doubtless the remains of adventurers like himself, who had been torn to pieces. Losing all courage, he now turned and sought his way out of the cave. Horrors thickened upon him as he fled. He beheld direful phantoms glaring and gibbering around him, and heard the sound of pursuit in the echoes of his footsteps. He reached his home overcome with affright; several hours elapsed before he could recover speech to tell his story, and he died on the following day. The judicious Don Pedro de Roxas holds the account of the buried treasure for fabulous, but the adventure of this unlucky man for very possible, being led on by avarice, or rather the hope of retrieving a desperate fortune. He, more- over, pronounces his dying shortly after coming forth as very probable; because the darkness of the cave, its coldness, the fright at finding the bones, the dread of meeting the imagi- nary dog, all joining to operate upon a man who was past the prime of his days, and enfeebled by poverty and scanty food, might easily cause his death. Many have considered this cave as intended originally for a sally or retreat from the city in case it should be taken ; an opinion rendered probable, it is thought, by its grandeur and great extent. The learned Salazar de Mendoza, however, in his history of the grand cardinal of Spain, affirms it as an established fact, that it was first wrought out of the rock by Tubal, the son of Japhet, and grandson of Noah, and afterward repaired and greatly augmented by Hercules the Egyptian, who made it his habitation after he had erected his pillars at the straits of Gibraltar. Here, too, it is said, he read magic to his fol- lowers, and taught them those supernatural arts by which he accomplished his vast achievements. Others think that it was a temple dedicated to Hercules ; as was the case, accord- ing to Pomponius Mela, with the great cave in the rock of Ce$er?ds of tl?e ^opqucsC of Spaip 483 Gibraltar; certain it is, that it has always borne the name of "The Cave of Hercules." There are not wanting some who have insinuated that it was a work dating from the time of the Romans, and in- tended as a cloaca or sewer of the city ; but such a groveling insinuation will be treated with proper scorn by the reader, after the nobler purposes to which he has heard this marvelous cavern consecrated. From all the circumstances here adduced from learned and reverend authors, it will be perceived that Toledo is a city fruitful of marvels, and that the necromantic tower of Her- cules has more solid foundation than most edifices of similar import in ancient history. The writer of these pages will venture to add the result of his personal researches respecting the far-famed cavern in question. Rambling about Toledo in the year 1826, in com- pany with a small knot of antiquity hunters, among whom was an eminent British painter,* and an English nobleman, f who has since distinguished himself in Spanish historical re- search, we directed our steps to the church of San Gines, and inquired for the portal of the secret cavern. The sacristan was a voluble and communicative man, and one not likely to be niggard of his tongue about anything he knew, or slow to boast of any marvel pertaining to his church ; but he professed utter ignorance of the existence of any such portal. He re- membered to have heard, however, that immediately under the entrance to the church there was an arch of mason- work, apparently the upper part of some subterranean portal; but that all had been covered up and a pavement laid down thereon ; so that whether it lead to the magic cave or the necromantic tower remains a mystery, and so must remain until some monarch or archbishop shall again have courage and authority to break the spell. * Mr. D. W kie. f Lord Mah n. 484 U/orKs of LEGEND OF CHAPTER ONE CONSTERNATION OP SPAIN CONDUCT OF THE CONQUERORS- MISSIVES BETWEEN TARIC AND MUZA THE overthrow of King Roderick and his army, on the banks of the Guadalete, threw open all southern Spain to the inroads of the Moslems. The whole country fled be fore them; villages and hamlets were hastily abandoned; the inhabitants placed their aged and infirm, their wives and children, and their most precious effects, on mules and other beasts of burden, and, driving before them their flocks and herds, made for distant parts of the land ; for the fastnesses of the mountains, and for such of the cities as yet possessed walls and bulwarks. Many gave out, faint and weary, by the way, and fell into the hands of the enemy ; others, at the distant sight of a turban or a Moslem standard, or on hearing the clangor of a trumpet, abandoned their flocks and herds and hastened their flight with their families. If their pur- suers gained upon them, they threw by their household goods and whatever was of burden, and thought themselves fort- unate to escape, naked and destitute, to a place of refuge. Thus the roads were covered with scattered flocks and herds, and with spoil of all kind. * In this legend most of the facts respecting the Arab inroads into Spain are on the authority of Arabian writers, who had the most accurate means of information. Those relative to the Spaniards are chiefly from old Spanish chronicles. It is to be remarked that the Arab accounts have most the air of verity, and the events as they relate them are in the ordinary course of common life. The Spanish ac- counts, on the contrary, are full of the marvelous ; for there were no greater romancers than the monkish chroniclers. of tl?e quest of Spaii) 485 The Arabs, however, were not guilty of wanton cruelty or ravage ; on the contrary, they conducted themselves with a moderation but seldom witnessed in more civilized con- querors. Taric el Tuerto, though a thorough man of the sword, and one whose whole thoughts were warlike, yet evinced wonderful judgment and discretion. He checked the predatory habits of his troops with a rigorous hand. They were forbidden, under pain of severe punishment, to molest any peaceable and unfortified towns, or any unarmed and unresisting people, who remained quiet in their homes. No spoil was permitted to be made excepting in fields of battle, in camps of routed foes, or in cities taken by the sword. Taric had little need to exercise his severity ; his orders were obeyed through love, rather than fear, for he was the idol of his soldiery. They admired his restless and daring spirit, which nothing could dismay. His gaunt and sinewy form, his fiery eye, his visage seamed with scars, were suited to the hardihood of his deeds; and when mounted on his foaming steed, careering the field of battle with quivering lance or flashing scimiter, his Arabs would greet him with shouts of enthusiasm. But what endeared him to them more than all was his soldier-like contempt of gain. Conquest was his only passion ; glory the only reward he coveted. As to the spoil of the conquered, he shared it freely among his fol- lowers, and squandered his own portion with open-handed generosity. While Taric was pushing his triumphant course through Andalusia, tidings of his stupendous victory on the banks of the Guadalete were carried to Muza ben Nosier. Messengers after messengers arrived, vying who should most extol the achievements of the conqueror and the grandeur of the con- quest. "Taric," said they, "has overthrown the whole force of the unbelievers in one mighty battle. Their king is slain; thousands and tens of thousands of their warriors are destroyed ; the whole land lies at our mercy, and city after city is surrendering to the victorious arms of Taric." The heart of Muza ben Nosier sickened at these tidings, 486 U/orKs of U/asl?ir)$toi> and, instead of rejoicing at the success of the cause of Islam, he trembled with jealous fear lest the triumphs of Taric in Spain should eclipse his own victories in Africa. He dis- patched missives to the Caliph Waled Almanzor, informing him of these new conquests, but taking the whole glory to himself, and making no mention of the services of Taric ; or at least, only mentioning him incidentally as a subordinate commander. "The battles," said he, "have been terrible as the day of judgment; but by the aid of Allah we have gained the victory." He then prepared in all haste to cross over into Spain and assume the command of the conquering army; and he wrote a letter in advance to interrupt Taric in the midst of his career. "Wherever this letter may find thee," said he, "I charge thee halt with thy army and await my coming. Thy force is inadequate to the subjugation of the land, and by rashly venturing thou mayst lose everything. I will be with thee speedily, with a re-enforcement of troops competent to so great an enterprise." The letter overtook the veteran Taric while in the full glow of triumphant success; having overrun some of the richest parts of Andalusia, and just received the surrender of the city of Ecija. As he read the letter the blood mantled in his sunburned cheek and fire kindled in his eye, for he pene- trated the motives of Muza. He suppressed his wrath, how- ever, and turning with a bitter expression of forced compos- ure to his captains, "Unsaddle your steeds," said he, "and plant your lances in the earth; set up your tents and take your repose : for we must await the coming of the Wali with a mighty force to assist us in our conquest." The Arab warriors broke forth with loud murmurs at these words: "What need have we of aid," cried they, "when the whole country is flying before us; and what better commander can we have than Taric to lead us on to victory?" Count Julian, also, who was present, now hastened to give his traitorous counsel. Ce<$ei)d8 of tl?e ^opquest of Spafi) 487 "Why pause," cried he, "at this precious moment? The great army of the Goths is vanquished, and their nobles are slaughtered or dispersed. Follow up your blow before the land can recover from its panic. Overrun the provinces, seize upon the cities, make yourself master of the capital, and your conquest is complete."* The advice of Julian was applauded by all the Arab chieftains, who were impatient of any interruption in their career of conquest. Taric was easily persuaded to what was the wish of his heart. Disregarding the letter of Muza, there- fore, he prepared to pursue his victories. For this purpose he ordered a review of his troops on the plain of Ecija. Some were mounted on steeds which they had brought from Africa ; the rest he supplied with horses taken from the Christians. He repeated his general orders, that they should inflict no wanton injury, nor plunder any place that offered no resist- ance. They were forbidden, also, to encumber themselves with booty, or even with provisions ; but were to scour the country with all speed, and seize upon all its fortresses and strongholds. He then divided his host into three several armies. One he placed under the command of the Greek renegade, Magued el Rumi, a man of desperate courage, and sent it against the ancient city of Cordova. Another was sent against the city of Malaga, and was led by Zayd ben Kesadi, aided by the Bishop Oppas. The third was led by Taric himself, and with this he determined to make a wide sweep through the king- dom, f * Conde, p. 1, c. 10. f Cronica de Espana, de Alonzo el Sabio, P. 8, o. 1. 488 U/orks of U/asl?ir?^top Iruir?$ CHAPTER TWO CAPTURE OP GRANADA SUBJUGATION OF THE ALPUXARRA MOUNTAINS THE terror of the arms of Taric ben Zeyad went before him ; and, at the same time, the report of his lenity to those who submitted without resistance. Wherever he appeared, the towns, for the most part, sent forth some of their princi- pal inhabitants to proffer a surrender ; for they were destitute of fortifications, and their fighting men had perished in bat- tle. They were all received into allegiance to the caliph, and were protected from pillage or molestation. After marching some distance through the country, he entered one day a vast and beautiful plain, interspersed with villages, adorned with groves and gardens, watered by wind- ing rivers, and surrounded by lofty mountains. It was the famous vega, or plain of Granada, destined to be for ages the favorite abode of the Moslems. When the Arab con- querors beheld this delicious vega, they were lost in admira- tion ; for it seemed as if the Prophet had given them a paradise on earth as a reward for their services in his cause. Taric approached the city of Granada, which had a for- midable aspect, seated on lofty hills and fortified with Gothic walls and towers, and with the red castle or citadel, built in times of old by the Phoenicians or the Romans. As the Arab chieftain eyed the place, he was pleased with its stern war- rior look, contrasting with the smiling beauty of its vega, and the freshness and voluptuous abundance of its hills and valleys. He pitched his tents before its walls, and made preparations to attack it with all his force. The city, however, bore but the semblance of power. The flower of its youth had perished in the battle of the Guada- lete ; many of the principal inhabitants had fled to the moun- tains, and few remained hi the city excepting old men, women Ce$er?ds of tl?e d8 of tl?e Sopquest of 8paii> 495 lently entered the city, were ready on the wall to render as- sistance. Magued ordered his followers to make use of the long folds of their turbans instead of cords, and succeeded without difficulty in clambering into the breach. Drawing their scimiters, they now hastened to the gate which opened toward the bridge ; the guards, suspecting no assault from within, were taken by surprise, and easily over- powered; the gate was thrown open, and the army that had remained in ambush rushed over the bridge and entered without opposition. The alarm had by this time spread throughout the city; but already a torrent of armed men was pouring through the streets. Pelistes sallied forth with hie cavaliers and such of the soldiery as he could collect, and endeavored to repel the foe; but every effort was in vain. The Christians were slowly driven from street to street, and square to square, disputing every inch of ground ; until, finding another body of the enemy approaching to attack them in rear, they took refuge in a convent, and succeeded in throwing to and bar- ring the ponderous doors. The Moors attempted to force the gates, but were assailed with such showers of missiles from the windows and battlements that they were obliged to retire. Pelistes examined the convent, and found it admirably cal- culated for defense. It was of great extent, with spacious courts and cloisters. The gates were massive, and secured with bolts and bars ; the walls were of great thickness ; the windows high and grated ; there was a great tank or cistern of water, and the friars, who had fled from the city, had left behind a goodly supply of provisions. Here, then, Pelistes proposed to make a stand, and to endeavor to hold out until succor should arrive from some other city. His proposition was received with shouts by his loyal cavaliers ; not one of whom but was ready to lay down his life in the service of his commander. 496 U/orKs of U/asl?iQ^toij CHAPTER FOUR DEFENSE OP THE CONVENT OF ST. GEORGE BY PELISTES FOR three long and anxious months did the good knight Pelistes and his cavaliers defend their sacred asylum against the repeated assaults of the infidels. The standard of the true faith was constantly displayed from the loftiest tower, and a fire blazed there throughout the night, as signals of distress to the surrounding country. The watchman from his turret kept a wary lookout over the land, hoping in every cloud of dust to descry the glittering helms of Christian war- riors. The country, however, was forlorn and abandoned, or if perchance a human being was perceived, it was some Arab horseman, careering the plain of the Guadalquivir as fearlessly as if it were his native desert. By degrees the provisions of the convent were consumed, and the cavaliers had to slay their horses, one by one, for food. They suffered the wasting miseries of famine without a murmur, and always met their commander with a smile. Pelistes, however, read their sufferings in their wan and emaciated countenances, and felt more for them than for himself. He was grieved at heart that such loyalty and valor should only lead to slavery or death, and resolved to make one desperate attempt for their deliverance. Assem- bling them one day in the court of the convent, he disclosed to them his purpose. "Comrades and brothers in arms," said he, "it is needless to conceal danger from brave men. Our case is desperate; our countrymen either know not or heed not our situation, or have not the means to help us. There is but one chance of escape ; it is full of peril, and, as your leader, I claim the right to brave it. To-morrow at break of day I will sally forth and make for the city gates at the moment of their of tl?e Qopquest of Spaii? 497 being opened ; no one will suspect a solitary horseman ; I shall be taken for one of those recreant Christians who have basely mingled with the enemy. If I succeed in getting out of the city, I will hasten to Toledo for assistance. In all events I shall be back in less than twenty days. Keep a vigilant lookout toward the nearest mountain. If you behold five lights blazing upon its summit, be assured I am at hand with succor, and prepare yourselves to sally forth upon the city as I attack the gates. Should I fail in obtaining aid, I will return to die with you." When he had finished, his warriors would fain have severally undertaken the enterprise, and they remonstrated against his exposing himself to such peril ; but he was not to be shaken from his purpose. On the following morning, ere the break of day, his horse was led forth, caparisoned, into the court of the convent, and Pelistes appeared in complete armor. Assembling his cavaliers hi the chapel, he prayed with them for some time before the altar of the holy Virgin. Then rising and standing in the midst of them, "God knows, my companions," said he, " whether we have any longer a country ; if not, better were we in our graves. Loyal and true have ye been to me, and loyal have ye been to my son, even to the hour of his death ; and grieved am I that I have no other means of proving my love for you, than by adven- turing my worthless life for your deliverance. All I ask of you before I go is a solemn promise to defend yourselves to the last like brave men and Christian cavaliers, and never to renounce your faith, or throw yourselves on the mercy of the renegado Magued, or the traitor Julian." They all pledged their words, and took a solemn oath to the same effect before the altar. Pelistes then embraced them one by one, and gave them his benediction, and as he did so his heart yearned over them, for he felt toward them, not merely as a companion in arms and as a commander, but as a father ; and he took leave of them as if he had been going to his death. The warriors, on their part, crowded round him in silence, kissing his hands 498 U/orK of and the hem of his surcoat, and many of the sternest shed tears. The gray of the dawning had just streaked the east, when Pelistes took lance in hand, hung his shield about his neck, and, mounting his steed, issued quietly forth from a postern of the convent. He paced slowly through the vacant streets, and the tramp of his steed echoed afar in that silent hour ; but no one suspected a warrior, moving thus singly and tran- quilly in an armed city, to be an enemy. He arrived at the gate just at the hour of opening ; a foraging party was en- tering with cattle and with beasts of burden, and he passed unheeded through the throng. As soon as he was out of sight of the soldiers who guarded the gate, he quickened his pace, and at length, galloping at full speed, succeeded in gaining the mountains. Here he paused, and alighted at a solitary farmhouse to breathe his panting steed ; but had scarce put foot to ground when he heard the distant sound of pursuit, and beheld a horseman spurring up the mountain. Throwing himself again upon his steed, he abandoned the road and galloped across the rugged heights. The deep dry channel of a torrent checked his career, and his horse stum- bling upon the margin, rolled with his rider to the bottom. Pelistes was sorely bruised by the fall, and his whole visage was bathed in blood. His horse, too, was maimed and un- able to stand, so that there was no hope of escape. The enemy drew near, and proved to be no other than Magued, the renegade general, who had perceived him as he issued forth from the city, and had followed singly in pursuit. "Well met, senor alcayde!" exclaimed he, "and overtaken in good time. Surrender yourself my prisoner." Pelistes made no other reply than by drawing his sword, bracing his shield, and preparing for defense. Magued, though an apostate, and a fierce warrior, possessed some sparks of knightly magnanimity. Seeing his adversary dis- mounted, he disdained to take him at a disadvantage, but, alighting, tied his horse to a tree. The conflict that ensued was desperate and doubtful, for of tl?e Sogquest of Spalp 499 seldom had two warriors met so well matched or of equal prowess. Their shields were hacked to pieces, the ground was strewed with fragments of their armor and stained with their blood. They paused repeatedly to take breath ; regard- ing each other with wonder and admiration. Pelistes, how- ever, had been previously injured by his fall and fought to great disadvantage. The renegado perceived it, and sought not to slay him, but to take him alive. Shifting his ground continually, he wearied his antagonist, who was growing weaker and weaker from the loss of blood. At length Pelistes seemed to summon up all his remaining strength to make a signal blow ; it was skillfully parried, and he fell prostrate upon the ground. The renegado ran up, and putting his foot upon his sword, and the point of his scimiter to his throat, called upon him to ask his life ; but Pelistes lay without sense, and as one dead. Magued then unlaced the helmet of his vanquished enemy, and seated himself on a rock beside him, to recover breath. In this situation the warriors were found by certain Moorish cavaliers, who marveled much at the traces of that stern and bloody combat. Finding there was yet life in the Christian knight, they laid him upon one of their horses, and, aiding Magued to remount his steed, proceeded slowly to the city. As the con- voy passed by the convent, the cavaliers looked forth and beheld their commander borne along bleeding and a captive. Furious at the sight, they sallied forth to the rescue, but were repulsed by a superior force and driven back to the great portal of the church. The enemy entered pell mell with them, fighting from aisle to aisle, from altar to altar, and in the courts and cloisters of the convent. The greater part of the cavaliers died bravely, sword in hand ; the rest were dis- abled with wounds and made prisoners. The convent, which was lately their castle, was now made their prison, and in after times, in commemoration of this event, was consecrated by the name of St. George of the Captives. 500 U/orl^s of U/aa)?ii)$too CHAPTER FIVE MEETING BETWEEN THE PATRIOT PELISTES AND THE TRAITOR JULIAN THE loyalty and prowess of the good knight Pelistes had gained him the reverence even of his enemies. He was for a long time disabled by his wounds, during which he was kindly treated by the Arab chieftains, who strove by every courteous means to cheer his sadness and make him forget that he was a captive. When he was recovered from his wounds they gave him a magnificent banquet, to testify their admiration of his virtues. Pelistes appeared at the banquet clad hi sable armor, and with a countenance pale and dejected, for the ills of his country evermore preyed upon his heart. Among the as- sembled guests was Count Julian, who held a high command in the Moslem army, and was arrayed in garments of mingled Christian and Morisco fashion. Pelistes had been a close and bosom friend of Julian in former times, and had served with him in the wars in Africa ; but when the count advanced to accost him with his wonted amity, he turned away in silence and deigned not to notice him; neither, during the whole of the repast, did he address to him ever a word, but treated him as one unknown. When the banquet was nearly at a close, the discourse turned upon the events of the war, and the Moslem chief- tains, in great courtesy, dwelt upon the merits of many of the Christian cavaliers who had fallen in battle, and all extolled the valor of those who had recently perished in the defense of the convent. Pelistes remained silent for a time, and checked the grief which swelled within his bosom as he thought of his devoted cavaliers. At length, lifting up his voice, " Happy are the dead,'* said he, "for they rest in peace, Ce$er>ds of tl?e Qopquest of Spafp 501 and are gone to receive the reward of their piety and valor ! I could mourn over the loss of my companions in arms, but they have fallen with honor, and are spared the wretchedness I feel in witnessing the thraldom of my country. I have seen my only son, the pride and hope of my age, cut down at my side; I have beheld kindred friends and followers falling one by one around me, and have become so seasoned to those losses that I have ceased to weep. Yet there is one man over whose loss I will never cease to grieve. He was the loved companion of my youth, and the steadfast associate of my graver years. He was one of the most loyal of Christian knights. As a friend he was loving and sincere ; as a warrior his achievements were above all praise. What has become of him, alas! I know not. If fallen in battle, and I knew where his bones were laid, whether bleaching on the plains of Xeres, or buried in the waters of the Guadalete, I would seek them out and enshrine them as the relics of a sainted patriot. Or if, like many of his companions in arms, he should be driven to wander in foreign lands, I would join him in his hapless exile, and we would mourn together over the desolation of our country." Even the hearts of the Arab warriors were touched by the lament of the good Pelistes, and they said "Who was this peerless friend in whose praise thou art so fervent?" "His name," replied Pelistes, "was Count Julian." The Moslem warriors stared with surprise. "Noble cavalier," exclaimed they, "has grief disordered thy senses? Behold thy friend living and standing before thee, and yet thou dost not know him! This, this is Count Julian!" Upon this, Pelistes turned his eyes upon the count, and regarded him for a time with a lofty and stern demeanor ; and the countenance of Julian darkened and was troubled, and his eye sank beneath the regard of that loyal and honor- able cavalier. And Pelistes said, "In the name of God, I charge thee, man unknown ! to answer. Dost thou presume to call thyself Count Julian?" The count reddened with anger at these words. "Pelis- 502 ll/or^s of U/asl?ip$toi? tes," said he, "what means this mockery; thou knowest me well ; thou knowest me for Count Julian. ' ' "I know thee for a base impostor!" cried Pelistes. "Count Julian was a noble Gothic knight; but thou ap- pearest in mongrel Moorish garb. Count Julian was a Christian, faithful and devout ; but I behold in thee a ren- egado and an infidel. Count Julian was ever loyal to his king, and foremost in his country's cause ; were he living he would be the first to put shield on neck and lance in rest, to clear the land of her invaders; but thou art a hoary traitor! thy hands are stained with the royal blood of the Goths, and thou hast betrayed thy country and thy God. Therefore, I again repeat, man unknown! if thou sayest thou art Count Julian, thou liest! My friend, alas! is dead; and thou art some fiend from hell, which hast taken possession of his body to dishonor his memory and render him an abhorrence among men!" So saying, Pelistes turned his back upon the traitor, and went forth from the banquet ; leaving Count Julian over- whelmed with confusion, and an object of scorn to all the Moslem cavaliers. CHAPTER SIX HOW TARIC EL TUERTO CAPTURED THE CITY OP TOLEDO THROUGH THE AID OF THE JEWS, AND HOW HE FOUND THE FAMOUS TALISMANIC TABLE OF SOLOMON WHILE these events were passing in Cordova, the one- eyed Arab general, Taric el Tuerto, having subdued the city and vega of Granada, and the Mountains of the Sun and Air, directed his march into the interior of the kingdom to attack the ancient city of Toledo, the capital of the Gothic kings. So great was the terror caused by the rapid con- quests of the invaders that at the very rumor of their ap- proach, many of the inhabitants, though thus in the very citadel of the kingdom, abandoned it and fled to the moun- Ce<$ei>d8 of tb,e que8t of Spaii? 503 tains with their families. Enough remained, however, to have made a formidable defense ; and, as the city was seated on a lofty rock, surrounded by massive walls and towers, and almost girdled by the Tagus, it threatened a long resist- ance. The Arab warriors pitched their tents in the vega, on the borders of the river, and prepared for a tedious siege. One evening, as Taric was seated in his tent meditating on the mode in which he should assail this rock-built city, certain of the patrols of the camp brought a stranger before him. "As we were going our rounds," said they, "we be- held this man lowered down with cords from a tower, and he delivered himself into our hands, praying to be conducted to thy presence, that he might reveal to thee certain things important for thee to know." Taric fixed his eye upon the stranger : he was a Jewish rabbi, with a long beard which spread upon his gabardine and descended even to his girdle. "What hast thou to re- veal?" said he to the Israelite. "What I have to reveal," replied the other, "is for thee alone to hear; command then, I entreat thee, that these men withdraw." When they were alone he addressed Taric in Arabic: "Know, O leader of the host of Islam," said he, "that I am sent to thee on the part of the children of Israel resident in Toledo. We have been oppressed and insulted by the Christians in the time of their prosperity, and now that they are threatened with siege they have taken from us all our provisions and our money; they have compelled us to work like slaves, repairing their walls ; and they oblige us to bear arms and guard a part of the towers. We abhor their yoke, and are ready, if thou wilt receive us as subjects and permit us the free enjoyment of our religion and our property, to deliver the towers we guard into thy hands, and to give thee safe entrance into the city." The Arab chief was overjoyed at this proposition, and he rendered much honor to the rabbi, and gave orders to clothe him in a costly robe, and to perfume his beard with essences of a pleasant odor, so that he was the most sweet smelling of his tribe; and he said, "Make thy words good, and put me 504 U/orKs of U/asl?ii)$toi} in possession of the city, and I will do all and more than thou hast required, and will bestow countless wealth upon thee and thy brethren." Then a plan was devised between them by which the city was to be betrayed and given up. "But how shall I be secured," said he, "that all thy tribe will fulfill what thou hast engaged, and that this is not a stratagem to get me and my people into your power?" "This shall be thy assurance," replied the rabbi. "Ten of the principal Israelities will come to this tent and remain as hostages." "It is enough," said Taric; and he made oath to accom- plish all that he had promised ; and the Jewish hostages came and delivered themselves into his hands. On a dark night, a chosen band of Moslem warriors ap- proached the part of the walls guarded by the Jews, and were secretly admitted into a postern gate and concealed within a tower. Three thousand Arabs were at the same time placed in ambush among rocks and thickets, in a place on the opposite side of the river, commanding a view of the city. On the following morning Taric ravaged the gardens of the valley, and set fire to the farmhouses, and then break- ing up his camp marched off as if abandoning the siege. The people of Toledo gazed with astonishment from their walls at the retiring squadrons of the enemy, and scarcely could credit their unexpected deliverance; before night there was not a turban nor a hostile lance to be seen in the vega. They attributed it all to the special intervention of their pa- tron saint, Leocadia ; and the following day being Palm Sun- day, they sallied forth in procession, man, woman, and child, to the church of that blessed saint, which is situated without the walls, that they might return thanks for her marvelous protection. When all Toledo had thus poured itself forth, and was marching with cross and relic and solemn chant toward the chapel, the Arabs, who had been concealed in the tower, rushed forth and barred the gates of the city. While some of tl?e 505 guarded the gates, others dispersed themselves about the streets, slaying all who made resistance ; and others kindled a fire and made a column of smoke on the top of the citadel. At sight of this signal, the Arabs in ambush beyond the river rose with a great shout, and attacked the multitude who were thronging to the church of St. Leocadia. There was a great massacre, although the people were without arms, and made no resistance; and it is said, in ancient chronicles, that it was the apostate Bishop Oppas who guided the Moslems to their prey and incited them to this slaughter. The pious reader, says Fray Antonio Agapida, will be slow to believe such turpitude ; but there is nothing more venom- ous than the rancor of an apostate priest ; for the best things in this world, when corrupted, become the worst and most baneful. Many of the Christians had taken refuge within the church, and had barred the doors, but Oppas commanded that fire should be set to the portals, threatening to put every one within to the sword. Happily the veteran Taric arrived just in time to stay the fury of this reverend renegade. He ordered the trumpets to call off the troops from the carnage, and extended grace to all the surviving inhabitants. They were permitted to remain in quiet possession of their homes and effects, paying only a moderate tribute; and they were allowed to exercise the rites of their religion in the existing churches, to the number of seven, but were prohibited from erecting any others. Those who preferred to leave the city were suffered to depart in safety, but not to take "with them any of their wealth. Immense spoil was found by Taric in the alcazar, or royal castle, situated on a rocky eminence, in the highest part of the city. Among the regalia treasured up in a secret cham- ber were twenty-five regal crowns of fine gold, garnished with jacynths, amethysts, diamonds, and other precious stones. These were the crowns of the different Gothic kings who had reigned in Spain ; it having been the usage, on the death * * *22 VOL. I. 506 U/orl{8 of of each king, to deposit his crown in this treasury, inscribing on it his name and age.* "When Taric was thus in possession of the city, the Jews came to him in procession, with songs and dances and the sound of timbrel and psaltery, hailing him as their lord, and reminding him of his promises. The son of Ishmael kept his word with the children of Israel; they were protected in the possession of all their wealth and the exercise of their religion, and were, more- over, rewarded with jewels of gold and jewels of silver, and much moneys, f A subsequent expedition was led by Taric against Guada- laxara, which surrendered without resistance; he moreover captured the city of Medina Celi, where he found an inesti- mable table which had formed a part of the spoil taken at Rome by Alaric, at the time that the sacred city was con- quered by the Goths. It was composed of one single and entire emerald, and possessed talismanic powers; for tradi- tions affirm that it was the work of genii, and had been wrought by them for King Solomon the wise, the son of David. This marvelous relic was carefully preserved by Taric, as the most precious of all his spoils, being intended by him as a present to the caliph ; and in commemoration of it the city was called by the Arabs Medina Almeyda ; that is to say, "The City of the Table. "J Having made these and other conquests of less impor- * Conde. Hist, de las Arabes en Espana, o. 12. f The stratagem of the Jews of Toledo is recorded briefly by Bishop Lucas de Tuy, in his chronicle, but is related at large in the chronicle of the Moor Rasis. J According to Arabian legends, this table was a mirror revealing all great events ; insomuch that by looking on it the possessor might behold battles and sieges and feats of chivalry, and all actions worthy of renown ; and might thus ascertain the truth of all historic transac- tions. It was a mirror of history, therefore, and had very probably aided King Solomon in acquiring that prodigious knowledge and wis- dom for which he was renowned. Ce$er>d8 of tl?e quet of Spafi) 515 in a clamorous multitude, compelled him to send forth persons to capitulate. The embassadors came into the presence of Muza with awe, for they expected to find a fierce and formidable warrior in one who had filled the land with terror ; but to their as- tonishment they beheld an ancient and venerable man, with white hair, a snowy beard, and a pale emaciated counte- nance. He had passed the previous night without sleep, and had been all day in the field ; he was exhausted, there- fore, by watchfulness and fatigue, and his garments were covered with dust. " What a devil of a man is this," murmured the embas- sadors, one to another, "to undertake such a siege when on the verge of the grave. Let us defend our city the best way we can ; surely we can hold out longer than the lif e of this gray-beard." They returned to the city, therefore, scoffing at an invader who seemed fitter to lean on a crutch than wield a lance ; and the terms offered by Muza, which would otherwise have been thought favorable, were scornfully rejected by the inhabit- ants. A few days put an end to this mistaken confidence. Abdalasis, the son of Muza, arrived from Africa at the head of his re-enforcement; he brought seven thousand horsemen and a host of Barbary archers, and made a glorious display as he marched into the camp. The arrival of this youthful warrior was hailed with great acclamations, so much had he won the hearts of the soldiery by the frankness, the suavity, and generosity of his conduct. Immediately after his arrival a grand assault was made upon the city, and several of the huge battering engines being finished, they were wheeled up and began to thunder against the walls. The unsteady populace were again seized with terror, and, surrounding their governor with fresh clamors, obliged him to send forth embassadors a second time to treat of a sur- render. When admitted to the presence of Muza, the em- bassadors could scarcely believe their eyes, or that this was the same withered, white-headed old man of whom they had 516 U/orl{8 of lately spoken with scoffing. His hair and beard were tinged of a ruddy brown ; his countenance was refreshed by repose and flushed with indignation, and he appeared a man in the matured vigor of his days. The embassadors were struck with awe: " Surely," whispered they, one to the other, "this must be either a devil or a magician, who can thus make himself old and young at pleasure." Muza received them haughtily. "Hence," said he, "and tell your people I grant them the same terms I have already proffered, provided the city be instantly surrendered ; but, by the head of Mahomet, if there be any further delay, not one mother's son of ye shall receive mercy at my hands!" The deputies returned into the city pale and dismayed. "Go forth! go forth!" cried they, "and accept whatever terms are offered; of what avail is it to fight against men who can renew their youth at pleasure. Behold, we left the leader of the infidels an old and feeble man, and to-day we find him youthful and vigorous."* The place was, therefore, surrendered forthwith, and Muza entered it in triumph. His terms were merciful. Those who chose to remain were protected in persons, possessions and religion ; he took the property of those only who aban- doned the city or had fallen in battle ; together with all arms and horses, and the treasures and ornaments of the churches. Among these sacred spoils was found a cup made of a single pearl, which a king of Spain, in ancient times, had brought from the temple of Jerusalem when it was destroyed by Nebucadonozer. This precious relic was sent by Muza to the cah'ph, and was placed in the principal mosque of the city of Damascus, f Muza knew how to esteem merit even in an enemy. When Sacarus, the governor of Merida, appeared before him, he lauded him greatly for the skill and courage he had displayed * Conde, p. 1, c. 13. Ambrosio de Morales. N.B. In the chronicle of Spain, composed by order of Alonzo the Wise, this anecdote is given as having happened at the siege of Seville. f Marmol. descrip. de Africa, T. 1, L. 2. e$ei?ds of tl?e hear your warriors recount the toils and dangers they have passed, while I have done nothing to entitle me to their com- panionship. When I return to Egypt and present myself before the caliph, he will ask me of my services in Spain; what battle I have gained ; what town or castle I have taken. How shall I answer him? If you love me, then, as your son, give me a command, intrust to me an enterprise, and let me acquire a name worthy to be mentioned among men." The eyes of Muza kindled with joy at finding Abdalasis thus ambitious of renown in arms. "Allah be praised!" ex- claimed he, "the heart of my son is in the right place. It is becoming in youth to look upward and be aspiring. Thy desire, Abdalasia, shall be gratified." An opportunity at that very time presented itself to prove the prowess and discretion of the youth. During the siege of Merida, the Christian troops which had taken refuge at Beja had re-enforced themselves from Penaflor, and suddenly returning, had presented themselves before the gates of the city of Seville.* Certain of the Christian inhabitants threw open the gates and admitted them. The troops rushed to the alcazar, took it by surprise, and put many of the Moslem garrison to the sword; the residue made their escape, and fled to the Arab camp before Merida, leaving Seville in the hands of the Christians. The veteran Muza, now that the siege of Merida was at an end, was meditating the recapture and punishment of Seville, at the very time when Abdalasis addressed him. "Behold, my son," exclaimed he, "an enterprise worthy of thy ambition. Take with thee all the troops thou hast brought from Africa; reduce the city of Seville again to subjection, and plant thy standard upon its alcazar. But stop not there: carry thy conquering sword into the southern parts of Spain ; thou wilt find there a harvest of glory yet to be reaped." Abdalasis lost no time in departing upon this enterprise. * Espinosa. Antq. y Grand, de Seville, L. 2, o. 8. of tl?e Sopquest of Spaii? 519 He took with him Count Julian, Magued el Rumi, and the Bishop Oppas, that he might benefit by their knowledge of the country. When he came in sight of the fair city of Seville, seated like a queen in the midst of its golden plain, with the Guadalquivir flowing beneath its walls, he gazed upon it with the admiration of a lover, and lamented in his soul that he had to visit it as an avenger. His troops, how- ever, regarded it with wrathful eyes, thinking only of its rebellion and of the massacre of their countrymen in the alcazar. The principal people of the city had taken no part in this gallant but fruitless insurrection; and now, when they be- held the army of Abdalasis encamped upon the banks of the Guadalquivir, would fain have gone forth to make explana- tions and intercede for mercy. The populace, however, for- bade any one to leave the city, and, barring the gates, pre- pared to defend themselves to the last. The place was attacked with resistless fury. The gates were soon burst open; the Moslems rushed in, panting for revenge. They confined not their slaughter to the soldiery in the alcazar, but roamed through every street, confounding the innocent with the guilty in one bloody massacre, and it was with the utmost difficulty that Abdalasis could at length succeed in staying their sanguinary career.* The son of Muza proved himself as mild in conquest as he had been intrepid in assault. The moderation and benig- nity of his conduct soothed the terrors of the vanquished, and his wise precautions restored tranquillity. Having made proper regulations for the protection of the inhabitants, he left a strong garrison in the place to prevent any future in- surrection, and then departed on the further prosecution of his enterprise. Wherever he went his arms were victorious ; and his vic- tories were always characterized by the same magnanimity. At length he arrived on the confines of that beautiful region * Conde, p. 1, c. 14. 620 U/orKs of U/asl?ipd8 of tfoe Sopquest of Spafrj 531 have gratified the ambition of the proudest sovereign, for all western Africa and the newly acquired peninsula of Spain were obedient to his rule ; and he was renowned throughout all the lands of Islam as the great conqueror of the west. But sudden humiliation awaited him in the very moment of his highest triumph. Notwithstanding the outward reconciliation of Muza and Taric, a deep and implacable hostility continued to exist be- tween them ; and each had busy partisans who distracted the armies by their feuds. Letters were incessantly dispatched to Damascus by either party, exalting the merits of their own leader and decrying his rival. Taric was represented as rash, arbitrary and prodigal, and as injuring the discipline of the army, by sometimes treating it with extreme rigor, and at other times giving way to licentiousness and profusion. Muza was lauded as prudent, sagacious, dignified, and sys- tematic in his dealings. The friends of Taric, on the other hand, represented him as brave, generous, and high-minded; scrupulous in reserving to his sovereign his rightful share of the spoils, but distributing the rest bounteously among his soldiers, and thus increasing their alacrity in the service. "Muza, on the contrary," said they, "is grasping and in- satiable; he levies intolerable contributions and collects immense treasure, but sweeps it all into his own coffers." The caliph was at length wearied out by these complaints, and feared that the safety of the cause might be endangered by the dissensions of the rival generals. He sent letters, therefore, ordering them to leave suitable persons in charge of their several commands, and appear, forthwith, before him at Damascus. Such was the greeting from his sovereign that awaited Muza on his return from the conquest of northern Spain. It was a grievous blow to a man of his pride and ambition; but he prepared instantly to obey. He returned to Cordova, collecting by the way all the treasures he had deposited hi various places. At that city he called a meeting of his principal officers, and of the leaders of the faction of apostate 532 U/orKs of U/asl?ip$toi> Christians, and made them all do homage to his son Abda- lasis, as emir or governor of Spain. He gave this favorite son much sage advice for the regulation of his conduct, and left with him his nephew, Ayub, a man greatly honored by the Moslems for his wisdom and discretion ; exhorting Abda- lasis to consult him on all occasions and consider him as his bosom counselor. He made a parting address to his adher- ents, full of cheerful confidence ; assuring them that he would soon return, loaded with new favors and honors by his sov- ereign, and enabled to reward them all for their faithful services. "When Muza sallied forth from Cordova, to repair to Da- mascus, his cavalgada appeared like the sumptuous pageant of some Oriental potentate ; for he had numerous guards and attendants splendidly armed and arrayed, together with four hundred hostages, who were youthful cavaliers of the noblest families of the Goths, and a great number of captives of both sexes, chosen for their beauty, and intended as presents for the caliph. Then there was a vast train of beasts of burden, laden with the plunder of Spain ; ' for he took with him all the wealth he had collected in his conquests ; and all the share that had been set apart for his sovereign. With this display of trophies and spoils, showing the magnificence of the land he had conquered, he looked with confidence to silence the calumnies of his foes. As he traversed the valley of the Guadalquivir he often turned and looked back wistfully upon Cordova; and, at the distance of a league, when about to lose sight of it, he checked his steed upon the summit of a hill, and gazed for a long time upon its palaces and towers. "O Cordova!" exclaimed he, ''great and glorious art thou among cities, and abundant in all delights. With grief and sorrow do I part from thee, for sure I am it would give me length of days to abide within thy pleasant walls!" When he had uttered these words, say the Arabian chronicles, he resumed his wayfaring ; but his eyes were bent upon the ground, and frequent sighs be- spoke the heaviness of his heart. e$ei)d8 of tl?e ^opquest of SpafQ 533 Embarking at Cadiz he passed over to Africa with all his people and effects, to regulate his government in that coun- try. He divided the command between his sons, Abdelola and Meruan, leaving the former in Tangier and the latter in Cairvan. Thus having secured, as he thought, the power and prosperity of his family, by placing all his sons as his lieutenants in the country he had conquered, he departed for Syria, bearing with him the sumptuous spoils of the west. While Muza was thus disposing of his commands, and moving cumbrously under the weight of wealth, the veteran Taric was more speedy and alert in obeying the summons of the caliph. He knew the importance, where complaints were to be heard, of being first in presence of the judge; besides, he was ever ready to march at a moment's warning, and had nothing to impede him in his movements. The spoils he had made in his conquests had either been shared among his soldiers, or yielded up to Muza, or squandered away with open-handed profusion. He appeared in Syria with a small train of war-worn followers, and had no other trophies to show than his battered armor and a body seamed with scars. He was received, however, with rapture by the multitude, who crowded to behold one of those conquerors of the west, whose wonderful achievements were the theme of every tongue. They were charmed with his gaunt and martial air, his hard sunburned features, and his scathed eye. "All hail," cried they, "to the sword of Islam, the terror of the unbelievers ! Behold the true model of a warrior, who de- spises gain and seeks for naught but glory!" Taric was graciously received by the caliph, who asked tidings of his victories. He gave a soldier-like account of his actions, frank and full, without any feigned modesty, yet without vainglory. "Commander of the faithful," said he, "I bring thee no silver, nor gold, nor precious stones, nor captives; for what spoils I did not share with my soldiers I gave up to Muza as my commander. How I have conducted myself the honorable warriors of thy host will tell thee ; nay, 534 U/orKs of let our enemies, the Christians, be asked if I have ever shown myself cowardly or cruel or rapacious." ""What kind of people are these Christians?" demanded the caliph. "The Spaniards," replied Taric, "are lions in their castles, eagles hi their saddles, but mere women when on foot. When vanquished they escape like goats to the mountains, for they need not see the ground they tread on." "And tell me of the Moors of Barbary." "They are like Arabs in the fierceness and dexterity of their attacks, and in their knowledge of the stratagems of war; they resemble them, too, in feature, in fortitude, and hospitality; but they are the most perfidious people upon earth, and never regard promise or plighted faith." "And the people of Afranc; what sayest thou of them?" "They are infinite in number, rapid in the onset, fierce in battle, but confused and headlong hi flight." "And how fared it with thee among these people? Did they sometimes vanquish thee?" "Never, by Allah!" cried Taric, with honest warmth, "never did a banner of mine fly the field. Though the enemy were two to one, my Moslems never shunned the combat!" The caliph was well pleased with the martial bluntness of the veteran, and showed him great honor; and wherever Taric appeared he was the idol of the populace. CHAPTER FOURTEEN MUZA ARRIVES AT DAMASCUS HIS INTERVIEW WITH THE CALIPH THE TABLE OF SOLOMON A RIGOROUS SENTENCE SHORTLY after the arrival of Taric el Tuerto at Damascus, the caliph fell dangerously ill, insomuch that his life was de- spaired of. During his illness, tidings were brought that Ce$ei?ds of tfye quet of Spalr? 535 Muza ben Nosier had entered Syria with a vast cavalcade, bearing all the riches and trophies gained in the western con- quests. Now Suleiman ben Abdelmelec, brother to the caliph, was successor to the throne, and he saw that his brother had not long to live, and wished to grace the commencement of his reign by this triumphant display of the spoils of Christen- dom; he sent messengers, therefore, to Muza, saying, "The caliph is ill and cannot receive thee at present ; I pray thee tarry on the road until his recovery." Muza, however, paid no attention to the messages of Suleiman, but rather hastened his march to arrive before the death of the caliph. And Su- leiman treasured up his conduct in his heart. Muza entered the city in a kind of triumph, with a long train of horses and mules and camels laden with treasure, and with the four hundred sons of Gothic nobles as hostages, each decorated with a diadem and a girdle of gold; and with one hundred Christian damsels, whose beauty dazzled all be- holders. As he passed through the streets he ordered purses of gold to be thrown among the populace, who rent the air with acclamations. "Behold," cried they, "the veritable conqueror of the unbelievers! Behold the true model of a conqueror, who brings home wealth to his country!" And they heaped benedictions on the head of Muza. The caliph Waled Almanzor rose from his couch of illness to receive the emir; who, when he repaired to the palace, filled one of its great courts with treasures of all kinds; the halls, too, were thronged with the youthful hostages, mag- nificently attired, and with Christian damsels, lovely as the houris of paradise. "When the caliph demanded an account of the conquest of Spain, he gave it with great eloquence ; but, in describing the various victories, he made no mention of the name of Taric, but spoke as if everything had been effected by himself. He then presented the spoils of the Christians as if they had been all taken by his own hands ; and when he delivered to the caliph the miraculous table of Solomon he dwelt with animation on the virtues of that in- estimable talisman. 536 U/or^s of Upon this Taric, who was present, could no longer hold his peace. "Commander of the faithful," said he, "examine this precious table, if any part be wanting." The caliph ex- amined the table, which was composed of a single emerald, and he found that one foot was supplied by a foot of gold. The caliph turned to Muza and said, "Where is the other foot of the table?" Muza answered, "I know not; one foot was wanting when it came into my hands." Upon this, Taric drew from beneath his robe a foot of emerald of like workmanship to the others, and fitting exactly to the table. "Behold, O commander of the faithful!" cried he, "a proof of the real finder of the table ; and so is it with the greater part of the spoils exhibited by Muza as trophies of his achieve- ments. It was I who gained them, and who captured the cities in which they were found. If you want proof, demand of these Christian cavaliers here present, most of whom I captured ; demand of those Moslem warriors who aided me in my battles." Muza was confounded for a moment, but attempted to vindicate himself. "I spake," said he, "as the chief of your armies, under whose orders and banners this conquest was achieved. The actions of the soldier are the actions of the commander. In a great victory it is not supposed that the chief of the army takes all the captives, or kills all the slain, or gathers all the booty, though all are enumerated in the records of his triumph." The caliph, however, was wroth, and heeded not his words. "You have vaunted your own deserts," said he, "and have forgotten the deserts of others; nay, you have sought to debase another who has loyally served his sovereign ; the reward of your envy and covetous- ness be upon your own head!" So saying, he bestowed a great part of the spoils upon Taric and the other chiefs, but gave nothing to Muza; and the veteran retired amid the sneers and murmurs of those present. In a few days the Caliph Waled died, and was succeeded by his brother Suleiman. The new sovereign cherished deep resentment against Muza for having presented himself at Ce$ei)d8 of tt?e Qo^quest of Spaio 537 court contrary to his command, and he listened readily to the calumnies of his enemies ; for Muza had been too illus- trious in his deeds not to have many enemies. All now took courage when they found he was out of favor, and they heaped slanders on his head ; charging him with embezzling much of the share of the booty belonging to the sovereign. The new caliph lent a willing ear to the accusation, and com- manded him to render up all thy t he had pillaged from Spain. The loss of his riches might have been borne with fortitude by Muza, but the stigma upon his fame filled his heart with bitterness. "I have been a faithful servant to the throne from my youth upward," said he, "and now am I degraded in my old age. I care not for wealth, I care not for life, but let me not be deprived of that honor which God has bestowed upon me!" The caliph was still more exasperated at his repining, and stripped him of his commands ; confiscated his effects ; fined him two hundred thousand pesants of gold, and ordered that he should be scourged and exposed to the noontide sun, and afterward thrown into prison. * The populace, also, reviled and scoffed at him in his misery, and as they beheld him led forth to the public gaze, and fainting in the sun, they pointed at him with derision and exclaimed "Behold the envious man and the impostor ; this is he who pretended to have conquered the land of the unbelievers!" CHAPTER FIFTEEN CONDUCT OP ABDALASIS AS EMIR OP SPAIN WHILE these events were happening in Syria, the youth- ful Abdalasis, the son of Muza, remained as emir or governor of Spain. He was of a generous and benignant disposition, * Conde, p. 1, o. 17. 538 U/orKs of U/asl?ii?$top but be was open and confiding, and easily led away by the opinions of those he loved. Fortunately his father had left with him, as a bosom counselor, the discreet Ayub, the nephew of Muza; aided by his advice he for some time administered the public affairs prudently and prosperously. Not long after the departure of his father, he received a letter from him, written while on his journey to Syria; it was to the following purport : "Beloved son; honor of thy lineage; Allah guard thee from all harm and peril ! Listen to the words of thy father. Avoid all treachery though it should promise great advan- tage, and trust not in him who counsels it, even though he should be a brother. The company of traitors put far from thee ; for how canst thou be certain that he who has proved false to others will prove true to thee? Beware, O my son, of the seductions of love. It is an idle passion which en- feebles the heart and blinds the judgment; it renders the mighty weak, and makes slaves of princes. If thou shouldst discover any foible of a vicious kind springing up in thy nat- ure, pluck it forth, whatever pang it cost thee. Every error, while new, may easily be weeded out, but if suffered to take root, it flourishes and bears seed, and produces fruit a hun- dred-fold. Follow these counsels, O son of my affections, and thou shalt live secure." Abdalasis meditated upon this letter, for some part of it seemed to contain a mystery which he could not comprehend. He called to him his cousin and counselor, the discreet Ayub. "What means my father," said he, "in cautioning me against treachery and treason? Does he think my nature so base that it could descend to such means?" Ayub read the letter attentively. "Thj r father," said he, "would put thee on thy guard against the traitors Julian and Oppas, and those of their party who surround thee. What love canst thou expect from men who have been unnatural to their kindred, and what loyalty from wretches who have betrayed their country?" Abdalasis was satisfied with the interpretation, and he Ce<}ei)d8 of tl?e que8t of Spafp 541 CHAPTER SIXTEEN LOVES OP ABDALASI8 AND EXILONA ABDALASIS had fixed his seat of government at Seville, as permitting easy and frequent communications with the coast of Africa. His palace was of noble architecture, with delightful gardens extending to the banks of the Guadal- quivir. In a part of this palace resided many of the most beautiful Christian females, who were detained as captives, or rather hostages, to insure the tranquillity of the country. Those who were of noble rank were entertained in luxury and magnificence; slaves were appointed to attend upon them, and they were arrayed in the richest apparel and decorated with the most precious jewels. Those of tender age were taught all graceful accomplishments; and even where tasks were imposed, they were of the most elegant and agreeable kind. They embroidered, they sang, they danced, and passed their times in pleasing revelry. Many were lulled by this easy and voluptuous existence ; the scenes of horror through which they had passed were gradually effaced from their minds, and a desire was often awakened of rendering themselves pleasing in the eyes of their con- querors. After his return from his campaign in Lusitania, and during the intervals of public duty, Abdalasis solaced him- self in the repose of this palace, and in the society of these Christian captives. He remarked one among them who ever sat apart ; and neither joined in the labors nor sports of her companions. She was lofty in her demeanor, and the others always paid her reverence; yet sorrow had given a softness to her charms and rendered her beauty touching to the heart. Abdalasis found her one day in the garden with her companions ; they had adorned their heads with flowers, 543 Works of WasfeiiXtOQ Irvn* and were mmjgmglhB songs of their comrtry, but she sat by herself and wept. The youthful emir was moved by her tears, and acuuBhid her in gentle accents. "O fairest of women!" said he, "why dost thou weep, and why is thy bant troubled?" "Alas!" replied she, "have I not cause k ~^rr. r^iH;: h:-*- s^d is niv jonditioii. a^i how grta: :iie height from which I have fallen? In me you behold the wretched "gaM but lately the wife of Roderick, and the queen of Spain, now a captive and a slave!" and, hav- ing said these words, dvicMt IMF eyes upon the earth and her ta*n begat to flow afresh. The &! IIMI feehngs of Abdalasis were iiiiiiiil at the sight of lieaiilj) and royalty in tears. He gave orders that Exflona Annld be entertained in a style Imfiili^g her former rank; he appointed a train of female attendants to wait npon her, and a guard of honor to protect her from all intrusion. AH the time that he could spare from public concerns was in her society ; and lie even neglected V" divan, *m& *: &."'rn'i in vam. ^^i^r ne ^LHi--f-rri in the apartments and gardens of the palace, listening to the The diaumet Ayub saw die danger into which he was fall- ing. "O Abdalasw," said he, "remember the words of thy faflipr. 'Beware, my son,' said he, 'of the sednctions of love. It renders the mighty weak, s*nA mJRffi slaves of princes!' * and he was sflent for a moment. "Why," said he, at length, "do you seek to charge me with such weakness. It is one thing to be infatu- ated by the charms of a woman, and another to be touched by her misfortunes. It is the duty of my station to console a princess who has been reduced to the lowest humiliation by the triumphs of our arms. In doing so I do but listen to the dictates of true magnanimity.*' Ayub was sflent, but his brow was rfmnfaft, and for once Abdalasis parted in discontent from his counselor. In pro- portion as he was dissatisfied with others or with 'h*maf*f t he Bought the society of Kiilona, for there was a charm hi her Ce$ei)ds of tfce Sopquest of camrenatkm that banished every care. He daily became more and more enamored, and Exilona gradually ceased to map, and began to listen with secret pleasure to the words of her Arab lover. When, however, he sought to urge hie passion, she recollected the light estimation in which her sex mMfaid by the followers of Mahomet, and assumed a counte- nance grave and severe. "Fortune," said she, ''has caet me at thy feet, behold I am thy captive and thy spoil But though my person is in thy power, my son! is unsubdued, and know that, should I lack force to defend my honor, I have resolution to wash out all stain upon it with my blood. I trust, however, in thy courtesy as a cavalier to respect me in my reverses, re- membering what I have been, and that though the crown has been wrested from my brow, the royal blood still warms within my veins," * The lofty spirit of Exflona, and her proud repulse, served but to increase the passion of Abdalaeis. He besought her to unite her destiny with his, and share his state and power, promising that she should have no rival nor copartner in his heart. Whatever scruples the captive queen might originally have felt to a union with one of the conquerors of her lord, and an enemy of her adopted faith, they were easily van- quished, and she became the bride of Abdalasis. He would fain have persuaded her to return to the faith of her fathers; but though of Moorish origin, and brought up in the doctrines of Islam, she was too thorough a convert to Christianity to consent, and looked back with disgust upon a reUgkm that admitted a plurality of wives. When the sage Ayub heard of the resolution of Abdalasis to espouse Exilona he was in despair. "Alas, my cousin!"' said he, "what infatuation possesses thee? Hast thouthen entirely forgotten the letter of thy father? * Beware, my son,' said he, 'of love; it is an idle passion, which enfeebles * Faxxrdo. corona, Gotirica, T. 1, p. 492. Joan Mar. de reb. Hisp. L. 6,c. 27. 544 U/orKs of U/asl?ii?9toi? IruiQque8t of Spair? 553 ment, covered with cabalistic characters. He received Alahor with a gloomy and sinister aspect; pretending to have dis- covered fearful portents in the heavens, and to have had strange dreams and mystic visions. "O emir," said he, "be on your guard 1 treason is around you and in your path ; your life is in peril. Beware of Count Julian and his family." "Enough," said the emir. "They shall all die! Parents and children all shall die!" He forthwith sent a summons to Count Julian to attend him in Cordova. The messenger found him plunged in affliction for the recent death of his daughter. The count excused himself, on account of this misfortune, from obeying the commands of the emir in person, but sent several of his adherents. His hesitation, and the circumstance of his hav- ing sent his family across the straits to Africa, were con, strued by the jealous mind of the emir into proofs of guilt. He no longer doubted his being concerned in the recent insur- rections, and that he had sent his family away, preparatory to an attempt, by force of arms, to subvert the Moslem domi- nation. In his fury he put to death Siseburto and Evan, the nephews of Bishop Oppas, and sons of the former king, Witiza, suspecting them of taking part in the treason. Thus did they expiate their treachery to their country in the fatal battle of the Guadalete. Alahor next hastened to Carthagena to seize upon Count Julian. So rapid were his movements that the count had barely time to escape with fifteen cavaliers, with whom he took refuge in the strong castle of Marcuello, among the mountains of Aragon. The emir, enraged to be disap- pointed of his prey, embarked at Carthagena and crossed the straits to Ceuta, to make captives of the Countess Frandina and her son. The old chronicle from which we take this part of OUT legend presents a gloomy picture of the countess in the stern fortress to which she had fled for refuge ; a picture height- ened by supernatural horrors. These latter, the sagacious * * *^4 VOL. I. 554 U/orKs of U/asl?ii)$tor? reader will admit or reject according to the measure of his faith and judgment; always remembering that in dark and eventful tunes, like those in question, involving the destinies of nations, the downfall of kingdoms, and the crimes of rulers and mighty men, the hand of fate is sometimes strangely visible, and confounds the wisdom of the worldly wise, by intimations and portents above the ordinary course of things. With this proviso, we make no scruple to follow the venerable chronicler in his narration. Now so it happened that the countess of Frandina was seated late at night in her chamber hi the citadel of Ceuta, which stands on a lofty rock, overlooking the sea. She was revolving in gloomy thought the late disasters of her family, when she heard a mournful noise like that of the sea breeze moaning about the castle walls. Raising her eyes, she be- held her brother, the Bishop Oppas, at the entrance of the chamber. She advanced to embrace him, but he forbade her with a motion of his hand, and she observed that he was ghastly pale, and that his eyes glared as with lambent flames. "Touch me not, sister," said he, with a mournful voice, "lest thou be consumed by the fire which rages within me. Guard well thy son, for bloodhounds are upon his track. His innocence might have secured him the protection of heaven, but our crimes have involved him in our common ruin." He ceased to speak and was no longer to be seen. His coming and going were alike without noise, and the door of the chamber remained fast bolted. On the following morning a messenger arrived with tid- ings that the Bishop Oppas had been made prisoner in battle by the insurgent Christians of the Asturias, and had died in fetters in a tower of the mountains. The same messenger brought' word that the Emir Alahor had put to death several of the friends of Count Julian; had obliged him to fly for his life to a castle in Arragon, and was embarking with a formidable force for Ceuta. The Countess Frandina, as has already been shown, was of courageous heart, and danger made her desperate. There of tl?e Soijquest of Spaiq 555 were fifty Moorish soldiers in the garrison ; she feared that they would prove treacherous, and take part with their coun- trymen. Summoning her officers, therefore, she informed them of their danger, and commanded them to put those Moors to death. The guards sallied forth to obey her or- ders. Thirty-five of the Moors were in the great square, un- suspicious of any danger, when they were severally singled out by their executioners, and, at a concerted signal, killed on the spot. The remaining fifteen took refuge in a tower. They saw the armada of the emir at a distance, and hoped to be able to hold out until its arrival. The soldiers of the countess saw it also, and made extraordinary efforts to de- stroy these internal enemies before they should be attacked from without. They made repeated attempts to storm the tower, but were as often repulsed with severe loss. They then undermined it, supporting its foundations by stanchions of wood. To these they set fire and withdrew to a distance, keeping up a constant shower of missiles to prevent the Moors from sallying forth to extinguish the flames. The stanchions were rapidly consumed, and when they gave way the tower fell to the ground. Some of the Moors were crushed among the ruins ; others were flung to a distance and dashed among the rocks; those who survived were instantly put to the sword. The fleet of the emir arrived at Ceuta about the hour of vespers. He landed, but found the gates closed against him. The countess herself spoke to him from a tower, and set him at defiance. The emir immediately laid siege to the city. He consulted the astrologer Yuza, who told him that for seven days his star would have the ascendant over that of the youth Alarbot, but after that time the youth would be safe from his power, and would effect his ruin. Alahor immediately ordered the city to be assailed on every side, and at length carried it by storm. The countess took refuge with her forces in the citadel and made desperate defense, but the walls were sapped and mined, and she saw that all resistance would soon be unavailing. Her only 656 U/orK of thoughts now were to conceal her child. "Surely," said she, "they will not think of seeking him among the dead." She led him therefore into the dark and dismal chapel. "Thou art not afraid to be alone in this darkness, my child," said she. "No, mother," replied the boy, "darkness gives silence and sleep." She conducted him to the tomb of Florinda. "Fearest thou the dead, my child?" "No, mother, the dead can do no harm, and what should I fear from my sister?" The countess opened the sepulcher. "Listen, my son," said she. "There are fierce and cruel people who have come hither to murder thee. Stay here in company with thy sis- ter, and be quiet as thou dost value thy life!" The boy, who was of a courageous nature, did as he was bidden, and remained there all that day, and all the night, and the next day until the third hour. In the meantime the walls of the citadel were sapped, the troops of the emir poured in at the breach, and a great part of the garrison was put to the sword. The countess was taken prisoner and brought before the emir. She appeared in his presence with a haughty demeanor, as if she had been a queen receiving homage ; but when he demanded her son, she faltered and turned pale and replied, "My son is with the dead." "Countess," said the emir, "I am not to be deceived; tell me where you have concealed the boy, or tortures shall wring from you the secret. ' ' "Emir," replied the countess, "may the greatest torments be my portion, both here and hereafter, if what I speak be not the truth. My darling child lies buried with the dead." The emir was confounded by the solemnity of her words ; but the withered astrologer Yuza, who stood by his side re- garding the countess from beneath his bushed eyebrows, per- ceived trouble in her countenance and equivocation in her words. "Leave this matter to me," whispered he to Alahor, "I will produce the child." He ordered strict search to be made by the soldiery, and Ce$ei}d8 of tl?e quest of Spalp 557 he obliged the countess to be always present. When they came to the chapel, her cheek turned pale and her lip quiv- ered. "This," said the subtile astrologer, "is the place of concealment 1" The search throughout the chapel, however, was equally vain, and the soldiers were about to depart, when Yuza re- marked a slight gleam of joy in the eye of the countess. "We are leaving our prey behind," thought he, "the countess is exulting." He now called to mind the words of her asseveration, that her child was with the dead. Turning suddenly to the sol- diers be ordered them to search the sepulchers. "If you find him not," said he, "drag forth the bones of that wanton Cava, that they may be burned, and the ashes scattered to the winds." The soldiers searched among the tombs and found that of Florinda partly open. Within lay the boy in the sound sleep of childhood, and one of the soldiers took him gently in his arms to bear him to the emir. When the countess beheld that her child was discovered, she rushed into the presence of Alahor, and, forgetting all her pride, threw herself upon her knees before him. "Mercy! mercy!" cried she in piercing accents, "mercy on my son my only child! O emir! listen to a mother's prayer, and my lips shall kiss thy feet. As thou art merci- ful to him, so may the most high God have mercy upon thee, and heap blessings on thy head." "Bear that frantic woman hence," said the emir, "but guard her well." The countess was dragged away by the soldiery without regard to her struggles and her cries, and confined in a dun- geon of the citadel. The child was now brought to the emir. He had been awakened by the tumult, but gazed fearlessly on the stern countenances of the soldiers. Had the heart of the emir been capable of pity, it would have been touched by the tender youth and innocent beauty of the child ; but his heart was aa 558 U/orl{8 of the nether millstone, and he was bent upon the destruction of the whole family of Julian. Calling to him the astrologer, he gave the child into his charge with a secret command. The withered son of the desert took the boy by the hand and led him up the winding staircase of a tower. When they reached the summit Yuza placed him on the battlements. "Cling not to me, my child," said he, "there is no dan- ger." "Father, I fear not," said the undaunted boy, "yet it is a wondrous height!" The child looked around with delighted eyes. The breeze blew his curling locks from about his face, and his cheek glowed at the boundless prospect; for the tower was reared upon that lofty promontory on which Hercules founded one of his pillars. The surges of the sea were heard far below, beating upon the rocks, the seagull screamed and wheeled about the foundations of the tower, and the sails of lofty caraccas were as mere specks on the bosom of the deep. "Dost thou know yonder land beyond the blue water?" said Yuza. "It is Spain," replied the boy, "it is the land of my father and my mother." "Then stretch forth thy hands and bless it, my child, " said the astrologer. The boy let go his hold of the wall, and, as he stretched forth his hands, the aged son of Ishmael, exerting all the strength of his withered limbs, suddenly pushed him over the battlements. He fell headlong from the top of that tajl tower, and not a bone in his tender frame but was crushed upon the rocks beneath. Alahor came to the foot of the winding stairs. "Is the boy safe?" cried he. "He is safe," replied Yuza; "come and behold the truth with thine own eyes." The emir ascended the tower and looked over the battle- ments, and beheld the body of the child, a shapeless mass, on the rocks far below, and the seagulls hovering about ; and Ce$ei?ds of tlpe quest of Spain? 559 he gave orders that it should be thrown into the sea, which was done. On the following morning, the countess was led forth from her dungeon into the public square. She knew of the death of her child, and that her own death was at hand, but she neither wept nor supplicated. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes were haggard with watching, and her cheek was as the monumental stone, but there were the remains of com- manding beauty in her countenance, and the majesty of her presence awed even the rabble into respect. A multitude of Christian prisoners were then brought forth; and Alahor cried out "Behold the wife of Count Julian; behold one of that traitorous family which has brought ruin upon yourselves and upon your country." And he ordered that they should stone her to death. But the Christians drew back with horror from the deed, and said "In the hand of God is vengeance, let not her blood be upon our heads." Upon this the emir swore with horrid impreca- tions that whoever of the captives refused should himself be stoned to death. So the cruel order was executed, and the Countess Frandina perished by the hands of her countrymen. Having thus accomplished his barbarous errand, the emir embarked for Spain, and ordered the citadel of Ceuta to be set on fire, and crossed the straits at night by the light of its towering flames. The death of Count Julian, which took place not long after, closed the tragic story of his family. How he died re- mains involved in doubt. Some assert that the cruel Alahor pursued him to his retreat among the mountains, and, having taken him prisoner, beheaded him; others that the Moors confined him in a dungeon, and put an end to his life with lingering torments ; while others affirm that the tower of the castle of Marcuello, near Huesca, in Aragon, in which he took refuge, fell on him and crushed him to pieces. All agree that his latter end was miserable in the extreme, and his death violent. The curse of heaven, which had thus pursued him to the grave, was extended to the very place 560 U/orKs of U/a8bip$toi> which had given him shelter ; for we are told that the castle is no longer inhabited on account of the strange and horrible noises that are heard in it; and that visions of armed men are seen above it in the air; which are supposed to be the troubled spirits of the apostate Christians who favored the cause of the traitor. In after times a stone sepulcher was shown, outside of the chapel of the castle, as the tomb of Count Julian ; but the traveler and the pilgrim avoided it, or bestowed upon it a malediction ; and the name of Julian has remained a by- word and a scorn in the land for the warning of all genera- tions. Such ever be the lot of him who betrays his country. Here end the legends of the conquest of Spam. Written in the Alhambra, June 10, 1829. NOTE TO THE PRECEDING LEGEND EL licenciado Ardevines (Lib. 2, c. 8), dize que dichos Duendos caseros, o los del aire, hazen aparacer exercitos y peleas, como lo que se cuenta por tradicion (y aun algunos personas lo deponen como testigos de vista) de la torre y castello de Marcuello, lugar al pie de las montanas de Aragon (aora inhabitable, por las grandes y espantables ruidos, que en el se oyen) donde se retraxo el Conde Don Julian, causa de la perdicion de Espana; sobre el qual castillo, deze se ven en el aire ciertas visiones, como de soldados, que el vulgo dize son los cavalleros y gente que le favorecian. Vide "el Ente Dislucidado, por Fray Antonio de Fuenta- lapefia capuchin. Seccion 3. Subseccion 5. Instancia 8. Num. 644." As readers unversed in the Spanish language may wish x> know the testimony of the worthy and discreet Capuchin friar, Antonio de Fuentalapena, we subjoin a translation of it. of tl?e ^opquest of Spaip 561 "The licentiate Ardevines (Book II., chap. 8), says, that the said house-fairies (or familiar spirits), or those of the air, cause the apparitions of armies and battles ; such as those which are related in tradition (and some persons even depose to the truth of them as eye-witnesses), of the town and castle of Marcuello, a fortress at the foot of the mountains of Aragon (at present uninhabitable, on account of the great and frightful noises heard in it), the place of retreat of Count Don Julian, the cause of the perdition of Spain. It is said that certain apparitions of soldiers are seen in the air, which the vulgar say are those of the courtiers and the peoplo who aided him." pijiii