WOLFERT'S ROOST AND OTHER STORIES 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY
 
 Drawn by B. West Clinediiist. 
 
 THE FIRST STEAMBOAT ON THE HUDSON.
 
 THE WORKS OF 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1910
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST i 
 
 THE BIRDS OF SPRING 20 
 
 THE CREOLE VILLAGE 26 
 
 MOUNTJOY 36 
 
 THE BERMUDAS 83 
 
 The Three Kings of Bermuda 91 
 
 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 96 
 
 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA no 
 
 The Grand Prior of Minorca 112 
 
 "A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY" 129 
 
 The Great Mississippi Bubble 132 
 
 SKETCHES IN PARIS IN 1825. The Parisian Hotel .... 167 
 
 My French Neighbor 170 
 
 The Englishman at Paris 173 
 
 English and French Character 176 
 
 The Tuileries and Windsor Castle 179 
 
 The Field of Waterloo 183 
 
 Paris at the Restoration 186 
 
 A CONTENTED MAN 191 
 
 BROEK: THE DUTCH PARADISE 198 
 
 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 205 
 
 THE EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 219 
 
 THE SEMINOLES 256 
 
 Origin of the White, the Red, and the Black Men . . 260 
 
 The Conspiracy of Neamathla 263 
 
 THE COUNT VAN HORN 270 
 
 DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 285 
 
 LEGEND OF THE ENGULPHED CONVENT 296 
 
 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 302 
 
 The Adalantado of the Seven Cities 305 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 325 
 
 The Abencerrage 328 
 
 2031692
 
 vi CONTENTS 
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY PAGE 
 
 Historical Notice 3 
 
 Arrival at the Abbey 12 
 
 The Abbey Garden 18 
 
 Plough Monday 24 
 
 Old Servants 27 
 
 Superstitions of the Abbey 32 
 
 Annesley Hall . 39 
 
 The Lake 59 
 
 Robin Hood and Sherwood Forest 62 
 
 The Rook Cell 70 
 
 The Little White Lady 75
 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST 
 
 AND OTHER PAPERS 
 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST 
 
 CHRONICLE I 
 
 ABOUT five-and-twenty miles from the ancient and re 
 nowned city of Manhattan, formerly called New Am 
 sterdam, and vulgarly called New York, on the eastern 
 bank of that expansion of the Hudson known among 
 Dutch mariners of yore as the Tappan Zee, being in 
 fact the great Mediterranean Sea of the New Nether 
 lands, stands a little, old-fashioned stone mansion, all 
 made up of gable ends, and as full of angles and cor 
 ners as an old cocked hat. It is said, in fact, to have 
 been modelled after the cocked hat of Peter the Head 
 strong, as the Escurial was modelled after the grid 
 iron of the blessed St. Lawrence. Though but of small 
 dimensions, yet, like many small people, it is of mighty 
 spirit, and values : tself greatly on its antiquity, being 
 one of the oldest edifices, for its size, in the whole 
 country. It claims to be an ancient seat of empire, 
 I may rather say an empire in itself, and like all 
 empires, great and small, has had its grand historical 
 epochs. In speaking of this doughty and valorous 
 little pile, I shall call it by its usual appellation of 
 " The Roost " ; though that is a name given to it in 
 modern days, since it became the abode of the white 
 man.
 
 2 WOLFERT'S ROOST 
 
 Its origin, in truth, dates far back in that remote 
 region commonly called the fabulous age, in which 
 vulgar fact becomes mystified and tinted up with de 
 lectable fiction. The eastern shore of the Tappan Sea 
 was inhabited in those days by an unsophisticated race, 
 existing in all the simplicity of nature ; that is to say, 
 they lived by hunting and fishing, and recreated them 
 selves occasionally with a little tomahawking and scalp 
 ing. Each stream that flows down from the hills into 
 the Hudson had its petty sachem, who ruled over a 
 hand's-breadth of forest on either side, and had his 
 seat of government at its mouth. The chieftain who 
 ruled at the Roost was not merely a great warrior, but 
 a medicine-man, or prophet, or conjurer, for they all 
 mean the same thing in Indian parlance. Of his fight 
 ing propensities evidences still remain, in various 
 arrow-heads of flint, and stone battle-axes, occasionally 
 digged up about the Roost; of his wizard powers we 
 have a token in a spring which wells up at the foot 
 of the bank, on the very margin of the river, which, 
 it is said, was gifted by him with rejuvenating powers, 
 something like the renowned Fountain of Youth in 
 the Floridas, so anxiously but vainly sought after by 
 the veteran Ponce de Leon. This story, however, is 
 stoutly contradicted by an old Dutch matter-of-fact 
 tradition, which declares that the spring in question 
 was smuggled over from Holland in a churn, by Fem- 
 metie Van Blarcom, wife of Goosen Garret Van 
 Blarcom, one of the first settlers, and that she took it 
 up by night, unknown to her husband, from beside 
 their farm-house near Rotterdam; being sure she 
 should find no water equal to it in the new country ; 
 and she was right. 
 
 The wizard sachem had a great passion for dis 
 cussing territorial questions, and settling boundary 
 lines ; in other words, he had the spirit of annexation. 
 This kept him in continual feud with the neighboring
 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST 3 
 
 sachems, each of whom stood up stoutly for his hand- 
 breadth of territory; so that there is not a petty stream 
 nor rugged hill in the neighborhood that has not been 
 the subject of long talks and hard battles. The sachem, 
 however, as has been observed, was a medicine-man 
 as well as warrior, and vindicated his claims by arts 
 as well as arms ; so that, by dint of a little hard fight 
 ing here, and hocus-pocus (or diplomacy) there, he 
 managed to extend his boundary line from field to 
 field and stream to stream, until it brought him into 
 collision with the powerful sachem of Sing-Sing. 1 
 Many were the sharp conflicts between these rival 
 chieftains for the sovereignty of a winding valley, a 
 favorite hunting-ground watered by a beautiful stream 
 called the Pocantico. Many were the ambuscades, sur- 
 prisals, and deadly onslaughts that took place among 
 its fastnesses, of which it grieves me much that I 
 cannot pursue the details, for the gratification of those 
 gentle but bloody-minded readers, of both sexes, who 
 delight in the romance of the tomahawk and scalping- 
 knife. Suffice it to say, that the wizard chieftain was 
 at length victorious, though his victory is attributed, 
 in Indian tradition, to a great medicine, or charm, by 
 which he laid the sachem of Sing-Sing and his war 
 riors asleep among the rocks and recesses of the valley, 
 where they remain asleep to the present day, with their 
 bows and war-clubs beside them. This was the origin 
 of that potent and drowsy spell, which still prevails 
 over the valley of the Pocantico, and which has gained 
 it the well-merited appellation of Sleepy Hollow. 
 Often, in secluded and quiet parts of that valley, where 
 the stream is overhung by dark woods and rocks, the 
 
 1 A corruption of the old Indian name, O-sin-sing. Some have 
 rendered it, O-sin-song, or O-sing-song, in token of its being a 
 great market-town, where anything may be had for a mere song. 
 Its present melodious alteration to Sing-Sing is said to have been 
 made in compliment to a Yankee singing-master, who taught the 
 inhabitants the art of singing through the nose.
 
 4 WOLFERT'S ROOST 
 
 ploughman, on some calm and sunny day, as he shouts 
 to his oxen, is surprised at hearing faint shouts from 
 the hill-sides in reply; being, it is said, the spellbound 
 warriors, who half start from their rocky couches and 
 grasp their weapons, but sink to sleep again. 
 
 The conquest of the Pocantico was the last triumph 
 of the wizard sachem. Notwithstanding all his medi 
 cines and charms, he fell in battle, in attempting to 
 extend his boundary line to the east, so as to take in the 
 little wild valley of the Sprain; and his grave is still 
 shown, near the banks of that pastoral stream. He 
 left, however, a great empire to his successors, extend 
 ing along the Tappan Sea, from Yonkers quite to 
 Sleepy Hollow, and known in old records and maps by 
 the Indian name of Wicquaes-Keck. 
 
 The wizard sachem was succeeded by a line of chiefs 
 of whom nothing remarkable remains on record. One 
 of them was the very individual on whom master Hen- 
 drick Hudson and his mate Robert Juet made that 
 sage experiment gravely recorded by the latter, in the 
 narrative of the discovery. 
 
 " Our master and his mate determined to try some 
 of the cheefe men of the country, whether they had 
 any treacherie in them. So they took them down into 
 the cabin, and gave them so much wine and aqua vitae, 
 that they were all very merrie; one of them had his 
 wife with him, which sate so modestly as any of our 
 countrywomen would do in a strange place. In the 
 end, one of them was drunke; and that was strange 
 to them, for they could not tell how to take it." * 
 
 How far master Hendrick Hudson and his worthy 
 mate carried their experiment with the sachem's wife, 
 is not recorded; neither does the curious Robert Juet 
 make any mention of the after consequences of this 
 grand moral test; tradition, however, affirms that the 
 sachem, on landing, gave his modest spouse a hearty 
 1 See Juet's Journal, Purchas' Pilgrims.
 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST 5 
 
 rib-roasting, according to the connubial discipline of 
 the aboriginals; it farther affirms that he remained a 
 hard drinker to the day of his death, trading away all 
 his lands, acre by acre, for aqua vitae ; by which means 
 the Roost and all its domains, from Yonkers to Sleepy 
 Hollow, came, in the regular course of trade, and by 
 right of purchase, into the possession of the Dutchmen. 
 
 The worthy government of the New Netherlands 
 was not suffered to enjoy this grand acquisition un 
 molested. In the year 1654, the losel Yankees of Con 
 necticut, those swapping, bargaining, squatting ene 
 mies of the Manhattoes, made a daring inroad into 
 this neighborhood, and founded a colony called West- 
 chester, or, as the ancient Dutch records term it, Vest 
 Dorp, in the right of one Thomas Pell, who pretended 
 to have purchased the whole surrounding country of 
 the Indians, and stood ready to argue their claims be 
 fore any tribunal of Christendom. 
 
 This happened during the chivalrous reign of Peter 
 Stuyvesant, and roused the ire of that gunpowder old 
 hero. Without waiting to discuss claims and titles, he 
 pounced at once upon the nest of nefarious squatters, 
 carried off twenty-five of them in chains to the Man 
 hattoes ; nor did he stay his hand, nor give rest to his 
 wooden leg, until he had driven the rest of the Yankees 
 back into Connecticut, or obliged them to acknowledge 
 allegiance to their High Mightinesses. In revenge, 
 however, they introduced the plague of witchcraft into 
 the province. This doleful malady broke out at Vest 
 Dorp, and would have spread throughout the country 
 had not the Dutch farmers nailed horse-shoes to the 
 doors of their houses and barns, sure protections 
 against witchcraft, many of which remain to the pres 
 ent day. 
 
 The seat of empire of the wizard sachem now came 
 into the possession of Wolfert Acker, one of the privy 
 councillors of Peter Stuyvesant. He was a worthy,
 
 but ill-starred man, whose aim through life had been 
 to live in peace and quiet. For this he had emigrated 
 from Holland, driven abroad by family feuds and 
 wrangling neighbors. He had warred for quiet 
 through the fidgety reign of William the Testy, and 
 the fighting reign of Peter the Headstrong, sharing 
 in every brawl and rib-roasting, in his eagerness to 
 keep the peace and promote public tranquillity. It 
 was his doom, in fact, to meet a head-wind at every 
 turn, and be kept in a constant fume and fret by the 
 perverseness of mankind. Had he served on a modern 
 jury, he would have been sure to have eleven unreason 
 able men opposed to him. 
 
 At the time when the province of the New Nether 
 lands was wrested from the domination of their High 
 Mightinesses by the combined forces of Old and New 
 England, Wolfert retired in high dudgeon to this fast 
 ness in the wilderness, with the bitter determination 
 to bury himself from the world, and live here for the 
 rest of his days in peace and quiet. In token of that 
 fixed purpose, he inscribed over his door (his teeth 
 clinched at the time) his favorite Dutch motto, " Lust 
 in Rust " (pleasure in quiet). The mansion was thence 
 called Wolfert's Rust ( Wolf erf s Rest), but by the un 
 educated, who did not understand Dutch, Wolfert's 
 Roost; probably from its quaint cockloft look, and 
 from its having a weathercock perched on every gable. 
 
 Wolfert's luck followed him into retirement. He 
 had shut himself up from the world, but he had brought 
 with him a wife, and it soon passed into a proverb 
 throughout the neighborhood that the cock of the Roost 
 was the most henpecked bird in the country. His house 
 too was reputed to be harassed by Yankee witchcraft. 
 When the weather was quiet everywhere else, the wind, 
 it was said, would howl and whistle about the gables; 
 witches and warlocks would whirl about upon the 
 weathercocks, and scream down the chimneys; nay,
 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST 7 
 
 it was even hinted that Wolfert's wife was in league 
 with the enemy, and used to ride on a broomstick to 
 a witches' sabbath in Sleepy Hollow. This, however, 
 was all mere scandal, founded perhaps on her occasion 
 ally flourishing a broomstick in the course of a curtain 
 lecture, or raising a storm within doors, as termagant 
 wives are apt to do, and against which sorcery horse 
 shoes are of no avail. 
 
 Wolfert Acker died and was buried, but found no 
 quiet even in the grave; for if popular gossip be true, 
 his ghost has occasionally been seen walking by moon 
 light among the old gray moss-grown trees of his 
 apple orchard. 
 
 CHRONICLE II 
 
 The next period at which we find this venerable and 
 eventful pile rising into importance, was during the 
 dark and troublous times of the revolutionary war. 
 It was the keep or stronghold of Jacob Van Tassel, a 
 valiant Dutchman of the old stock of Van Tassels, who 
 abound in Westchester County. The name, as origi 
 nally written, was Van Texel, being derived from the 
 Texel in Holland, which gave birth to that heroic line. 
 
 The Roost stood in the very heart of what at that 
 time was called the debatable ground, lying between 
 the British and American lines. The British held pos 
 session of the city and island of New York ; while the 
 Americans drew up towards the Highlands, holding 
 their head-quarters at Peekskill. The intervening 
 country from Croton River to Spiting Devil Creek was 
 the debatable ground in question, liable to be harried 
 by friend and foe, like the Scottish borders of yore. 
 
 It is a rugged region, full of fastnesses. A line of 
 rocky hills extends through it like a backbone send 
 ing out ribs on either side ; but these rude hills are for 
 the most part richly wooded, and enclose little fresh
 
 8 WOLFERTS ROOST 
 
 pastoral valleys watered by the Neperan, the Pocantico, 1 
 and other beautiful streams, along which the Indians 
 built their wigwams in the olden time. 
 
 In the fastnesses of these hills, and along these val 
 leys, existed, in the time of which I am treating, and 
 indeed exist to the present day, a race of hard-headed, 
 hard-handed, stout-hearted yeomen, descendants of 
 the primitive Nederlanders. Men obstinately attached 
 to the soil, and neither to be fought nor bought out of 
 their paternal acres. Most of them were strong Whigs 
 throughout the war; some, however,* were Tories, or 
 adherents to the old kingly rule, who considered the 
 revolution a mere rebellion, soon to be put down by 
 his majesty's forces. A number of these -took refuge 
 within the British lines, joined the military bands of 
 refugees, and became pioneers or leaders to foraging 
 parties sent out from New York to scour the country 
 and sweep off supplies for the British army. 
 
 In a little while the debatable ground became in 
 fested by roving bands, claiming from either side, and 
 all pretending to redress wrongs and punish political 
 offences; but all prone in the exercise of their high 
 functions to sack hen-roosts, drive off cattle, and 
 lay farm-houses under contribution ; such was the 
 origin of two great orders of border chivalry, the 
 Skinners and the Cow Boys, famous in revolutionary 
 story: the former fought, or rather marauded, under 
 the American, the latter, under the British banner. In 
 
 1 The Neperan, vulgarly called the Saw-Mill River, winds for 
 many miles through a lovely valley, shrouded by groves, and 
 dotted by Dutch farm-houses, and empties itself into the Hudson 
 at the ancient Dorp of Yonkers. The Pocantico, rising among 
 woody hills, winds in many a wizard maze through the seques 
 tered haunts of Sleepy Hollow. We owe it to the indefatigable 
 researches of Mr. KNICKERBOCKER, that those beautiful streams are 
 rescued from modern common-place, and reinvested with their 
 ancient Indian names. The correctness of the venerable historian 
 may be ascertained by reference to the records of the original In 
 dian grants to the Herr Frederick Philipsen, preserved in the 
 county clerk's office at White Plains.
 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST 9 
 
 the zeal of service, both were apt to make blunders, 
 and confound the property of friend and foe. Neither 
 of them in the heat and hurry of a foray had time to 
 ascertain the politics of a horse or cow, which they 
 were driving off into captivity ; nor, when they wrung 
 the neck of a rooster, did they trouble their heads 
 whether he crowed for Congress or King George. 
 
 To check these enormities, a confederacy was formed 
 among the yeomanry who had suffered from these 
 maraudings. It was composed for the most part of 
 farmers' sons, bold, hard-riding lads, well armed, and 
 well mounted, and undertook to clear the country round 
 of Skinner and Cow Boy, and all other border vermin ; 
 as the Holy Brotherhood in old times cleared Spain 
 of the banditti which infested her highways. 
 
 Wolfert's Roost was one of the rallying places of 
 this confederacy, and Jacob Van Tassel one of its 
 members. He was eminently fitted for the service; 
 stout of frame, bold of heart, and like his predecessor, 
 the warrior sachem of yore, delighting in daring enter 
 prises. He had an Indian's sagacity in discovering 
 when the enemy was on the maraud, and in hearing 
 the distant tramp of cattle. It seemed as if he had a 
 scout on every hill, and an ear as quick as that of Fine 
 Ear in the fairy tale. 
 
 The foraging parties of Tories and refugees had 
 now to be secret and sudden in their forays into 
 Westchester County; to make a hasty maraud among 
 the farms, sweep the cattle into a drove, and hurry 
 down to the lines along the river road, or the valley of 
 the Neperan. Before they were half-way down, Jacob 
 Van Tassel, with the holy brotherhood of Tarrytown, 
 Petticoat Lane, and Sleepy Hollow, would be clatter 
 ing at their heels. And no\y there would be a general 
 scamper for King's Bridge, the pass over Spiting Devil 
 Creek, into the British lines. Sometimes the moss 
 troopers would be overtaken, and eased of part of their
 
 io WOLFERT'S ROOST 
 
 booty. Sometimes the whole cavalgada would urge its 
 headlong course across the bridge with thundering 
 tramp and dusty whirlwind. At such times their 
 pursuers would rein up their steeds, survey that 
 perilous pass with wary eye, and, wheeling about, 
 indemnify themselves by foraging the refugee region 
 of Morrisania. 
 
 While the debatable land was liable to be thus har 
 ried, the great Tappan Sea, along which it extends, 
 was likewise domineered over by the foe. British 
 ships of war were anchored here and there in the wide 
 expanses of the river, mere floating castles to hold it 
 in subjection. Stout galleys armed with eighteen 
 pounders, and navigated with sails and oars, cruised 
 about like hawks, while row-boats made descents upon 
 the land, and foraged the country along shore. 
 
 It was a sore grievance to the yeomanry along the 
 Tappan Sea to behold that little Mediterranean 
 ploughed by hostile prows, and the noble river of which 
 they were so proud reduced to a state of thraldom. 
 Councils of war were held by captains of market-boats 
 and other river-craft, to devise ways and means of 
 dislodging the enemy. Here and there on a point of 
 land extending into the Tappan Sea, a mud work 
 would be thrown up, and an old field-piece mounted, 
 with which a knot of rustic artillerymen would fire 
 away for a long summer's day at some frigate dozing 
 at anchor far out of reach ; and reliques of such works 
 may still be seen overgrown with weeds and brambles, 
 with peradventure the half-buried fragment of a can 
 non which may have burst. 
 
 Jacob Van Tassel was a prominent man in these 
 belligerent operations; but he was prone, moreover, 
 to carry on a petty warfare of his own for his indi 
 vidual recreation and refreshment. On a row of hooks 
 above the fireplace of the Roost, reposed his great piece 
 of ordnance, a duck, or rather goose-gun, of un-
 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST n 
 
 paralleled longitude, with which it was said he could 
 kill a wild goose half-way across the Tappan Sea. 
 Indeed, there are as many wonders told of this re 
 nowned gun, as of the enchanted weapons of classic 
 story. When the belligerent feeling was strong upon 
 Jacob, he would take down his gun, sally forth alone, 
 and prowl along shore, dodging behind rocks and trees, 
 watching for hours together any ship or galley at 
 anchor or becalmed, as a valorous mouser will watch 
 a rat-hole. So sure as a boat approached the shore, 
 bang went the great goose-gun, sending on board a 
 shower of slugs and buck-shot; and away scuttled 
 Jacob Van Tassel through some woody ravine. As 
 the Roost stood in a lonely situation, and might be 
 attacked, he guarded against surprise by making loop 
 holes in the stone walls, through which to fire upon an 
 assailant. His wife was stout-hearted as himself, and 
 could load as fast as he could fire; and his sister, 
 Nochie Van Wurmer, a redoubtable widow, was a 
 match, as he said, for the stoutest man in the country. 
 Thus garrisoned, his little castle was fitted to stand a 
 siege, and Jacob was the man to defend it to the last 
 charge of powder. 
 
 In the process of time the Roost became one of 
 the secret stations, or lurking-places, of the Water 
 Guard. This was an aquatic corps in the pay of gov 
 ernment, organized to range the waters of the Hudson, 
 and keep watch upon the movements of the enemy. It 
 was composed of nautical men of the river, and hardy 
 youngsters of the adjacent country, expert at pulling 
 an oar or handling a musket. They were provided 
 with whale-boats, long and sharp, shaped like canoes, 
 and formed to lie lightly on the water, and be rowed 
 with great rapidity. In these they would lurk out of 
 sight by day, in nooks and bays, and behind points of 
 land, keeping a sharp look-out upon the British ships, 
 and giving intelligence to head-quarters of any extraor-
 
 12 WOLFERT'S ROOST 
 
 dinary movement. At night they rowed about in pairs, 
 pulling quietly along with muffled oars, under shadow 
 of the land, or gliding like spectres about frigates and 
 guard-ships to cut off any boat that might be sent to 
 shore. In this way they were a source of constant un 
 easiness and alarm to the enemy. 
 
 The Roost, as has been observed, was one of their 
 lurking-places; having a cove in front where their 
 whale-boats could be drawn up out of sight, and Jacob 
 Van Tassel being a vigilant ally, ready to take a part in 
 any " scout or scrummage " by land or water. At this 
 little warrior nest the hard-riding lads from the hills 
 would hold consultations with the chivalry of the river, 
 and here were concerted divers of those daring enter 
 prises which resounded from Spiting Devil Creek even 
 unto Anthony's Nose. Here was concocted the mid 
 night invasion of New York Island, and the conflagra 
 tion of Delancy's Tory mansion, which makes such a 
 blaze in revolutionary history. Nay, more, if the tra 
 ditions of the Roost may be credited, here was medi 
 tated, by Jacob Van Tassel and his compeers, a noctur 
 nal foray into New York itself, to surprise and carry 
 off the British commanders, Howe and Clinton, and 
 put a triumphant close to the war. 
 
 There is no knowing whether this notable scheme 
 might not have been carried into effect, had not one 
 of Jacob Van Tassel's egregious exploits along shore 
 with his goose-gun, with which he thought himself a 
 match for anything, brought vengeance on his house. 
 
 It so happened, that in the course of one of his soli 
 tary prowls he descried a British transport aground; 
 the stern swung toward shore within point-blank shot. 
 The temptation was too great to be resisted. Bang! 
 went the great goose-gun, from the covert of the trees, 
 shivering the cabin-windows and driving all hands 
 forward. Bang! bang! the shots were repeated. The 
 reports brought other of Jacob's fellow bush-fighters to
 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST 13 
 
 the spot. Before the transport could bring a gun to 
 bear, or land a boat to take revenge, she was soundly 
 peppered, and the coast evacuated. 
 
 This was the last of Jacob's triumphs. He fared 
 like some heroic spider that has unwittingly ensnared 
 a hornet to the utter ruin of his web. It was not long 
 after the above exploit that he fell into the hands of 
 the enemy in the course of one of his forays, and was 
 carried away prisoner to New York. The Roost itself, 
 as a pestilent rebel nest, was marked out for signal 
 punishment. The cock of the Roost being captive, 
 there was none to garrison it but his stout-hearted 
 spouse, his redoubtable sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, 
 and Dinah, a strapping negro wench. An armed ves 
 sel came to anchor in front ; a boat full of men pulled 
 to shore. The garrison flew to arms; that is to say, 
 to mops, broomsticks, shovels, tongs, and all kinds of 
 domestic weapons, for unluckily the great piece 
 of ordnance, the goose-gun, was absent with its owner. 
 Above all, a vigorous defence was made with that 
 most potent of female weapons, the tongue. Never 
 did invaded hen-roost make a more vociferous outcry. 
 It was all in vain. The house was sacked and plun 
 dered, fire was set to each corner, and in a few mo 
 ments its blaze shed a baleful light far over the Tappan 
 Sea. The invaders then pounced upon the blooming 
 Laney Van Tassel, the beauty of the Roost, and en 
 deavored to bear her off to the boat. But here was the 
 real tug of war. The mother, the aunt, and the strap 
 ping negro wench, all flew to the rescue. The struggle 
 continued down to the very water's edge, when a voice 
 from the armed vessel at anchor ordered the spoilers 
 to desist; they relinquished their prize, jumped into 
 their boats, and pulled off, and the heroine of the Roost 
 escaped with a mere rumpling of her feathers. 
 
 As to the stout Jacob himself, he was detained a 
 prisoner in New York for the greater part of the war ;
 
 14 WOLFERT'S ROOST 
 
 in the mean time the Roost remained a melancholy 
 ruin, its stone walls and brick chimneys alone standing, 
 the resorts of bats and owls. Superstitious notions 
 prevailed about it. None of the country people would 
 venture alone at night down the rambling lane which 
 led to it, overhung with trees, and crossed here and 
 there by a wild wandering brook. The story went that 
 one of the victims of Jacob Van Tassel's great goose- 
 gun had been buried there in unconsecrated ground. 
 
 Even the Tappan Sea in front was said to be haunted. 
 Often in the still twilight of a summer evening, when 
 the sea would be as glass, and the opposite hills would 
 throw their purple shadows half across it, a low sound 
 would be heard as of the steady, vigorous pull of oars, 
 though not a boat was to be descried. Some might 
 have supposed that a boat was rowed along unseen 
 under the deep shadows of the opposite shores; but 
 the ancient traditionists of the neighborhood knew 
 better. Some said it was one of the whale-boats of 
 the old Water Guard, sunk by the British ships during 
 the war, but now permitted to haunt its old cruising- 
 grounds; but the prevalent opinion connected it with 
 the awful fate of Rambout Van Dam of graceless 
 memory. He was a roistering Dutchman of Spiting 
 Devil, who in times long past had navigated his boat 
 alone one Saturday the whole length of the Tappan 
 Sea, to attend a quilting frolic at Kakiat, on the west 
 ern shore. Here he had danced and drunk until mid 
 night, when he entered his boat to return home. He 
 was warned that he was on the verge of Sunday morn 
 ing ; but he pulled off nevertheless, swearing he would 
 not land until he reached Spiting Devil, if it took him 
 a month of Sundays. He was never seen afterwards ; 
 but may be heard plying his oars, as above mentioned, 
 being the Flying Dutchman of the Tappan Sea, 
 doomed to ply between Kakiat and Spiting Devi] 
 the day of judgment.
 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST 15 
 
 CHRONICLE III 
 
 The revolutionary war was over. The debatable 
 ground had once more become a quiet agricultural 
 region; the border chivalry had turned their swords 
 into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning-hooks, 
 and hung up their guns, only to be taken down occa 
 sionally in a campaign against wild pigeons on the 
 hills, or wild ducks upon the Hudson. Jacob Van 
 Tassel, whilome carried captive to New York, a flagi 
 tious rebel, had come forth from captivity a " hero of 
 seventy-six." In a little while he sought the scenes of 
 his former triumphs and mishaps, rebuilt the Roost, 
 restored his goose-gun to the hooks over the fireplace, 
 and reared once more on high the glittering weather 
 cocks. 
 
 Years and years passed over the time-honored little 
 mansion. The honeysuckle and the sweetbrier crept 
 up its walls ; the wren and the Phoebe-bird built under 
 the eaves; it gradually became almost hidden among 
 trees, through which it looked forth, as with half-shut 
 eyes, upon the Tappan Sea. The Indian spring, fa 
 mous in the days of the wizard sachem, still welled up 
 at the bottom of the green bank; and the wild brook, 
 wild as ever, came babbling down the ravine, and 
 threw itself into the little cove where of yore the Water 
 Guard harbored their whale-boats. 
 
 Such was the state of the Roost many years since, 
 at the time when Diedrich Knickerbocker came into 
 this neighborhood, in the course of his researches 
 among the Dutch families for materials for his im 
 mortal history. The exterior of the eventful little pile 
 seemed to him full of promise. The crow-step gables 
 were of the primitive architecture of the province. 
 The weathercocks which surmounted them had crowed 
 in the glorious days of the New Netherlands. The one
 
 16 WOLFERT'S ROOST 
 
 above the porch had actually glittered of yore on the 
 great Vander Heyden palace at Albany. 
 
 The interior of the mansion fulfilled its external 
 promise. Here were records of old times ; documents 
 of the Dutch dynasty, rescued from the profane hands 
 of the English by Wolfert Acker, when he retreated 
 from New Amsterdam. Here he had treasured them 
 up like buried gold, and here they had been miracu 
 lously preserved by St. Nicholas, at the time of the 
 conflagration of the Roost. 
 
 Here then did old Diedrich Knickerbocker take up 
 his abode for a time, and set to work with antiquarian 
 zeal to decipher these precious documents, which, like 
 the lost books of Livy, had baffled the research of for 
 mer historians; and it is the facts drawn from these 
 sources which give his work the preference, in point 
 of accuracy, over every other history. 
 
 It was during his sojourn in this eventful neighbor 
 hood that the historian is supposed to have picked up 
 many of those legends, which have since been given 
 by him to the world, or found among his papers. Such 
 was the legend connected with the old Dutch Church 
 of Sleepy Hollow. The Church itself was a monu 
 ment of by-gone days. It had been built in the early 
 times of the province. A tablet over the portal bore 
 the names of its founders, Frederick Filipson, a 
 mighty man of yore, patroon of Yonkers, and his wife 
 Katrina Van Courtland, of the Van Courtlands of 
 Croton ; a powerful family connection, with one 
 foot resting on Spiting Devil Creek, and the other on 
 the Croton River. 
 
 Two weathercocks, with the initials of these illus 
 trious personages, graced each end of the Church, one 
 perched over the belfry, the other over the chancel. 
 As usual with ecclesiastical weathercocks, each pointed 
 a different way ; and there was a perpetual contradic 
 tion between them on all points of windy doctrine;
 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST 17 
 
 emblematic, alas ! of the Christian propensity to schism 
 and controversy. 
 
 In the burying-ground adjacent to the Church, re 
 posed the earliest fathers of a wide rural neighbor 
 hood. Here families were garnered together, side by 
 side, in long platoons, in this last gathering place of 
 kindred. With pious hand would Diedrich Knicker 
 bocker turn down the weeds and brambles which had 
 overgrown the tombstones, to decipher inscriptions in 
 Dutch and English, of the names and virtues of suc 
 ceeding generations of Van Tassels, Van Warts, and 
 other historical worthies, with their portraitures faith 
 fully carved, all bearing the family likeness to cherubs. 
 
 The congregation in those days was of a truly rural 
 character. City fashions had not as yet stole up to 
 Sleepy Hollow. Dutch sun-bonnets and honest home 
 spun still prevailed. Everything was in primitive style, 
 even to the bucket of water and tin cup near the door 
 in summer, to assuage the thirst caused by the heat of 
 the weather or the drought of the sermon. 
 
 The pulpit, with its wide-spreading sounding-board, 
 and the communion-table, curiously carved, had each 
 come from Holland in the olden time, before the arts 
 had sufficiently advanced in the colony for such 
 achievements. Around these on Sundays would be 
 gathered the elders of the church, gray-headed men, 
 who led the psalmody, and in whom it would be difficult 
 to recognize the hard-riding lads of yore, who scoured 
 the debatable land in the time of the revolution. 
 
 The drowsy influence of Sleepy Hollow was apt to 
 breathe into this sacred edifice; and now and then an 
 elder might be seen with his handkerchief over his face 
 to keep off the flies, and apparently listening to the 
 dominie ; but really sunk into a summer slumber, lulled 
 by the sultry notes of the locust from the neighboring 
 trees. 
 
 And now a word or two about Sleepy Hollow, which
 
 i8 WOLFERT'S ROOST 
 
 many have rashly deemed a fanciful creation, like the 
 Lubberland of mariners. It was probably the mystic 
 and dreamy sound of the name which first tempted the 
 historian of the Manhattoes into its spellbound mazes. 
 As he entered, all nature seemed for the moment to 
 awake from its slumbers and break forth in gratula- 
 tions. The quail whistled a welcome from the corn 
 field; the loquacious cat-bird flew from bush to bush 
 with restless wing proclaiming his approach, or perked 
 inquisitively into his face as if to get a knowledge of 
 his physiognomy. The woodpecker tapped a tattoo on 
 the hollow apple-tree, and then peered round the trunk, 
 as if asking how he relished the salutation ; while the 
 squirrel scampered along the fence, whisking his tail 
 over his head by way of a huzza. 
 
 Here reigned the golden mean extolled by poets, 
 in which no gold was to be found and very little silver. 
 The inhabitants of the Hollow were of the primitive 
 stock, and had intermarried and bred in and in, from 
 the earliest time of the province, never swarming far 
 from the parent hive, but dividing and subdividing 
 their paternal acres as they swarmed. 
 
 Here were small farms, each having its little por 
 tion of meadow and cornfield; its orchard of gnarled 
 and sprawling apple-trees; its garden, in which the 
 rose, the marigold, and hollyhock, grew sociably with 
 the cabbage, the pea, and the pumpkin; each had its 
 low-eaved mansion redundant with white-headed chil 
 dren ; with an old hat nailed against the wall for the 
 housekeeping wren ; the coop on the grass-plot, where 
 the motherly hen clucked round with her vagrant 
 brood : each had its stone well, with a moss-covered 
 bucket suspended to the long balancing-pole, accord 
 ing to antediluvian hydraulics ; while within doors re 
 sounded the eternal hum of the spinning-wheel. 
 
 Many were the great historical .facts which the 
 worthy Diedrich collected in these lowly mansions,
 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST 19 
 
 and patiently would he sit by the old Dutch house 
 wives with a child on his knee, or a purring grimalkin 
 on his lap, listing to endless ghost stories spun forth 
 to the humming accompaniment of the wheel. 
 
 The delighted historian pursued his explorations far 
 into the foldings of the hills where the Pocantico winds 
 its wizard stream among the mazes of its old Indian 
 haunts; sometimes running darkly in pieces of wood 
 land beneath balancing sprays of beech and chestnut; 
 sometimes sparkling between grassy borders in fresh, 
 green intervales; here and there receiving the tributes 
 of silver rills which came whimpering down the hill 
 sides from their parent springs. 
 
 In a remote part of the Hollow, where the Pocantico 
 forced its way down rugged rocks, stood Carl's mill, 
 the haunted house of the neighborhood. It was in 
 deed a goblin-looking pile; shattered and time-worn, 
 dismal with clanking wheels and rushing streams, and 
 all kinds of uncouth noises. A horse-shoe nailed to 
 the door to keep off witches, seemed to have lost its 
 power, for as Diedrich approached, an old negro thrust 
 his head all dabbled with flour out of a hole above the 
 water-wheel, and grinned and rolled his eyes, and ap 
 peared to be the very hobgoblin of the place. Yet 
 this proved to be the great historic genius of the Hol 
 low, abounding in that valuable information never to 
 be acquired from books. Diedrich Knickerbocker soon 
 discovered his merit. They had long talks together 
 seated on a broken millstone, heedless of the water and 
 the clatter of the mill ; and to his conference with 
 that African sage many attribute the surprising, though 
 true story, of Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horse 
 man of Sleepy Hollow. We refrain, however, from 
 giving farther researches of the historian of the Man- 
 hattoes during his sojourn at the Roost, but may re 
 turn to them in future pages. 
 
 Reader ! the Roost still exists. Time, which changes
 
 20 THE BIRDS OF SPRING 
 
 all things, is slow in its operations on a Dutchman's 
 dwelling. The stout Jacob Van Tassel, it is true, sleeps 
 with his fathers; and his great goose-gun with him: 
 yet his stronghold still bears the impress of its Dutch 
 origin. Odd rumors have gathered about it, as they are 
 apt to do about old mansions, like moss and weather- 
 stains. The shade of Wolfert Acker still walks his 
 unquiet rounds at night in the orchard; and a white 
 figure has now and then been seen seated at a window 
 and gazing at the moon, from a room in which a young 
 lady is said to have died of love and green apples. 
 
 Mementos of the sojourn of Diedrich Knicker 
 bocker are still cherished at the Roost. His elbow- 
 chair and antique writing-desk maintain their place in 
 the room he occupied, and his old cocked-hat still hangs 
 on a peg against the wall. 
 
 THE BIRDS OF SPRING 
 
 MY quiet residence in the country, aloof from fashion, 
 politics, and the money-market, leaves me rather at a 
 loss for occupation, and drives me occasionally to the 
 study of nature, and other low pursuits. Having few 
 neighbors, also, on whom to keep a watch, and exer 
 cise my habits of observation, I am fain to amuse 
 myself with prying into the domestic concerns and 
 peculiarities of the animals around me; and during 
 the present season have derived considerable enter 
 tainment from certain sociable little birds, almost the 
 only visitors we have during this early part of the year. 
 Those who have passed the winter in the country 
 are sensible of the delightful influences that accom 
 pany the earliest indications of spring; and of these 
 none are more delightful than the first notes of the 
 birds. There is one modest little sad-colored bird,
 
 THE BIRDS OF SPRING 21 
 
 much resembling a wren, which came about the house 
 just on the skirts of winter, when not a blade of grass 
 was to be seen, and when a few prematurely warm 
 days had given a flattering foretaste of soft weather. 
 He sang early in the dawning, long before sunrise, 
 and late in the evening, just before the closing in of 
 night, his matin and his vesper hymns. It is true he 
 sang occasionally throughout the day; but at these 
 still hours his song was more remarked. He sat on 
 a leafless tree, just before the window, and warbled 
 forth his notes, few and simple, but singularly sweet, 
 with something of a plaintive tone that heightened their 
 effect. 
 
 The first morning that he was heard was a joyous 
 one among the young folks of my household. The 
 long, death-like sleep of winter was at an end ; nature 
 was once more awakening; they now promised them 
 selves the immediate appearance of buds and blos 
 soms. I was reminded of the tempest-tossed crew of 
 Columbus, when after their long dubious voyage the 
 field-birds came singing round the ship, though still 
 far at sea, rejoicing them with the belief of the imme 
 diate proximity of land. A sharp return of winter 
 almost silenced my little songster, and dashed the 
 hilarity of the household; yet still he poured forth, 
 now and then, a few plaintive notes, between the frosty 
 pipings of the breeze, like gleams of sunshine between 
 wintry clouds. 
 
 I have consulted my book of ornithology in vain, 
 to find out the name of this kindly little bird, who cer 
 tainly deserves honor and favor far beyond his modest 
 pretensions. He comes like the lowly violet, the most 
 unpretending, but welcomest of flowers, breathing the 
 sweet promise of the early year. 
 
 Another of our feathered visitors, who follow close 
 upon the steps of winter, is the Pe-wit, or Pe-wee, or 
 Phoebe-bird; for he is called by each of these names,
 
 22 THE BIRDS OF SPRING 
 
 from a fancied resemblance to the sound of his mo 
 notonous note. He is a sociable little being, and seeks 
 the habitation of man. A pair of them have built 
 beneath my porch, and have reared several broods there 
 for two years past, their nest being never disturbed. 
 They arrive early in the spring, just when the crocus 
 and the snow-drop begin to peep forth. Their first 
 chirp spreads gladness through the house. " The 
 Phoebe-birds have come ! " is heard on all sides ; they 
 are welcomed back like members of the family, and 
 speculations are made upon where they have been, and 
 what countries they have seen, during their long ab 
 sence. Their arrival is the more cheering, as it is pro 
 nounced by the old, weather-wise people of the country 
 the sure sign that the severe frosts are at an end, 
 and that the gardener may resume his labors with 
 confidence. 
 
 About this time, too, arrives the blue-bird, so poeti 
 cally yet truly described by Wilson. His appearance 
 gladdens the whole landscape. You hear his soft 
 warble in every field. He sociably approaches your 
 habitation, and takes up his residence in your vicinity. 
 But why should I attempt to describe him, when I have 
 Wilson's own graphic verses to place him before the 
 reader ? 
 
 When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more, 
 
 Green meadows and brown furrowed fields reappearing, 
 The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore, 
 
 And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering ; 
 When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing, 
 
 When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, 
 Oh then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring, 
 
 And hails with his warblings the charms of the season. 
 
 The loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring, 
 
 Then warm glows the sunshine, and warm grows the weather; 
 The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring, 
 
 And spice-wood and sassafras budding together; 
 Oh then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair, 
 
 Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure; 
 The blue-bird will chant from his box such an air, 
 
 That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure !
 
 THE BIRDS OF SPRING 23 
 
 He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree, 
 
 The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossom ; 
 He snaps up destroyers, wherever they be, 
 
 And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms; 
 He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours, 
 
 The worms from the webs where they riot and welter ; 
 His song and his services freely are ours, 
 
 And all that he asks is, in summer a shelter. 
 
 The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train, 
 
 Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him; 
 The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain, 
 
 And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him. 
 The slow, lingering schoolboys forget they '11 be chid, 
 
 While gazing intent, as he warbles before them 
 In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red, 
 
 That each little loiterer seems to adore him. 
 
 The happiest bird of our spring, however, and one 
 that rivals the European lark, in my estimation, is the 
 Bobolincon, or Bobolink, as he is commonly called. 
 He arrives at that choice portion of our year, which, 
 in this latitude, answers to the description of the month 
 of May so often given by the poets. With us it begins 
 about the middle of May, and lasts until nearly the 
 middle of June. Earlier than this, winter is apt to 
 return on its traces, and to blight the opening beauties 
 of the year; and later than this begin the parching, 
 and panting, and dissolving heats of summer. But in 
 this genial interval, nature is in all her freshness and 
 fragrance ; " the rains are over and gone, the flowers 
 appear upon the earth, the time of the singing of birds 
 is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the 
 land." The trees are now in their fullest foliage and 
 brightest verdure; the woods are gay with the clus 
 tered flowers of the laurel ; the air is perfumed by the 
 sweetbrier and the wild rose; the meadows are enam 
 elled with clover-blossoms ; while the young apple, the 
 peach, and the plum begin to swell, and the cherry to 
 glow, among the green leaves. 
 
 This is the chosen season of revelry of the Bobolink. 
 He comes amidst the pomp and fragrance of the
 
 24 THE BIRDS OF SPRING 
 
 season; his life seems all sensibility and enjoyment, 
 all song and sunshine. He is to be found in the soft 
 bosoms of the freshest and sweetest meadows, and is 
 most in song when the clover is in blossom. He 
 perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or on some long, 
 flaunting weed, and, as he rises and sinks with the 
 breeze, pours forth a succession of rich tinkling notes, 
 crowding one upon another, like the outpouring 
 melody of the skylark, and possessing the same rap 
 turous character. Sometimes he pitches from the sum 
 mit of a tree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon 
 the wing, and flutters tremulously down to the earth, 
 as if overcome with ecstasy at his own music. Some 
 times he is in pursuit of his paramour ; always in full 
 song, as if he would win her by his melody ; and always 
 with the same appearance of intoxication and delight. 
 
 Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the 
 Bobolink was the envy of my boyhood. He crossed 
 my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetest 
 season of the year, when all nature called to the fields, 
 and the rural feeling throbbed in every bosom; but 
 when I, luckless urchin ! was doomed to be mewed up, 
 during the livelong day, in that purgatory of boyhood, 
 a school-room. It seemed as if the little varlet mocked 
 at me as he flew by in full song, and sought to taunt 
 me with his happier lot. Oh, how I envied him! No 
 lessons, no task, no hateful school; nothing but holi 
 day frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Had I been 
 then more versed in poetry, I might have addressed 
 him in the words of Logan to the cuckoo, 
 
 Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, 
 
 Thy sky is ever clear ; 
 Thou hast no sorrow in thy note, 
 
 No winter in thy year. 
 
 Oh ! could I fly, I 'd fly with thee ; 
 
 We 'd make, on joyful wing, 
 Our annual visit round the globe, 
 
 Companions of the spring!
 
 THE BIRDS OF SPRING 25 
 
 Further observation and experience have given me 
 a different idea of this little feathered voluptuary, 
 which I will venture to impart, for the benefit of my 
 schoolboy readers, who may regard him with the same 
 unqualified envy and admiration which I once indulged. 
 I have shown him, only as I saw him at first, in what 
 I may call the poetical part of his career, when he in 
 a manner devoted himself to elegant pursuits and en 
 joyments, and was a bird of music, and song, and taste, 
 and sensibility, and refinement. While this lasted, he 
 was sacred from injury; the very schoolboy would 
 not fling a stone at him, and the merest rustic would 
 pause to listen to his strain. But mark the difference. 
 As the year advances, as the clover-blossoms disappear, 
 and the spring fades into summer, he gradually gives 
 up his elegant tastes and habits, doffs his poetical suit 
 of black, assumes a russet dusty garb, and sinks to the 
 gross enjoyments of common vulgar birds. His notes 
 no longer vibrate on the ear; he is stuffing himself 
 with the seeds of the tall weeds on which he lately 
 swung and chanted so melodiously. He has become 
 a bon vivant, a gourmand; with him now there is 
 nothing like the " joys of the table." In a little while 
 he grows tired of plain, homely fare, and is off on a 
 gastronomical tour in quest of foreign luxuries. We 
 next hear of him, with myriads of his kind, banqueting 
 among the reeds of the Delaware; and grown corpu 
 lent with good feeding. He has changed his name in 
 travelling. Bobolincon no more, he is the Reed- 
 bird now, the much sought-for titbit of Pennsylvania 
 epicures; the rival in unlucky fame of the ortolan! 
 Wherever he goes, pop ! pop ! pop ! every rusty firelock 
 in the country is blazing away. He sees his compan 
 ions falling by thousands around him. 
 
 Does he take warning and reform? Alas, not he! 
 Incorrigible epicure! again he wings his flight. The 
 rice-swamps of the South invite him. He gorges him-
 
 26 THE CREOLE VILLAGE 
 
 self among them almost to bursting; he can scarcely fly 
 for corpulency. He has once more changed his name, 
 and is now the famous Rice-bird of the Carolinas. 
 
 Last stage of his career: behold him spitted, with 
 dozens of his corpulent companions, and served up, 
 a vaunted dish, on the table of some Southern 
 gastronome. 
 
 Such is the story of the Bobolink; once spiritual, 
 musical, admired; the joy of the meadows, and the 
 favorite bird of Spring; finally, a gross little sensual 
 ist, who expiates his sensuality in the larder. His 
 story contains a moral worthy the attention of all little 
 birds and little boys; warning them to keep to those 
 refined and intellectual pursuits which raised him to so 
 high a pitch of popularity during the early part of his 
 career; but to eschew all tendency to that gross and 
 dissipated indulgence which brought this mistaken 
 little bird to an untimely end. 
 
 Which is all at present, from the well-wisher of 
 little boys and little birds, 
 
 /Jt*+^fa*^C>1rf*^^ 
 
 THE CREOLE VILLAGE 
 
 A SKETCH FROM A STEAMBOAT 
 [First published in 1837] 
 
 IN travelling about our motley country, I am often 
 reminded of Ariosto's account of the moon, in which 
 the good paladin Astolpho found everything garnered 
 up that had been lost on earth. So I am apt to imagine 
 that many things lost in the Old World are treasured 
 up in the New ; having been handed down from genera-
 
 THE CREOLE VILLAGE 27 
 
 tion to generation, since the early days of the colonies. 
 A European antiquary, therefore, curious in his re 
 searches after the ancient and almost obliterated cus 
 toms and usages of his country, would do well to put 
 himself upon the track of some early band of emigrants, 
 follow them across the Atlantic, and rummage among 
 their descendants on our shores. 
 
 In the phraseology of New England might be found 
 many an old English provincial phrase, long since ob 
 solete in the parent country; with some quaint relics 
 of the Roundheads; while Virginia cherishes peculi 
 arities characteristic of the days of Elizabeth and Sir 
 Walter Raleigh. 
 
 In the same way, the sturdy yeomanry of New 
 Jersey and Pennsylvania keep up many usages fading 
 away in ancient Germany; while many an honest, 
 broad-bottomed custom, nearly extinct in venerable 
 Holland, may be found flourishing in pristine vigor 
 and luxuriance in Dutch villages, on the banks of the 
 Mohawk and the Hudson. 
 
 In no part of our country, however, are the customs 
 and peculiarities imported from the Old World by the 
 earlier settlers kept up with more fidelity than in the 
 little, poverty-stricken villages of Spanish and French 
 origin, which border the rivers of ancient Louisiana. 
 Their population is generally made up of the descend 
 ants of those nations, married and interwoven together, 
 and occasionally crossed with a slight dash of the 
 Indian. The French character, however, floats on top, 
 as, from its buoyant qualities, it is sure to do, whenever 
 it forms a particle, however small, of an intermixture. 
 
 In these serene and dilapidated villages, art and 
 nature stand still, and the world forgets to turn round. 
 The revolutions that distract other parts of this mu 
 table planet, reach not here, or pass over without leav 
 ing any trace. The fortunate inhabitants have none 
 of that public spirit which extends its cares beyond its
 
 28 THE CREOLE VILLAGE 
 
 horizon, and imports trouble and perplexity from all 
 quarters in newspapers. In fact, newspapers are al 
 most unknown in these villages; and, as French is 
 the current language, the inhabitants have little com 
 munity of opinion with their republican neighbors. 
 They retain, therefore, their old habits of passive 
 obedience to the decrees of government, as though 
 they still lived under the absolute sway of colonial 
 commandants, instead of being part and parcel of 
 the sovereign people, and having a voice in public 
 legislation. 
 
 A few aged men, who have grown gray on their 
 hereditary acres, and are of the good old colonial stock, 
 exert a patriarchal sway in all matters of public and 
 private import ; their opinions are considered oracular, 
 and their word is law. 
 
 The inhabitants, moreover, have none of that eager 
 ness for gain, and rage for improvement, which keep 
 our people continually on the move, and our country 
 towns incessantly in a state of transition. There the 
 magic phrases, " town lots," " water privileges," " rail 
 roads," and other comprehensive and soul-stirring 
 words from the speculator's vocabulary, are never 
 heard. The residents dwell in the houses built by their 
 forefathers, without thinking of enlarging or modern 
 izing them, or pulling them down and turning them 
 into granite stores. The trees under which they have 
 been born, and have played in infancy, flourish un 
 disturbed; though, by cutting them down, they might 
 open new streets, and put money in their pockets. In 
 a word, the almighty dollar, that great object of uni 
 versal devotion throughout our land, seems to have 
 no genuine devotees in these peculiar villages; and 
 unless some of its missionaries penetrate there, and 
 erect banking-houses and other pious shrines, there is 
 no knowing how long the inhabitants may remain in 
 their present state of contented poverty.
 
 THE CREOLE VILLAGE 29 
 
 In descending one of our great western rivers in a 
 steamboat, I met with two worthies from one of these 
 villages, who had been on a distant excursion, the 
 longest they had ever made, as they seldom ventured 
 far from home. One was the great man, or Grand 
 Seigneur of the village ; not that he enjoyed any legal 
 privileges or power there, everything of the kind hav 
 ing been done away when the province was ceded by 
 France to the United States. His sway over his neigh 
 bors was merely one of custom and convention, out of 
 deference to his family. Beside, ' he was worth full 
 fifty thousand dollars, an amount almost equal, in the 
 imaginations of the villagers, to the treasures of King 
 Solomon. 
 
 This very substantial old gentleman, though of the 
 fourth or fifth generation in this country, retained the 
 true Gallic feature and deportment, and reminded me 
 of one of those provincial potentates that are to be 
 met with in the remote parts of France. He was of a 
 large frame, a gingerbread complexion, strong fea 
 tures, eyes that stood out like glass knobs, and a promi 
 nent nose, which he frequently regaled from a gold 
 snuff-box, and occasionally blew with a colored hand 
 kerchief, until it sounded like a trumpet. 
 
 He was attended by an old negro, as black as ebony, 
 with a huge mouth, in a continual grin; evidently a 
 privileged and favorite servant, who had grown up and 
 grown old with him. He was dressed in Creole style, 
 with white jacket and trousers, a stiff shirt-collar, that 
 threatened to cut off his ears, a bright Madras hand 
 kerchief tied round his head, and large gold ear-rings. 
 He was the politest negro I met with in a western 
 tour, and that is saying a great deal, for, excepting 
 the Indians, the negroes are the most gentlemanlike 
 personages to be met with in those parts. It is true 
 they differ from the Indians in being a little extra 
 polite and complimentary. He was also one of the
 
 30 THE CREOLE VILLAGE 
 
 merriest ; and here, too, the negroes, however we may 
 deplore their unhappy condition, have the advantage of 
 their masters. The whites are, in general, too free 
 and prosperous to be merry. The cares of maintaining 
 their rights and liberties, adding to their wealth, and 
 making presidents, engross all their thoughts and dry 
 up all the moisture of their souls. If you hear a broad, 
 hearty, devil-may-care laugh, be assured it is a negro's. 
 
 Beside this African domestic, the seigneur of the 
 village had another no less cherished and privileged 
 attendant. This was a huge dog, of the mastiff breed, 
 with a deep, hanging mouth, and a look of surly grav 
 ity. He walked about the cabin with the air of a dog 
 perfectly at home, and who had paid for his passage. 
 At dinner-time he took his seat beside his master, giv 
 ing him a glance now and then out of a corner of his 
 eye, which bespoke perfect confidence that he would 
 not be forgotten. Nor was he. Every now and then 
 a huge morsel would be thrown to him, peradventure 
 the half-picked leg of a fowl, which he would receive 
 with a snap like the springing of a steel trap, one 
 gulp, and all was down ; and a glance of the eye told 
 his master that he was ready for another consignment. 
 
 The other village worthy, travelling in company 
 with the seigneur, was of a totally different stamp. 
 Small, thin, and weazen-faced, as Frenchmen are apt 
 to be represented in caricature, with a bright, squirrel- 
 like eye, and a gold ring in his ear. His dress was 
 flimsy, and sat loosely on his frame, and he had alto 
 gether the look of one with but little coin in his pocket. 
 Yet, though one of the poorest, I was assured he was 
 one of the merriest and most popular personages in 
 his native village. 
 
 Compere Martin, as he was commonly called, was 
 the factotum of the place, sportsman, schoolmaster, 
 and land-surveyor. He could sing, dance, and, above 
 all, play on the fiddle, an invaluable accomplishment in
 
 an old French Creole village, for the inhabitants have 
 a hereditary love for balls and fetes. If they work 
 but little, they dance a great deal; and a fiddle is the 
 joy of their heart. 
 
 What had sent Compere Martin travelling with the 
 Grand Seigneur I could not learn. He evidently looked 
 up to him with great deference, and was assiduous in 
 rendering him petty attentions; from which I con 
 cluded that he lived at home upon the crumbs which 
 fell from his table. He was gayest when out of his 
 sight, and had his song and his joke when forward 
 among the deck passengers; but, altogether, Compere 
 Martin was out of his element on board of a steam 
 boat. He was quite another being, I am told, when at 
 home in his own village. 
 
 Like his opulent fellow-traveller, he too had his 
 canine follower and retainer, and one suited to his 
 different fortunes, one of the civilest, most un 
 offending little dogs in the world. Unlike the lordly 
 mastiff, he seemed to think he had no right on board 
 of the steamboat; if you did but look hard at him, he 
 would throw himself upon his back, and lift up his legs, 
 as if imploring mercy. 
 
 At table he took his seat a little distance from his 
 master ; not with the bluff, confident air of the mastiff, 
 but quietly and diffidently; his head on one side, with 
 one ear dubiously slouched, the other hopefully cocked 
 up; his under-teeth projecting beyond his black nose, 
 and his eye wistfully following each morsel that went 
 into his master's mouth. 
 
 If Compere Martin now and then should venture to 
 abstract a morsel from his plate, to give to his humble 
 companion, it was edifying to see with what diffidence 
 the exemplary little animal would take hold of it, with 
 the very tip of his teeth, as if he would almost rather 
 not, or was fearful of taking too great a liberty. And 
 then with what decorum would he eat it ! How many
 
 32 THE CREOLE VILLAGE 
 
 efforts would he make in swallowing it, as if it stuck 
 in his throat; with what daintiness would he lick his 
 lips ; and then with what an air of thankfulness would 
 he resume his seat, with his teeth once more projecting 
 beyond his nose, and an eye of humble expectation 
 fixed upon his master. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when the steamboat 
 stopped at the village which was the residence of these 
 worthies. It stood on the high bank of the river, and 
 bore traces of having been a frontier trading-post. 
 There were the remains of stockades that once pro 
 tected it from the Indians, and the houses were in the 
 ancient Spanish and French colonial taste, the place 
 having been successively under the domination of both 
 those nations prior to the cession of Louisiana to the 
 United States. 
 
 The arrival of the seigneur of fifty thousand dollars, 
 and his humble companion, Compere Martin, had evi 
 dently been looked forward to as an event in the vil 
 lage. Numbers of men, women, and children, white, 
 yellow, and black, were collected on the river bank; 
 most of them clad in old-fashioned French garments, 
 and their heads decorated with colored handkerchiefs, 
 or white nightcaps. The moment the steamboat came 
 within sight and hearing, there was a waving of hand 
 kerchiefs, and a screaming and bawling of salutations 
 and felicitations, that baffle all description. 
 
 The old gentleman of fifty thousand dollars was 
 received by a train of relatives, and friends, and chil 
 dren, and grandchildren, whom he kissed on each 
 cheek, and who formed a procession in his rear, with a 
 legion of domestics, of all ages, following him to a 
 large, old-fashioned French house, that domineered 
 over the village. 
 
 His black valet de chambre, in white jacket and 
 trousers, and gold ear-rings, was met on the shore by 
 a boon, though rustic companion, a tall negro fellow,
 
 Drawn by E. W. Kemble. 
 
 THE MASTER.
 
 THE CREOLE VILLAGE 33 
 
 with a long 1 , good-humored face, and the profile of a 
 horse, which stood out from beneath a narrow-rimmed 
 straw hat, stuck on the back of his head. The explo 
 sions of laughter of these two varlets on meeting and 
 exchanging compliments, were enough to electrify the 
 country round. 
 
 The most hearty reception, however, was that given 
 to Compere Martin. Everybody, young and old, 
 hailed him before he got to land. Everybody had a 
 joke for Compere Martin, and Compere Martin had a 
 joke for everybody. Even his little dog appeared to 
 partake of his popularity, and to be caressed by every 
 hand. Indeed, he was quite a different animal the 
 moment he touched the land. Here he was at home; 
 here he was of consequence. He barked, he leaped, 
 he frisked about his old friends, and then would skim 
 round the place in a wide circle, as if mad. 
 
 I traced Compere Martin and his little dog to their 
 home. It was an old ruinous Spanish house, of large 
 dimensions, with verandas overshadowed by ancient 
 elms. The house had probably been the residence, in 
 old times, of the Spanish commandant. In one wing 
 of this crazy, but aristocratical abode, was nestled the 
 family of my fellow-traveller; for poor devils are apt 
 to be magnificently clad and lodged, in the cast-off 
 clothes and abandoned palaces of the great and wealthy. 
 
 The arrival of Compere Martin was welcomed by a 
 legion of women, children, and mongrel curs ; and, as 
 poverty and gayety generally go hand-in-hand among 
 the French and their descendants, the crazy mansion 
 soon resounded with loud gossip and light-hearted 
 laughter. 
 
 As the steamboat paused a short time at the village, 
 I took occasion to stroll about the place. Most of the 
 houses were in the French taste, with casements and 
 rickety verandas, but most of them in flimsy and ruin 
 ous condition. All the wagons, ploughs, and other 
 
 3
 
 34 THE CREOLE VILLAGE 
 
 utensils about the place were of ancient and inconven 
 ient Gallic construction, such as had been brought from 
 France in the primitive days of the colony. The very 
 looks of the people reminded me of the villages of 
 France. 
 
 From one of the houses came the hum of a spinning- 
 wheel, accompanied by a scrap of an old French chan 
 son, which I have heard many a time among the 
 peasantry of Languedoc, doubtless a traditional song, 
 brought over by the first French emigrants, and handed 
 down from generation to generation. 
 
 Half a dozen young lasses emerged from the adja 
 cent dwellings, reminding me, by their light step and 
 gay costume, of scenes in ancient France, where taste 
 in dress comes natural to every class of females. The 
 trim bodice and colored petticoat, and little apron, 
 with its pockets to receive the hands when in an atti 
 tude for conversation ; the colored kerchief wound 
 tastefully round the head, with a coquettish knot perk 
 ing above one ear; and the neat slipper and tight- 
 drawn stocking, with its braid of narrow ribbon em 
 bracing the ankle where it peeps from its mysterious 
 curtain. It is from this ambush that Cupid sends his 
 most inciting arrows. 
 
 While I was musing upon the recollections thus ac 
 cidentally summoned up, I heard the sound of a fiddle 
 from the mansion of Compere Martin, the signal, no 
 doubt, for a joyous gathering. I was disposed to turn 
 my steps thither, and witness the festivities of one of 
 the very few villages I had met with in my wide tour 
 that was yet poor enough to be merry; but the bell of 
 the steamboat summoned me to reembark. 
 
 As we swept away from the shore, I cast back a 
 wistful eye upon the moss-grown roofs and ancient 
 elms of the village, and prayed that the inhabitants 
 might long retain their happy ignorance, their absence 
 of all enterprise and improvement, their respect for the
 
 THE CREOLE VILLAGE 3-5 
 
 fiddle, and their contempt for the almighty dollar. 1 
 I fear, however, my prayer is doomed to be of no avail. 
 In a little while the steamboat whirled me to an 
 American town, just springing into bustling and 
 prosperous existence. 
 
 The surrounding forest had been laid out in town 
 lots; frames of wooden buildings were rising from 
 among stumps and burnt trees. The place already 
 boasted a court-house, a jail, and two banks, all built 
 of pine boards, on the model of Grecian temples. 
 There were rival hotels, rival churches, and rival news 
 papers; together with the usual number of judges and 
 generals and governors; not to speak of doctors by 
 the dozen, and lawyers by the score. 
 
 The place, I was told, was in an astonishing career 
 of improvement, with a canal and two railroads in 
 embryo. Lots doubled in price every week ; everybody 
 was speculating in land; everybody was rich; and 
 everybody was growing richer. The community, 
 however, was torn to pieces by new doctrines in 
 'religion and in political economy; there were camp- 
 meetings, and agrarian meetings; and an election 
 was at hand, which, it was expected, would throw 
 the whole country into a paroxysm. 
 
 Alas! with such an enterprising neighbor, what 
 is to become of the poor little Creole village! 
 
 1 This phrase, used for the first time in this sketch, has since 
 passed into current circulation, and by some has been questioned 
 as savoring of irreverence. The author, therefore, owes it to his 
 orthodoxy to declare that no irreverence was intended even to the 
 dollar itself ; which he is aware is daily becoming more and more 
 an object of worship.
 
 36 MOUNTJOY 
 
 MOUNTJOY 
 
 OR, SOME PASSAGES OUT OF THE LIFE OF A 
 CASTLE-BUILDER 
 
 I WAS born among romantic scenery, in one of the 
 wildest parts of the Hudson, which at that time was 
 not so thickly settled as at present. My father was 
 descended from one of the old Huguenot families, that 
 came over to this country on the revocation of the 
 Edict of Nantz. He lived in a style of easy, rural in 
 dependence, on a patrimonial estate that had been for 
 two or three generations in the family. He was an 
 indolent, good-natured man, took the world as it went, 
 and had a kind of laughing philosophy, that parried all 
 rubs and mishaps, and served him in the place of wis 
 dom. This was the part of his character least to my 
 taste ; for I was of an enthusiastic, excitable tempera 
 ment, prone to kindle up with new schemes and pro 
 jects, and he was apt to dash my sallying enthusiasm 
 by some unlucky joke; so that whenever I was in a 
 glow with any sudden excitement, I stood in mortal 
 dread of his good humor. 
 
 Yet he indulged me in every vagary, for I was an 
 only son, and of course a personage of importance in 
 the household. I had two sisters older than myself, 
 and one younger. The former were educated at New 
 York, under the eye of a maiden aunt ; the latter re 
 mained at home, and was my cherished playmate, the 
 companion of my thoughts. We were two imaginative 
 little beings, of quick susceptibility, and prone to see 
 wonders and mysteries in everything around us. 
 Scarce had we learned to read, when our mother made
 
 MOUNTJOY 37 
 
 us holiday presents of all the nursery literature of the 
 day, which at that time consisted of little books cov 
 ered with gilt paper, adorned with " cuts," and rilled 
 with tales of fairies, giants, and enchanters. What 
 draughts of delightful fiction did we then inhale ! My 
 sister Sophy was of a soft and tender nature. She 
 would weep over the woes of the Children in the 
 Wood, or quake at the dark romance of Blue-Beard, 
 and the terrible mysteries of the blue chamber. But I 
 was all for enterprise and adventure. I burned to 
 emulate the deeds of that heroic prince who delivered 
 the white cat from her enchantment ; or he of no less 
 royal blood and doughty emprise, who broke the 
 charmed slumber of the Beauty in the Wood ! 
 
 The house in which we lived was just the kind of 
 place to foster such propensities. It was a venerable 
 mansion, half villa, half farm-house. The oldest part 
 was of stone, with loopholes for musketry, having 
 served as a family fortress in the time of the Indians. 
 To this there had been made various additions, some 
 of brick, some of wood, according to the exigencies of 
 the moment, so that it was full of nooks and crooks, 
 and chambers of all sorts and sizes. It was buried 
 among willows, elms, and cherry-trees, and surrounded 
 with roses and hollyhocks, with honeysuckle and 
 sweetbrier clambering about every window. A brood 
 of hereditary pigeons sunned themselves upon the roof ; 
 hereditary swallows and martins built about the eaves 
 and chimneys; and hereditary bees hummed about 
 the flower-beds. 
 
 Under the influence of our story-books every object 
 around us now assumed a new character, and a 
 charmed interest. The wild flowers were no longer 
 the mere ornaments of the fields, or the resorts of 
 the toilful bee ; they were the lurking-places of fairies. 
 We would watch the humming-bird, as it hovered 
 around the trumpet-creeper at our porch, and the but*
 
 38 MOUNTJOY 
 
 terfly as it flitted up into the blue air, above the sunny 
 tree-tops, and fancy them some of the tiny beings 
 from fairy land. I would call to mind all that I had 
 read of Robin Goodfellow, and his power of transfor 
 mation. O how I envied him that power! How I 
 longed to be able to compress my form into utter little 
 ness, to ride the bold dragon-fly, swing on the tall 
 bearded grass, follow the ant into his subterraneous 
 habitation, or dive into the cavernous depths of the 
 honeysuckle ! 
 
 While I was yet a mere child, I was sent to a daily 
 school, about two miles distant. The school-house was 
 on the edge of a wood, close by a brook overhung with 
 birches, alders, and dwarf-willows. We of the school 
 who lived at some distance came with our dinners put 
 up in little baskets. In the intervals of school hours, 
 we would gather round a spring, under a tuft of hazel- 
 bushes, and have a kind of picnic; interchanging the 
 rustic dainties with which our provident mothers had 
 fitted us out. Then, when our joyous repast was over, 
 and my companions were disposed for play, I would 
 draw forth one of my cherished story-books, stretch 
 myself on the greensward, and soon lose myself in its 
 bewitching contents. 
 
 I became an oracle among my schoolmates, on ac 
 count of my superior erudition, and soon imparted to 
 them the contagion of my infected fancy. Often in 
 the evening, after school hours, we would sit on the 
 trunk of some fallen tree in the woods, and vie with 
 each other in telling extravagant stories, until the whip- 
 poor-will began his nightly moaning, and the fire-flies 
 sparkled in the gloom. Then came the perilous jour 
 ney homeward. What delight we would take in get 
 ting up wanton panics, in some dusky part of the 
 wood; scampering like frightened deer, pausing to 
 take breath, renewing the panic, and scampering off 
 again, wild with fictitious terror!
 
 MOUNTJOY 39 
 
 Our greatest trial was to pass a dark, lonely pool, 
 covered with pond-lilies, peopled with bull-frogs and 
 water-snakes, and haunted by two white cranes. Oh! 
 the terrors of that pond ! How our little hearts would 
 beat, as we approached it; what fearful glances we 
 would throw around! And if by chance a plash of a 
 wild duck, or the guttural twang of a bull-frog, struck 
 our ears, as we stole quietly by away we sped, nor 
 paused until completely out of the woods. Then, when 
 I reached home, what a world of adventures and 
 imaginary terrors would I have to relate to my sister 
 Sophy ! 
 
 As I advanced in years, this turn of mind increased 
 upon me, and became more confirmed. I abandoned 
 myself to the impulses of a romantic imagination, 
 which controlled my studies, and gave a bias to all my 
 habits. My father observed me continually with a 
 book in my hand, and satisfied himself that I was a 
 profound student ; but what were my studies ? Works 
 of fiction, tales of chivalry, voyages of discovery, 
 travels in the East; everything, in short, that partook 
 of adventure and romance. I well remember with what 
 zest I entered upon that part of my studies which 
 treated of the heathen mythology, and particularly 
 of the sylvan deities. Then indeed my school-books 
 became dear to me. The neighborhood was well cal 
 culated to foster the reveries of a mind like mine. It 
 abounded with solitary retreats, wild streams, solemn 
 forests, and silent valleys. I would ramble about for 
 a whole day, with a volume of Ovid's Metamorphoses 
 in my pocket, and work myself into a kind of self- 
 delusion, so as to identify the surrounding scenes with 
 those of which I had just been reading. I would loiter 
 about a brook that glided through the shadowy depths 
 of the forest, picturing it to myself the haunt of 
 Naiades. I would steal round some bushy copse that 
 opened upon a glade, as if I expected to come suddenly
 
 40 MOUNTJOY 
 
 upon Diana and her nymphs; or to behold Pan and 
 his satyrs bounding, with whoop and halloo, through 
 the woodland. I would throw myself, during the 
 panting heats of a summer noon, under the shade of 
 some wide-spreading tree, and muse and dream away 
 the hours, in a state of mental intoxication. I drank 
 in the very light of day, as nectar, and my soul seemed 
 to bathe with ecstasy in the deep blue of a summer 
 sky. 
 
 In these wanderings nothing occurred to jar my feel 
 ings, or bring me back to the realities of life. There is 
 a repose in our mighty forests that gives full scope to 
 the imagination. Now and then I would hear the 
 distant sound of the woodcutter's axe, or the crash of 
 some tree which he had laid low ; but these noises, 
 echoing along the quiet landscape, could easily be 
 wrought by fancy into harmony with its illusions. In 
 general, however, the woody recesses of the neighbor 
 hood were peculiarly wild and unfrequented. I could 
 ramble for a whole day. without coming upon any 
 traces of cultivation. The partridge of the wood 
 scarcely seemed to shun my path, and the squirrel, 
 from his nut-tree, would gaze at me for an instant, 
 with sparkling eye, as if wondering at the unwonted 
 intrusion. 
 
 I cannot help dwelling on this delicious period of my 
 life; when as yet I had known no sorrow, nor ex 
 perienced any worldly care. I have since studied 
 much, both of books and men, and of course have 
 grown too wise to be so easily pleased; yet with all 
 my wisdom, I must confess I look back with a secret 
 feeling of regret to the days of happy ignorance, 
 before I had begun to be a philosopher. 
 
 It must be evident that I was in a hopeful training, 
 for one who was to descend into the arena of life, and 
 wrestle with the world. The tutor, also, who superin 
 tended my studies, in the more advanced stage of my
 
 MOUNTJOY 41 
 
 education, was just fitted to complete the fata mor 
 gana which was forming in my mind. His name was 
 Glencoe. He was a pale, melancholy-looking man, 
 about forty years of age; a native of Scotland, lib 
 erally educated, and who had devoted himself to the 
 instruction of youth, from taste rather than necessity; 
 for, as he said, he loved the human heart, and delighted 
 to study it in its earlier impulses. My two elder sisters, 
 having returned home from a city boarding-school, 
 were likewise placed under his care, to direct their 
 reading in history and belles-lettres. 
 
 We all soon became attached to Glencoe. It is true 
 we were at first somewhat prepossessed against him. 
 His meagre, pallid countenance, his broad pronunci 
 ation, his inattention to the little forms of society, and 
 an awkward and embarrassed manner, on first acquaint 
 ance, were much against him ; but we soon discovered 
 that under this unpromising exterior existed the kindest 
 urbanity, the warmest sympathies, the most enthusi 
 astic benevolence. His mind was ingenious and acute. 
 His reading had been various, but more abstruse than 
 profound; his memory was stored, on all subjects, 
 with facts, theories, and quotations, and crowded with 
 crude materials for thinking. These, in a moment of 
 excitement, would be, as it were, melted down and 
 poured forth in the lava of a heated imagination. At 
 such moments, the change in the whole man was 
 wonderful. His meagre form would acquire a dignity 
 and grace; his long, pale visage would flash with a 
 hectic glow ; his eyes would beam with intense specula 
 tion ; and there would be pathetic tones and deep modu 
 lations in his voice, that delighted the ear, and spoke 
 movingly to the heart. 
 
 But what most endeared him to us, was the kindness 
 and sympathy with which he entered into all our 
 interests and wishes. Instead of curbing and checking 
 our young imaginations with the reins of sober reason,
 
 42 MOUNTJOY 
 
 he was a little too apt to catch the impulse, and be 
 hurried away with us. He could not withstand the 
 excitement of any sally of feeling or fancy, and was 
 prone to lend heightening tints to the illusive coloring 
 of youthful anticipation. 
 
 Under his guidance my sisters and myself soon 
 entered upon a more extended range of studies; but 
 while they wandered, with delighted minds, through 
 the wide field of history and belles-lettres, a nobler 
 walk was opened to my superior intellect. 
 
 The mind of Glencoe presented a singular mixture 
 of philosophy and poetry. He- was fond of meta 
 physics, and prone to indulge in abstract speculations, 
 though his metaphysics were somewhat fine spun and 
 fanciful, and his speculations were apt to partake of 
 what my father most irreverently termed " humbug." 
 For my part, I delighted in them, and the more es 
 pecially because they set my father to sleep, and com 
 pletely confounded my sisters. I entered, with my 
 accustomed eagerness, into this new branch of study. 
 Metaphysics were now my passion. My sisters at 
 tempted to accompany me, but they soon faltered, and 
 gave out before they had got half-way through 
 " Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments." I, however, 
 went on, exulting in my strength. Glencoe supplied me 
 with books, and I devoured them with appetite, if not 
 digestion. We walked and talked together under the 
 trees before the house, or sat apart, like Milton's angels, 
 and held high converse upon themes beyond the grasp 
 of ordinary intellects. Glencoe possessed a kind of 
 philosophic chivalry, in imitation of the old peripatetic 
 sages, and was continually dreaming of romantic enter 
 prises in morals, and splendid systems for the improve 
 ment of society. He had a fanciful mode of illus 
 trating abstract subjects, peculiarly to my taste ; cloth 
 ing them with the language of poetry, and throwing 
 round them almost the magic hues of fiction. " How
 
 MOUNTJOY 43 
 
 charming," thought I, " is divine philosophy " ; not 
 harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, 
 
 But a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets. 
 Where no crude surfeit reigns. 
 
 I felt a wonderful self-complacency at being on such 
 excellent terms with a man whom I considered on a 
 parallel with the sages of antiquity, and looked down 
 with a sentiment of pity on the feebler intellects of my 
 sisters, who could comprehend nothing of metaphysics. 
 It is true, when I attempted to study them by myself 
 I was apt to get in a fog; but when Glencoe came to 
 my aid, everything was soon as clear to me as day. 
 My ear drank in the beauty of his words ; my imagi 
 nation was dazzled with the splendor of his illustra 
 tions. It caught up the sparkling sands of poetry that 
 glittered through his speculations, and mistook them 
 for the golden ore of wisdom. Struck with the facility 
 with which I seemed to imbibe and relish the most 
 abstract doctrines, I conceived a still higher opinion 
 of my mental powers, and was convinced that I also 
 was a philosopher. 
 
 I was now verging toward man's estate, and though 
 my education had been extremely irregular, follow 
 ing the caprices of my humor, which I mistook for 
 the impulses of my genius, yet I was regarded with 
 wonder and delight by my mother and sisters, who 
 considered me almost as wise and infallible as I con 
 sidered myself. This high opinion of me was strength 
 ened by a declamatory habit, which made me an oracle 
 and orator at the domestic board. The time was now 
 at hand, however, that was to put my philosophy to 
 the test. 
 
 We had passed through a long winter, and the 
 spring at length opened upon us, with unusual sweet 
 ness. The soft serenity of the weather, the beauty of
 
 44 MOUNTJOY 
 
 the surrounding country, the joyous notes of the 
 birds, the balmy breath of flower and blossom, all 
 combined to fill my bosom with indistinct sensations 
 and nameless wishes. Amid the soft seductions of 
 the season I lapsed into a state of utter indolence, both 
 of body and mind. 
 
 Philosophy had lost its charms for me. Meta 
 physics faugh ! I tried to study ; took down 
 volume after volume, ran my eye vacantly over a 
 few pages, and threw them by with distaste. I 
 loitered about the house, with my hands in my pockets, 
 and an air of complete vacancy. Something was neces 
 sary to make me happy ; but what was that something ? 
 I sauntered to the apartments of my sisters, hoping 
 their conversation might amuse me. They had walked 
 out, and the room was vacant. On the table lay a 
 volume which they had been -reading. It was a novel. 
 I had never read a novel, having conceived a contempt 
 for works of the kind, from hearing them universally 
 condemned. It is true, I had remarked they were uni 
 versally read ; but I considered them beneath the at 
 tention of a philosopher, and never would venture to 
 read them, lest I should lessen my mental superiority 
 in the eyes of my sisters. Nay, I had taken up a work 
 of the kind, now and then, when I knew my sisters 
 were observing me, looked into it for a moment, and 
 then laid it down, with a slight supercilious smile. On 
 the present occasion, out of mere listlessness, I took 
 up the volume, and turned over a few of the first pages. 
 I thought I heard some one coming, and laid it down. 
 I was mistaken ; no one was near, and what I had 
 read, tempted my curiosity to read a little farther. I 
 leaned against a window-frame, and in a few minutes 
 was completely lost in the story. How long I stood 
 there reading I know not, but I believe for nearly two 
 hours. Suddenly I heard my sisters on the stairs, 
 when I thrust the book into my bosom, and the two
 
 MOUNTJOY 45 
 
 other volumes, which lay near, into my pockets, and 
 hurried out of the house to my beloved woods. Here 
 I remained all day beneath the trees, bewildered, be 
 witched ; devouring the contents of these delicious 
 volumes; and only returned to the house when it was 
 too dark to peruse their pages. 
 
 This novel finished, I replaced it in my sister's apart 
 ment, and looked for others. Their stock was ample, 
 for they had brought home all that were current in the 
 city; but my appetite demanded an immense supply. 
 All this course of reading was carried on clandestinely, 
 for I was a little ashamed of it, and fearful that my 
 wisdom might be called in question; but this very 
 privacy gave it additional zest. It was " bread eaten 
 in secret " ; it had the charm of a private amour. 
 
 But think what must have been the effect of such a 
 course of reading on a youth of my temperament and 
 turn of mind; indulged, too, amidst romantic scenery, 
 and in the romantic season of the year. It seemed as 
 if I had entered upon a new scene of existence. A 
 train of combustible feelings were lighted up in me, 
 and my soul was all tenderness and passion. Never 
 was youth more completely love-sick, though as yet it 
 was a mere general sentiment, and wanted a definite 
 object. Unfortunately, our neighborhood was particu 
 larly deficient in female society, and I languished in 
 vain for some divinity, to whom I might offer up this 
 most uneasy burden of affections. I was at one time 
 seriously enamored of a lady whom I saw occasionally 
 in my rides, reading at the window of a country-seat, 
 and actually serenaded her with my flute ; when, to my 
 confusion, I discovered that she was old enough to be 
 my mother. It was a sad damper to my romance ; es 
 pecially as my father heard of it, and made it the 
 subject of one of those household jokes, which he was 
 apt to serve up at every meal-time. 
 
 I soon recovered from this check, however, but it
 
 46 MOUNTJOY 
 
 was only to relapse into a state of amorous excitement. 
 I passed whole days in the fields, and along the brooks ; 
 for there is something in the tender passion that makes 
 us alive to the beauties of Nature. A soft sunshine 
 morning infused a sort of rapture into my breast; I 
 flung open my arms, like the Grecian youth in Ovid, 
 as if I would take in and embrace the balmy atmos 
 phere. 1 The song of the birds melted me to tenderness. 
 I would lie by the side of some rivulet for hours, and 
 form garlands of the flowers on its banks, and muse 
 on ideal beauties, and sigh from the crowd of un 
 defined emotions that swelled my bosom. 
 
 In this state of amorous delirium, I was strolling 
 one morning along a beautiful wild brook which I 
 had discovered in a glen. There was one place where 
 a small waterfall, leaping from among rocks into a 
 natural basin, made a scene such as a poet might have 
 chosen as the haunt of some shy Naiad. It was here 
 I usually retired to banquet on my novels. In visiting 
 the place this morning, I traced distinctly, on the 
 margin of the basin, which was of fine clear sand, 
 the prints of a female foot, of the most slender and 
 delicate proportions. This was sufficient for an imagi 
 nation like mine. Robinson Crusoe himself, when he 
 discovered the print of a savage foot on the beach of 
 his lonely island, could not have been more suddenly 
 assailed with thickcoming fancies. 
 
 I endeavored to track the steps, but they only passed 
 for a few paces along the fine sand, and then were lost 
 among the herbage. I remained gazing in reverie 
 upon this passing trace of loveliness. It evidently was 
 not made by any of my sisters, for they knew nothing 
 of this haunt; besides, the foot was smaller than 
 theirs; it was remarkable for its beautiful delicacy. 
 
 My eye accidentally caught two or three half-with 
 ered wild flowers, lying on the ground. The unknown 
 
 3 Ovid's Metamorphoses, Books vii.
 
 MOUNTJOY 47 
 
 nymph had doubtless dropped them from her bosom! 
 Here was a new document of taste and sentiment. I 
 treasured them up as invaluable relics. The place, too, 
 where I found them, was remarkably picturesque, and 
 the most beautiful part of the brook. It was over 
 hung with a fine elm, entwined with grape-vines. She 
 who could select such a spot, who could delight in wild 
 brooks, and wild flowers, and silent solitudes, must 
 have fancy, and feeling, and tenderness; and, with all 
 these qualities, she must be beautiful ! 
 
 But who could be this Unknown, that had thus 
 passed by, as in a morning dream, leaving merely 
 flowers and fairy footsteps to tell of her loveliness! 
 There was a mystery in it that bewildered me. It was 
 so vague and disembodied, like those " airy tongues 
 that syllable men's names " in solitude. Every attempt 
 to solve the mystery was vain. I could hear of no 
 being in the neighborhood to whom this trace could be 
 ascribed. I haunted the spot, and became more and 
 more enamored. Never, surely, was passion more 
 pure and spiritual, and never lover in more dubious 
 situation. My case could only be compared with that 
 of the amorous prince, in the fairy tale of " Cinder 
 ella " ; but he had a glass slipper on which to lavish his 
 tenderness. I, alas! was in love with a footstep! 
 
 The imagination is alternately a cheat and a dupe; 
 nay, more, it is the most subtle of cheats, for it cheats 
 itself, and becomes the dupe of its own delusions. It 
 conjures up " airy nothings," gives to them a " local 
 habitation and a name," and then bows to their control 
 as implicitly as if they were realities. Such was now 
 my case. The good Numa could not more thoroughly 
 have persuaded himself that the nymph Egeria hov 
 ered about her sacred fountain, and communed with 
 him in spirit, than I had deceived myself into a kind 
 of visionary intercourse with the airy phantom fabri-
 
 48 MOUNTJOY 
 
 cated in my brain. I constructed a rustic seat at the 
 foot of the tree where I had discovered the footsteps. 
 I made a kind of bower there, where I used to pass my 
 mornings, reading poetry and romances. I carved 
 hearts and darts on the tree, and hung it with gar 
 lands. My heart was full to overflowing, and wanted 
 some faithful bosom into which it might relieve itself. 
 What is a lover without a confidante? I thought at 
 once of my sister Sophy, my early playmate, the sister of 
 my affections. She was so reasonable, too, and of such 
 correct feelings, always listening to my words as orac 
 ular sayings, and admiring my scraps of poetry, as the 
 very inspirations of the Muse. From such a devoted, 
 such a rational being, what secrets could I have? 
 
 I accordingly took her, one morning, to my favorite 
 retreat. She looked around, with delighted surprise, 
 upon the rustic seat, the bower, the tree carved with 
 emblems of the tender passion. She turned her eyes 
 upon me to inquire the meaning. 
 
 " Oh, Sophy," exclaimed I, clasping both her hands 
 in mine, and looking earnestly in her face, " I am in 
 love!" 
 
 She started with surprise. 
 
 " Sit down," said I, " and I will tell you all." 
 
 She seated herself upon the rustic bench, and I went 
 into a full history of the footstep, with all the asso 
 ciations of idea that had been conjured up by my 
 imagination. 
 
 Sophy was enchanted; it was like a fairy tale: she 
 had read of such mysterious visitations in books, and 
 the loves thus conceived were always for beings of 
 superior order, and were always happy. She caught 
 the illusion, in all its force ; her cheek glowed ; her eye 
 brightened. 
 
 " I dare say she 's pretty," said Sophy. 
 
 "Pretty!" echoed I, "she is beautiful!" I went 
 through all the reasoning by which I had logically
 
 MOUNTJOY 49 
 
 proved the fact to my own satisfaction. I dwelt upon 
 the evidences of her taste, her sensibility to the beauties 
 of Nature; her soft meditative habit, that delighted 
 in solitude; "oh," said I, clasping my hands, "to 
 have such a companion to wander through these 
 scenes ; to sit with her by this murmuring stream ; to 
 wreathe garlands round her brows ; to hear the music 
 of her voice mingling with the whisperings of these 
 groves " ; 
 
 " Delightful ! delightful ! " cried Sophy ; " what a 
 sweet creature she must be! She is just the friend I 
 want. How I shall dote upon her! Oh, my dear 
 brother! you must not keep her all to yourself. You 
 must let me have some share of her ! " 
 
 I caught her to my bosom : " You shall you 
 shall! " cried I, "my dear Sophy; we will all live for 
 each other ! " 
 
 The conversation with Sophy heightened the illu 
 sions of my mind; and the manner in which she had 
 treated my day-dream, identified it with facts and per 
 sons, and gave it still more the stamp of reality. I 
 walked about as one in a trance, heedless of the world 
 around, and lapped in an elysium of the fancy. 
 
 In this mood I met, one morning, with Glencoe. He 
 accosted me with his usual smile, and was proceeding 
 with some general observations, but paused and fixed 
 on me an inquiring eye. 
 
 "What is the matter with you?" said he; "you 
 seem agitated; has anything in particular happened?" 
 
 "Nothing," said I, hesitating; "at least nothing 
 worth communicating to you." 
 
 " Nay, my dear young friend," said he, " whatever 
 is of sufficient importance to agitate you, is worthy of 
 being communicated to me." 
 
 " Well ; but my thoughts are running on what you 
 would think a frivolous subject." 
 
 4
 
 50 MOUNTJOY 
 
 " No subject is frivolous that has the power to 
 awaken strong feelings." 
 
 " What think you," said I, hesitating, " what think 
 you of love? " 
 
 Glencoe almost started at the question. " Do you 
 call that a frivolous subject?" replied he. "Believe 
 me, there is none fraught with such deep, such vital 
 interest. If you talk, indeed, of the capricious incli 
 nation awakened by the mere charm of perishable 
 beauty, I grant it to be idle in the extreme; but that 
 love which springs from the concordant sympathies of 
 virtuous hearts; that love which is awakened by the 
 perception of moral excellence, and fed by meditation 
 on intellectual as well as personal beauty ; that is a 
 passion which refines and ennobles the human heart. 
 Oh, where is there a sight more nearly approaching to 
 the intercourse of angels, than that of two young 
 beings, free from the sins and follies of the world, 
 mingling pure thoughts, and looks, and feelings, and 
 becoming as it were soul of one soul, and heart of one 
 heart ! How exquisite the silent converse that they 
 hold ; the soft devotion of the eye, that needs no words 
 to make it eloquent! Yes, my friend, if there be any 
 thing in this weary world worthy of heaven, it is the 
 pure bliss of such a mutual affection ! " 
 
 The words of my worthy tutor overcame all farther 
 reserve. " Mr. Glencoe," cried I, blushing still deeper, 
 "I am in love!" 
 
 " And is that what you were ashamed to tell me ? 
 Oh, never seek to conceal from your friend so impor 
 tant a secret. If your passion be unworthy, it is for 
 the steady hand of friendship to pluck it forth ; if 
 honorable, none but an enemy would seek to stifle it. 
 On nothing does the character and happiness so much 
 depend, as on the first affection of the heart. Were 
 you caught by some fleeting or superficial charm a 
 bright eye, a blooming cheek, a soft voice, or a volup-
 
 MOUNT JOY 51 
 
 tuous form I would warn you to beware ; I would 
 tell you that beauty is but a passing gleam of the 
 morning, a perishable flower; that accident may be 
 cloud and blight it, and that at best it must soon pass 
 away. But were you in love with such a one as I 
 could describe; young in years, but still younger in 
 feelings ; lovely in person, but as a type of the mind's 
 beauty ; soft in voice, in token of gentleness of spirit ; 
 blooming in countenance, like the rosy tints of morn 
 ing kindling with the promise of a genial day; an eye 
 beaming with the benignity of a happy heart ; a cheer 
 ful temper, alive to all kind impulses, and frankly 
 diffusing its own felicity; a self-poised mind, that 
 needs not lean on others for support ; an elegant taste, 
 that can embellish solitude, and furnish out its own 
 enjoyments " 
 
 " My dear sir," cried I, for I could contain myself 
 no longer, " you have described the very person ! " 
 
 " Why, then, my dear young friend," said he, affec 
 tionately pressing my hand, " in God's name, love on ! " 
 
 For the remainder of the day I was in some such 
 state of dreamy beatitude as a Turk is said to enjoy, 
 when under the influence of opium. It must be already 
 manifest, how prone I was to bewilder myself with 
 picturings of the fancy, so as to confound them with 
 existing realities. In the present instance Sophy and 
 Glencoe had contributed to promote the transient 
 delusion. Sophy, dear girl, had as usual joined with 
 me in my castle-building, and indulged in the same 
 train of imaginings, while Glencoe, duped by my en 
 thusiasm, firmly believed that I spoke of a being I had 
 seen and known. By their sympathy with my feelings, 
 they in a manner became associated with the Unknown 
 in my mind, and thus linked her with the circle of my 
 intimacy. 
 
 In the evening our family party was assembled in
 
 52 MOUNTJOY 
 
 the hall, to enjoy the refreshing breeze. Sophy was 
 playing some favorite Scotch airs on the piano, while 
 Glencoe, seated apart, with his forehead resting on his 
 hand, was buried in one of those pensive reveries, that 
 made him so interesting to me. 
 
 " What a fortunate being I am ! " thought I, " blessed 
 with such a sister and such a friend! I have only to 
 find out this amiable Unknown, to wed her, and be 
 happy ! What a paradise will be my home, graced with 
 a partner of such exquisite refinement ! It will be a 
 perfect fairy bower, buried among sweets and roses. 
 Sophy shall live with us, and be the companion of all 
 our enjoyments. Glencoe, too, shall no more be the 
 solitary being that he now appears. He shall have a 
 home with us. He shall have his study, where, when 
 he pleases, he may shut himself up from the world, 
 and bury himself in his own reflections. His retreat 
 shall be held sacred ; no one shall intrude there ; no 
 one but myself, who will visit him now and then, in 
 his seclusion, where we will devise grand schemes to 
 gether for the improvement of mankind. How de 
 lightfully our days will pass, in a round of rational 
 pleasures and elegant employments! Sometimes we 
 will have music ; sometimes we will read ; sometimes 
 We will wander through the flower-garden, when I 
 will smile with complacency on every flower my wife 
 has planted ; while in the long winter evenings, the 
 ladies will sit at their work and listen, with hushed 
 attention, to Glencoe and myself, as we discuss the 
 abstruse doctrines of metaphysics." 
 
 From this delectable reverie I was startled by my 
 father's slapping me on the shoulder : " What pos 
 sesses the lad ? " cried he ; " here have I been speaking 
 to you half a dozen times, without receiving an 
 answer." 
 
 " Pardon me, sir," replied I ; "I was so completely 
 lost in thought, that I did not hear you."
 
 MOUNTJOY 53 
 
 " Lost in thought ! And pray what were you think 
 ing of ? Some of your philosophy, I suppose." 
 
 " Upon my word," said my sister Charlotte, with 
 an arch laugh, " I suspect Harry 's in love again." 
 
 " And if I were in love, Charlotte," said I, somewhat 
 nettled, and recollecting Glencoe's enthusiastic eulogy 
 of the passion, " if I were in love, is that a matter of 
 jest and laughter? Is the tenderest and most fervid 
 affection that can animate the human breast to be made 
 a matter of cold-hearted ridicule? " 
 
 My sister colored. " Certainly not, brother ! nor 
 did I mean to make it so, nor to say anything that 
 should wound your feelings. Had I really suspected 
 that you had formed some genuine attachment, it 
 would have been sacred in my eyes ; but but," said 
 she, smiling, as if at some whimsical recollection, " I 
 thought that you you might be indulging in another 
 little freak of the imagination." 
 
 " I '11 wager any money," cried my father, " he has 
 fallen in love again with some old lady at a window ! " 
 
 " Oh no ! " cried my dear sister Sophy, with the 
 most gracious warmth; " she is young and beautiful." 
 
 " From what I understand," said Glencoe, rousing 
 himself, " she must be lovely in mind as in person." 
 
 I found my friends were getting me into a fine 
 scrape. I began to perspire at every pore, and felt my 
 ears tingle. 
 
 " Well, but," cried my father, " who is she? what 
 is she? Let us hear something about her." 
 
 This was no time to explain so delicate a matter. 
 I caught up my hat, and vanished out of the house. 
 
 The moment I was in the open air, and alone, my 
 heart upbraided me. Was this respectful treatment to 
 my father to such a father too who had always 
 regarded me as the pride of his age the staff of his 
 hopes? It is true, he was apt, sometimes, to laugh at 
 my enthusiastic flights, and did not treat my philosophy
 
 54 MOUNTJOY 
 
 with due respect ; but when had he -ever thwarted a 
 wish of my heart? Was I then to act with reserve 
 toward him, in a matter which might affect the whole 
 current of my future life? "I have done wrong," 
 thought I ; " but it is not too late to remedy it. I will 
 hasten back, and open my whole heart to my father ! " 
 
 I returned accordingly, and was just on the point 
 of entering the house, with my heart full of filial piety, 
 and a contrite speech upon my lips, when I heard a 
 burst of obstreperous laughter from my father, and 
 a loud titter from my two elder sisters. 
 
 " A footstep ! " shouted he, as soon as he could re 
 cover himself ; " in love with a footstep ! why, this 
 beats the old lady at the window ! " And then there 
 was another appalling burst of laughter. Had it been 
 a clap of thunder, it could hardly have astounded me 
 more completely. Sophy, in the simplicity of her 
 heart, had told all, and had set my father's risible pro 
 pensities in full action. 
 
 Never was poor mortal so thoroughly crestfallen as 
 myself. The whole delusion was at an end. I drew 
 off silently from the house, shrinking smaller and 
 smaller at every fresh peal of laughter; and, wander 
 ing about until the family had retired, stole quietly 
 to my bed. Scarce any sleep, however, visited my 
 eyes that night. I lay overwhelmed with mortification, 
 and meditating how I might meet the family in the 
 morning. The idea of ridicule was always intolerable 
 to me ; but to endure it on a subject by which my feel 
 ings had been so much excited, seemed worse than 
 death. I almost determined, at one time, to get up, 
 saddle my horse, and ride off, I knew not whither. 
 
 At length I came to a resolution. Before going 
 down to breakfast I sent for Sophy, and employed her 
 as an ambassador to treat formally in the matter. I 
 insisted that the subject should be buried in oblivion: 
 otherwise I would not show my face at table. It was
 
 MOUNTJOY 55 
 
 readily agreed to; for not one of the family would 
 have given me pain for the world. They faithfully 
 kept their promise. Not a word was said of the mat 
 ter; but there were wry faces, and suppressed titters, 
 that went to my soul ; and whenever my father looked 
 me in the face, it was with such a tragic-comical leer 
 such an attempt to pull down a serious brow upon 
 a whimsical mouth that I had a thousand times 
 rather he had laughed outright. 
 
 For a day or two after the mortifying occurrence 
 mentioned, I kept as much as possible out of the way 
 of the family, and wandered about the fields and woods 
 by myself. I was sadly out of tune : my feelings were 
 all jarred and unstrung. The birds sang from every 
 grove, but I took no pleasure in their melody ; and the 
 flowers of the field bloomed unheeded around me. To 
 be crossed in love is bad enough; but then one can 
 fly to poetry for relief, and turn one's woes to account 
 in soul-subduing stanzas. But to have one's whole 
 passion, object and all, annihilated, dispelled, proved 
 to be such stuff as dreams are made of, or, worse than 
 all, to be turned into a proverb and a jest what 
 consolation is there in such a case? 
 
 I avoided the fatal brook where I had seen the foot 
 step. My favorite resort was now the banks of the 
 Hudson, where I sat upon the rocks and mused upon 
 the current that dimpled by, or the waves that laved 
 the shore; or watched the bright mutations of the 
 clouds, and the shifting lights and shadows of the dis 
 tant mountain. By degrees a returning serenity stole 
 over my feelings ; and a sigh now and then, gentle and 
 easy, and unattended by pain, showed that my heart 
 was recovering its susceptibility. 
 
 As I was sitting in this musing mood, my eye be 
 came gradually fixed upon an object that was borne 
 along by the tide. It proved to be a little pinnace,
 
 5 6 MOUNTJOY 
 
 beautifully modelled, and gayly painted and decorated. 
 It was an unusual sight in this neighborhood, which 
 was rather lonely: indeed it was rare to see any 
 pleasure-barks in this part of the river. As it drew 
 nearer, I perceived that there was no one on board; it 
 had apparently drifted from its anchorage. There was 
 not a breath of air : the little bark came floating along 
 on the glassy stream, wheeling about with the eddies. 
 At length it ran aground, almost at the foot of the 
 rock on which I was seated. I descended to the margin 
 of the river, and drawing the bark to shore, admired 
 its light and elegant proportions, and the taste with 
 which it was fitted up. The benches, were covered with 
 cushions, and its long streamer was of silk. On one 
 of the cushions lay a lady's glove, of delicate size and 
 shape, with beautifully tapered fingers. I instantly 
 seized it and thrust it in my bosom : it seemed a match 
 for the fairy footstep that had so fascinated me. 
 
 In a moment all the romance of my bosom was again 
 in a glow. Here was one of the very incidents of fairy 
 tale : a bark sent by some invisible power, some good 
 genius, or benevolent fairy, to waft me to some delect 
 able adventure. I recollected something of an en 
 chanted bark, drawn by white swans, that conveyed a 
 knight down the current of the Rhine, on some enter 
 prise connected with love and beauty. The glove, too, 
 showed that there was a lady fair concerned in the 
 present adventure. It might be a gauntlet of defiance, 
 to dare me to the enterprise. 
 
 In the spirit of romance, and the whim of the mo 
 ment, I sprang on board, hoisted the light sail, and 
 pushed from shore. As if breathed by some presiding 
 power, a light breeze at that moment sprang up, swelled 
 out the sail, and dallied with the silken streamer. For 
 a time I glided along under steep umbrageous banks, 
 or across deep sequestered bays; and then stood out 
 over a wide expansion of the river, toward a high
 
 MOUNTJOY 57 
 
 rocky promontory. It was a lovely evening: the sun 
 was setting in a congregation of clouds that threw the 
 whole heavens in a glow, and were reflected in the 
 river. I delighted myself with all kinds of fantastic 
 fancies, as to what enchanted island, or mystic bower, 
 or necromantic palace, I was to be conveyed by the 
 fairy bark. 
 
 In the revel of my fancy, I had not noticed that the 
 gorgeous congregation of clouds which had so much 
 delighted me, was, in fact, a gathering thunder-gust. 
 I perceived the truth too late. The clouds came hurry 
 ing on, darkening as they advanced. The whole face 
 of Nature was suddenly changed, and assumed that 
 baleful and livid tint predictive of a storm. I tried to 
 gain the shore; but, before I could reach it, a blast of 
 wind struck the water, and lashed it at once into foam. 
 The next moment it overtook the boat. Alas! I was 
 nothing of a sailor; and my protecting fairy forsook 
 me in the moment of peril. I endeavored to lower the 
 sail, but in so doing I had to quit the helm; the bark 
 was overturned in an instant, and I was thrown into 
 the water. I endeavored to cling to the wreck, but 
 missed my hold : being a poor swimmer, I soon found 
 myself sinking, but grasped a light oar that was float 
 ing by me. It was not sufficient for my support: I 
 again sank beneath the surface; there was a rushing 
 and bubbling sound in my ears, and all sense for 
 sook me. 
 
 How long I remained insensible, I know not. I had 
 a confused notion of being moved and tossed about, 
 and of hearing strange beings and strange voices 
 around me; but all was like a hideous dream. When 
 I at length recovered full consciousness and percep 
 tion, I found myself in bed, in a spacious chamber, 
 furnished with more taste than I had been accustomed 
 to. The bright rays of a morning sun were inter 
 cepted by curtains of a delicate rose color, that gave
 
 58 MOUNTJOY 
 
 a soft, voluptuous tinge to every object. Not far from 
 my bed, on a classic tripod, was a basket of beautiful 
 exotic flowers, breathing the sweetest fragrance. 
 
 "Where am I? How came I here?" 
 
 I tasked my mind to catch at some previous event, 
 from which I might trace up the thread of existence 
 to the present moment. By degrees I called to mind 
 the fairy pinnace, my daring embarkation, my adven 
 turous voyage, and my disastrous shipwreck. Beyond 
 that all was chaos. How came I here? What un 
 known region had I landed upon? The people that 
 inhabited it must be gentle and amiable, and of elegant 
 tastes, for they loved downy beds, fragrant flowers, 
 and rose-colored curtains. 
 
 While I lay thus musing, the tones of a harp reached 
 my ear. Presently they were accompanied by a female 
 voice. It came from the room below ; but in the pro 
 found stillness of my chamber not a modulation was 
 lost. My sisters were all considered good musicians, 
 and sang very tolerably ; but I had never heard a voice 
 like this. There was no attempt at difficult execution, 
 or striking effect; but there were exquisite inflexions, 
 and tender turns, which art could not reach. Nothing 
 but feeling and sentiment could produce them. It was 
 soul breathed forth in sound. I was always alive to 
 the influence of music; indeed I was susceptible of 
 voluptuous influences of every kind, sounds, colors, 
 shapes, and fragrant odors. I was the very slave of 
 sensation. 
 
 I lay mute and breathless, and drank in every note 
 of this siren strain. It thrilled through my whole 
 frame, and filled my soul with melody and love. I 
 pictured to myself, with curious logic, the form of the 
 unseen musician. Such melodious sounds and exquisite 
 inflexions could only be produced by organs of the 
 most delicate flexibility. Such organs do not belong 
 to coarse, vulgar forms; they are the harmonious re-
 
 MOUNTJOY 59 
 
 stilts of fair proportions and admirable symmetry. A 
 being so organized must be lovely. 
 
 Again my busy imagination was at work. I called 
 to mind the Arabian story of a prince, borne away 
 during sleep by a good genius, to the distant abode of 
 a princess of ravishing beauty. I do not pretend to 
 say that I believed in having experienced a similar 
 transportation ; but it was my inveterate habit to cheat 
 myself with fancies of the kind, and to give the tinge 
 of illusion to surrounding realities. 
 
 The witching sound had ceased, but its vibrations 
 still played round my heart, and filled it with a tumult 
 of soft emotions. At this moment a self-upbraiding 
 pang shot through my bosom. " Ah, recreant ! " a 
 voice seemed to exclaim, " is this the stability of thine 
 affections ? What ! hast thou so soon forgotten the 
 nymph of the fountain? Has one song, idly piped in 
 thine ear, been sufficient to charm away the cherished 
 tenderness of a whole summer?" 
 
 The wise may smile ; but I am in a confiding mood, 
 and must confess my weakness. I felt a degree of 
 compunction at this sudden infidelity, yet I could not 
 resist the power of present fascination. My peace of 
 mind was destroyed by conflicting claims. The nymph 
 of the fountain came over my memory, with all the 
 associations of fairy footsteps, shady groves, soft 
 echoes, and wild streamlets; but this new passion was 
 produced by a strain of soul-subduing melody, still 
 lingering in my ear, aided by a downy bed, fra 
 grant flowers, and rose-colored curtains. " Unhappy 
 youth! " sighed I to myself, "distracted by such rival 
 passions, and the empire of thy heart thus violently 
 contested by the sound of a voice and the print of a 
 footstep ! " 
 
 I had not remained long in this mood, when I heard 
 the door of the room gently opened. I turned my
 
 60 MOUNTJOY 
 
 head to see what inhabitant of this enchanted palace 
 should appear; whether page in green, hideous dwarf, 
 or haggard fairy. It was my own man Scipio. He 
 advanced with cautious step, and was delighted, as he 
 said, to find me so much myself again. My first ques 
 tions were as to where I was, and how I came there? 
 Scipio told me a long story of his having been fishing 
 in a canoe, at the time of my hare-brained cruise ; of 
 his noticing the gathering squall, and my impending 
 danger ; of his hastening to join me, but arriving just 
 in time to snatch me from a watery grave; of the 
 great difficulty in restoring me to animation; and of 
 my being subsequently conveyed, in a state of insensi 
 bility, to this mansion. 
 
 " But where am I ? " was the reiterated demand. 
 
 " In the house of Mr. Somerville." 
 
 " Somerville Somerville ! " I recollected to have 
 heard that a gentleman of that name had recently taken 
 up his residence at some distance from my father's 
 abode, on the opposite side of the Hudson. He was 
 commonly known by the name of " French Somer 
 ville," from having passed part of his early life in 
 France, and from his exhibiting traces of French taste 
 in his mode of living and the arrangements of his 
 house. In fact, it was in his pleasure-boat, which had 
 got adrift, that I had made my fanciful and disastrous 
 cruise. All this was simple, straightforward matter of 
 fact, and threatened to demolish all the cobweb ro 
 mance I had been spinning, when fortunately I again 
 heard the tinkling of a harp. I raised myself in bed, 
 and listened. 
 
 " Scipio," said I, with some little hesitation, " I 
 heard some one singing just now. Who was it ? " 
 
 " Oh, that was Miss Julia." 
 
 "Julia! Julia! Delightful! what a name! And, 
 Scipio is she is she pretty ? " 
 
 Scipio grinned from ear to ear. " Except Miss
 
 MOUNTJOY 61 
 
 Sophy, she was the most beautiful young lady he had 
 ever seen." 
 
 I should observe, that my sister Sophia was consid 
 ered by all the servants a paragon of perfection. 
 
 Scipio now offered to remove the basket of flowers ; 
 he was afraid their odor might be too powerful; but 
 Miss Julia had given them that morning to be placed in 
 my room. 
 
 These flowers, then, had been gathered by the fairy 
 fingers of my unseen beauty; that sweet breath which 
 had filled my ear with melody, had passed over them. 
 I made Scipio hand them to me, culled several of the 
 most delicate, and laid them on my bosom. 
 
 Mr. Somerville paid me a visit not long afterward. 
 He was an interesting study for me, for he was the 
 father of my unseen beauty, and probably resembled 
 her. I scanned him closely. He was a tall and elegant 
 man, with an open, affable manner, and an erect and 
 graceful carriage. His eyes were bluish-gray, and, 
 though not dark, yet at times were sparkling and ex 
 pressive. His hair was dressed and powdered, and 
 being lightly combed up from his forehead, added to 
 the loftiness of his aspect. He was fluent in discourse, 
 but his conversation had the quiet tone of polished 
 society, without any of those bold flights of thought, 
 and picturings of fancy, which I so much admired. 
 
 My imagination was a little puzzled, at first, to make 
 out of this assemblage of personal and mental quali 
 ties, a picture that should harmonize with my previous 
 idea of the fair unseen. By dint, however, of select 
 ing what it liked, and rejecting what it did not like, 
 and giving a touch here and a touch there, it soon fin 
 ished out a satisfactory portrait. 
 
 " Julia must be tall," thought I, " and of exquisite 
 grace and dignity. She is not quite so courtly as her 
 father, for she has been brought up in the retirement 
 of the country. Neither is she of such vivacious de-
 
 62 MOUNTJOY 
 
 portment ; for the tones of her voice are soft and plain 
 tive, and she loves pathetic music. She is rather 
 pensive yet not too pensive ; just what is called inter 
 esting. Her eyes are like her father's, except that they 
 are of a purer blue, and more tender and languishing. 
 She has light hair not exactly flaxen, for I do not 
 like flaxen hair, but between that and auburn. In a 
 word, she is a tall, elegant, imposing, languishing, 
 blue-eyed, romantic-looking beauty." And having thus 
 finished her picture, I felt ten times more in love with 
 her than ever. 
 
 I felt so much recovered, that I would at once have 
 left my room, but Mr. Somerville objected to it. He 
 had sent early word to my family of my safety ; and 
 my father arrived in the course of the morning. He 
 was shocked at learning the risk I had run, but re 
 joiced to find me so much restored, and was warm in 
 his thanks to Mr. Somerville for his kindness. The 
 other only required, in return, that I might remain two 
 or three days as his guest, to give time for my recov 
 ery, and for our forming a closer acquaintance, a 
 request which my father readily granted. Scipio ac 
 cordingly accompanied my father home, and returned 
 with a supply of clothes, and with affectionate letters 
 from my mother and sisters. 
 
 The next morning, aided by Scipio, I made my toilet 
 with rather more care than usual, and descended the 
 stairs with some trepidation, eager to see the original 
 of the portrait which had been so completely pictured 
 in my imagination. 
 
 On entering the parlor, I found it deserted. Like 
 the rest of the house, it was furnished in a foreign 
 style. The curtains were of French silk; there were 
 Grecian couches, marble tables, pier-glasses, and chan 
 deliers. What chiefly attracted my eye, were docu 
 ments of female taste that I saw around me. a
 
 MOUNTJOY 63 
 
 piano, with an ample stock of Italian music; a book 
 of poetry lying on the sofa; a vase of fresh flowers 
 on a table, and a portfolio open with a skilful and 
 half-finished sketch of them. In the window was a 
 Canary bird, in a gilt cage ; and near by, the harp that 
 had been in Julia's arms. Happy harp! But where 
 was the being that reigned in this little empire of 
 delicacies? that breathed poetry and song, and dwelt 
 among birds and flowers, and rose-colored curtains? 
 
 Suddenly I heard the hall-door fly open, the quick 
 pattering of light steps, a wild, capricious strain of 
 music, and the shrill barking of a dog. A light frolic 
 nymph of fifteen came tripping into the room, playing 
 on a flageolet, with a little spaniel romping after her. 
 Her gypsy-hat had fallen back upon her shoulders ; a 
 profusion of glossy brown hair was blown in rich ring 
 lets about her face, which beamed through them with 
 the brightness of smiles and dimples. 
 
 At sight of me she stopped short, in the most beauti 
 ful confusion, stammered out a word or two about 
 looking for her father, glided out of the door, and I 
 heard her bounding up the staircase, like a frightened 
 fawn, with the little dog barking after her. 
 
 When Miss Somerville returned to the parlor, she. 
 was quite a different being. She entered, stealing 
 along by her mother's side, with noiseless step and 
 sweet timidity; her hair was prettily adjusted, and a 
 soft blush mantled on her damask cheek. Mr. Somer 
 ville accompanied the ladies, and introduced me regu 
 larly to them. There were many kind inquiries, and 
 much sympathy expressed on the subject of my nauti 
 cal accident, and some remarks upon the wild scenery 
 of the neighborhood, with which the ladies seemed 
 perfectly acquainted. 
 
 " You must know," said Mr. Somerville, " that we 
 are great navigators, and delight in exploring every 
 nook and corner of the river. My daughter, too, is a
 
 64 MOUNTJOY 
 
 great hunter of the picturesque, and transfers every 
 rock and glen to her portfolio. By the way, my dear, 
 show Mr. Mountjoy that pretty scene you have lately 
 sketched." Julia complied, blushing, and drew from 
 her portfolio a colored sketch. I almost started at the 
 sight. It was my favorite brook. A sudden thought 
 darted across my mind. I glanced down my eye, and 
 beheld the divinest little foot in the world. Oh, bliss 
 ful conviction! The struggle of my affections was at 
 an end. The voice and the footstep were no longer at 
 variance. Julia Somerville was the nymph of the 
 fountain ! 
 
 What conversation passed during breakfast I do 
 not recollect, and hardly was conscious of at the time, 
 for my thoughts were in complete confusion. I wished 
 to gaze on Miss Somerville, but did not dare. Once, 
 indeed, I ventured a glance. She was at that moment 
 darting a similar one from under a covert of ringlets. 
 Our eyes seemed shocked by the rencontre, and fell; 
 hers through the natural modesty of her sex, mine 
 through a bashfulness produced by the previous work 
 ings of my imagination. That glance, however, went 
 like a sunbeam to my heart. 
 
 A convenient mirror favored my diffidence, and gave 
 me the reflection of Miss Somerville's form. It is true 
 it only presented the back of her head, but she had the 
 merit of an ancient statue; contemplate her from any 
 point of view, she was beautiful. And yet she was 
 totally different from everything I had before con 
 ceived of beauty. She was not the serene, meditative 
 maid that I had pictured the nymph of the fountain ; 
 nor the tall, soft, languishing, blue-eyed, dignified 
 being that I had fancied the minstrel of the harp. 
 There was nothing of dignity about her; she was 
 girlish in her appearance, and scarcely of the middle 
 size; but then there was the tenderness of budding
 
 MOUNTJOY 65 
 
 youth ; the sweetness of the half -blown rose, when not 
 a tint or perfume has been withered or exhaled ; there 
 were smiles and dimples, and all the soft witcheries 
 of ever-varying expression. I wondered that I could 
 ever have admired any other style of beauty. 
 
 After breakfast Mr. Somerville departed to attend 
 to the concerns of his estate, and gave me in charge 
 of the ladies. Mrs. Somerville also was called away 
 by household cares, and I was left alone with Julia! 
 Here then was the situation which of all others I had 
 most coveted. I was in the presence of the lovely being 
 that had so long been the desire of my heart. We 
 were alone; propitious opportunity for a lover! Did 
 I seize upon it? Did I break out in one of my accus 
 tomed rhapsodies? No such thing! Never was being 
 more awkwardly embarrassed. 
 
 "What can be the cause of this?" thought I. 
 " Surely I cannot stand in awe of this young girl. I 
 am of course her superior in intellect, and am never 
 embarrassed in company with my tutor, notwithstand 
 ing all his wisdom." 
 
 It was passing strange. I felt that if she were an 
 old woman, I should be quite at my ease; if she were 
 even an ugly woman, I should make out very well; it 
 was her beauty that overpowered me. How little do 
 lovely women know what awful beings they are, in 
 the eyes of inexperienced youth ! Young men brought 
 up in the fashionable circles of our cities will smile 
 at all this. Accustomed to mingle incessantly in female 
 society, and to have the romance of the heart deadened 
 by a thousand frivolous flirtations, women are nothing 
 but women in their eyes; but to a susceptible youth 
 like myself, brought up in the country, they are per 
 fect divinities. 
 
 Miss Somerville was at first a little embarrassed 
 herself ; but, somehow or other, women have a natural 
 adroitness in recovering their self-possession; they are 
 
 5
 
 66 MOUNTJOY 
 
 more alert in their minds and graceful in their man 
 ners. Besides, I was but an ordinary personage in 
 Miss Somerville's eyes; she was not under the in 
 fluence of such a singular course of imaginings as had 
 surrounded her, in my eyes, with the illusions of ro 
 mance. Perhaps, too, she saw the confusion in the op 
 posite camp, and gained courage from the discovery. 
 At any rate, she was the first to take the field. 
 
 Her conversation, however, was only on common 
 place topics, and in an easy, well-bred style. I en 
 deavored to respond in the same manner; but I was 
 strangely incompetent to the task. My ideas were 
 frozen up ; even words seemed to fail me. I was ex 
 cessively vexed at myself, for I wished to be uncom 
 monly elegant. I tried two or three times to turn a 
 pretty thought, or to utter a fine sentiment; but it 
 would come forth so trite, so forced, so mawkish, that 
 I was ashamed of it. My very voice sounded discord 
 antly, though I sought to modulate it into the softest 
 tones. " The truth is," thought I to myself, " I cannot 
 bring my mind down to the small talk necessary for 
 young girls; it is too masculine and robust for the 
 mincing measure of parlor gossip. I am a philosopher ; 
 and that accounts for it." 
 
 The entrance of Mrs. Somerville at length gave me 
 relief. I at once breathed freely, and felt a vast deal 
 of confidence come over me. " This is strange," 
 thought I, " that the appearance of another woman 
 should revive my courage; that I should be a better 
 match for two women than one. However, since it is 
 so, I will take advantage of the circumstance, and let 
 this young lady see that I am not so great a simpleton 
 as she probably thinks me." 
 
 I accordingly took up the book of poetry which lay 
 upon the sofa. It was Milton's "Paradise Lost." 
 Nothing could have been more fortunate ; it afforded 
 a fine scope for my favorite vein of grandiloquence.
 
 MOUNTJOY 67 
 
 I went largely into a discussion of its merits, or rather 
 an enthusiastic eulogy of them. My observations 
 were addressed to Mrs. Somerville, for I found I could 
 talk to her with more ease than to her daughter. She 
 appeared perfectly alive to the beauties of the poet, and 
 disposed to meet me in the discussion; but it was not 
 my object to hear her talk; it was to talk myself. I 
 anticipated all she had to say, overpowered her with 
 the copiousness of my ideas, and supported and illus 
 trated them by long citations from the author. 
 
 While thus holding forth, I cast a side-glance to see 
 how Miss Somerville was affected. She had some em 
 broidery stretched on a frame before her, but had 
 paused in her labor, and was looking down, as if lost 
 in mute attention. I felt a glow of self-satisfaction; 
 but I recollected, at the same time, with a kind of 
 pique, the advantage she had enjoyed over me in our 
 tete-a-tete. I determined to push my triumph, and 
 accordingly kept on with redoubled ardor, until I had 
 fairly exhausted my subject, or rather my thoughts. 
 
 I had scarce come to a full stop, when Miss Somer 
 ville raised her eyes from her work on which they had 
 been fixed, and turning to her mother, observed : " I 
 have been considering, mamma, whether to work these 
 flowers plain, or in colors." 
 
 Had an ice-bolt been shot to my heart, it could not 
 have chilled me more effectually. " What a fool," 
 thought I, " have I been making myself, squander 
 ing away fine thoughts and fine language upon a light 
 mind and an ignorant ear! This girl knows nothing 
 of poetry. She has no soul, I fear, for its beauties. 
 Can any one have real sensibility of heart, and not be 
 alive to poetry? However, she is young; this part of 
 her education has been neglected ; there is time enough 
 to remedy it. I will be her preceptor. I will kindle 
 in her mind the sacred flame, and lead her through the 
 fairy land of song. But, after all, it is rather unfor-
 
 68 MOUNTJOY 
 
 tunate that I should have fallen in love with a woman 
 who knows nothing of poetry." 
 
 I passed a day not altogether satisfactory. I was 
 a little disappointed that Miss Somerville did not show 
 more poetical feeling. " I am afraid, after all," said 
 I to myself, " she is light and girlish, and more fitted 
 to pluck wild flowers, play on the flageolet, and romp 
 with little dogs, than to converse with a man of my 
 turn." 
 
 I believe, however, to tell the truth, I was more 
 out of humor with myself. I thought I had made the 
 worst first appearance that ever hero made, either in 
 novel or fairy tale. I was out of all patience when 
 I called to mind my awkward attempts at ease and 
 elegance, in the tete-a-tete. And then my intolerable 
 long lecture about poetry, to catch the applause of a 
 heedless auditor! But there I was not to blame. I 
 had certainly been eloquent ; it was her fault that the 
 eloquence was wasted. To meditate upon the em 
 broidery of a flower, when I was expatiating on the 
 beauties of Milton! She might at least have admired 
 the poetry, if she did not relish the manner in which 
 it was delivered; though that was not despicable, for 
 I had recited passages in my best style, which my 
 mother and sisters had always considered equal to a 
 play. " Oh, it is evident," thought I, " Miss Somer 
 ville has very little soul ! " 
 
 Such were my fancies and cogitations during the 
 day, the greater part of which was spent in my 
 chamber; for I was still languid. My evening was 
 passed in the drawing-room, where I overlooked Miss 
 Somerville's portfolio of sketches. They were exe 
 cuted with great taste, and showed a nice observation 
 of the peculiarities of Nature. They were all her own, 
 and free from those cunning tints and touches of the 
 drawing-master, by which young ladies' drawings, like
 
 MOUNTJOY 69 
 
 their heads, are dressed up for company. There was 
 no garish and vulgar trick of colors, either; all was 
 executed with singular truth and simplicity. 
 
 " And yet," thought I, " this little being, who has 
 so pure an eye to take in, as in a limpid brook, all the 
 graceful forms and magic tints of Nature, has no soul 
 for poetry ! " 
 
 Mr. Somerville, toward the latter part of the even 
 ing, observing my eye to wander occasionally to the 
 harp, interpreted and met my wishes with his accus 
 tomed civility. 
 
 " Julia, my dear," said he, " Mr. Mountjoy would 
 like to hear a little music from your harp ; let us hear, 
 too, the sound of your voice." 
 
 Julia immediately complied, without any of that 
 hesitation and difficulty by which young ladies are apt 
 to make the company pay dear for bad music. She 
 sang a sprightly strain, in a brilliant style, that came 
 trilling playfully over the ear; and the bright eye and 
 dimpling smile showed that her little heart danced with 
 the song. Her pet Canary bird, who hung close by, 
 was wakened by the music, and burst forth into an 
 emulating strain. Julia smiled with a pretty air of 
 defiance, and played louder. 
 
 After some time the music changed, and ran into a 
 plaintive strain, in a minor key. Then it was that all 
 the former witchery of her voice came over me; then 
 it was that she seemed to sing from the heart and to 
 the heart. Her fingers moved about the chords as if 
 they scarcely touched them. Her whole manner and 
 appearance changed ; her eyes beamed with the softest 
 expression ; her countenance, her frame, all seemed 
 subdued into tenderness. She rose from the harp, leav 
 ing it still vibrating with sweet sounds, and moved 
 toward her father, to bid him good-night. 
 
 His eyes had been fixed on her intently during her 
 performance. As she came before him, he parted her
 
 7 o MOUNTJOY 
 
 shining ringlets with both his hands, and looked down 
 with the fondness of a father on her innocent face. 
 The music seemed still lingering in its lineaments, and 
 the action of her father brought a moist gleam in her 
 eye. He kissed her fair forehead, after the French 
 mode of parental caressing : " Good-night, and God 
 bless you," said he, " my good little girl ! " 
 
 Julia tripped away with a tear in her eye, a dimple 
 in her cheek, and a light heart in her bosom. I thought 
 it the prettiest picture of paternal and filial affection I 
 had ever seen. 
 
 When I retired to bed a new train of thoughts 
 crowded into my brain. " After all," said I to myself, 
 " it is clear this girl has a soul, though she was not 
 moved by my eloquence. She has all the outward 
 signs and evidences of poetic feeling. She paints well, 
 and has an eye for Nature. She is a fine musician, and 
 enters into the very soul of song. What a pity that 
 she knows nothing of poetry! But we will see what 
 is to be done. I am irretrievably in love with her; 
 what then am I to do? Come down to the level of 
 her mind, or endeavor to raise her to some kind of in 
 tellectual equality with myself? That is the most 
 generous course. She will look up to me as a bene 
 factor. I shall become associated in her mind with 
 the lofty thoughts and harmonious graces of poetry. 
 She is apparently docile; besides, the difference of our 
 ages will give me an ascendency over her. She can 
 not be above sixteen years of age, and I am full turned 
 of twenty." So, having built this most delectable of 
 air-castles, I fell asleep. 
 
 The next morning I was quite a different being. I 
 no longer felt fearful of stealing a glance at Julia ; on 
 the contrary, I contemplated her steadily, with the 
 benignant eye of a benefactor. Shortly after break 
 fast I found myself alone with her, as I had on the
 
 MOUNTJOY 71 
 
 preceding morning; but I felt nothing of the awk 
 wardness of our previous tete-a-tete. I was elevated 
 by the consciousness of my intellectual superiority, and 
 should almost have felt a sentiment of pity for the 
 ignorance of the lovely little being, if I had not felt 
 also the assurance that I should be able to dispel it. 
 " But it is time," thought I, " to open school." 
 
 Julia was occupied in arranging some music on her 
 piano. I looked over two or three songs; they were 
 Moore's Irish Melodies. 
 
 " These are pretty things," said I, flirting the leaves 
 over lightly, and giving a slight shrug, by way of 
 qualifying the opinion. 
 
 " Oh, I love them of all things ! " said Julia, " they're 
 so touching! " 
 
 " Then you like them for the poetry ? " said I, with 
 an encouraging smile. 
 
 " Oh yes ; she thought them charmingly written." 
 
 Now was my time. " Poetry," said I, assuming a 
 didactic attitude and air, " poetry is one of the most 
 pleasing studies that can occupy a youthful mind. It 
 renders us susceptible of the gentle impulses of human 
 ity, and cherishes a delicate perception of all that is 
 virtuous and elevated in morals, and graceful and 
 beautiful in physics. It " 
 
 I was going on in a style that would have graced 
 a professor of rhetoric, when I saw a light smile play 
 ing about Miss Somerville's mouth, and that she began 
 to turn over the leaves of a music-book. I recollected 
 her inattention to my discourse of the preceding morn 
 ing. " There is no fixing her light mind," thought I, 
 " by abstract theory ; we will proceed practically." As 
 it happened, the identical volume of Milton's " Para 
 dise Lost " was lying at hand. 
 
 " Let me recommend to you, my young friend," said 
 I, in one of those tones of persuasive admonition, which 
 I had so often loved in Glencoe, " let me recom-
 
 72 MOUNTJOY 
 
 mend to you this admirable poem : you will find in it 
 sources of intellectual enjoyment far superior to those 
 songs which have delighted you." Julia looked at the 
 book, and then at me, with a whimsically dubious air. 
 " Milton's ' Paradise Lost '? " said she; " oh, I know 
 the greater part of that by heart." 
 
 I had not expected to find my pupil so far advanced ; 
 however, the " Paradise Lost " is a kind of school- 
 book, and its finest passages are given to young ladies 
 as tasks. 
 
 " I find," said I to myself, " I must not treat her as 
 so complete a novice ; her inattention, yesterday, could 
 not have proceeded from absolute ignorance, but merely 
 from a want of poetic feeling. I '11 try her again." 
 
 I now determined to dazzle her with my own erudi 
 tion, and launched into a harangue that would have 
 done honor to an institute. Pope, Spenser, Chaucer, 
 and the old dramatic writers, were all dipped into, with 
 the excursive flight of a swallow. I did not confine 
 myself to English poets, but gave a glance at the 
 French and Italian schools : I passed over Ariosto in 
 full wing, but paused on Tasso's " Jerusalem De 
 livered." I dwelt on the character of Clorinda: 
 " There 's a character," said I, " that you will find well 
 worthy a woman's study. It shows to what exalted 
 heights of heroism the sex can rise; how gloriously 
 they may share even in the stern concerns of men." 
 
 " For my part," said Julia, gently taking advantage 
 of a pause, " for my part, I prefer the character of 
 Sophronia." 
 
 I was thunderstruck. She then had read Tasso! 
 This girl that I had been treating as an ignoramus in 
 poetry! She proceeded, with a slight glow of the 
 cheek, summoned up perhaps by a casual glow of 
 feeling : 
 
 " I do not admire those masculine heroines," said 
 she, " who aim at the bold qualities of the opposite
 
 MOUNTJOY 73 
 
 sex. Now Sophronia only exhibits the real qualities 
 of a woman, wrought up to their highest excitement. 
 She is modest, gentle, and retiring, as it becomes a 
 woman to be; but she has all the strength of affection 
 proper to a woman. She cannot fight for her people, 
 as Clorinda does, but she can offer herself up, and die, 
 to serve them. You may admire Clorinda, but you 
 surely would be more apt to love Sophronia; at least," 
 added she, suddenly appearing to recollect herself, and 
 blushing at having launched into such a discussion, 
 " at least, that is what papa observed, when we read 
 the poem together." 
 
 " Indeed," said I, dryly, for I felt disconcerted and 
 nettled at being unexpectedly lectured by my pupil, 
 " indeed, I do not exactly recollect the passage." 
 
 " Oh," said Julia, " I can repeat it to you " ; and she 
 immediately gave it in Italian. 
 
 Heavens and earth ! here was a situation ! I knew 
 no more of Italian than I did of the language of Psal- 
 manazar. What a dilemma for a would-be-wise man 
 to be placed in ! I saw Julia waited for my opinion. 
 
 " In fact," said I, hesitating, "I I do not exactly 
 understand Italian." 
 
 " Oh," said Julia, with the utmost naivete, " I have 
 no doubt it is very beautiful in the translation." 
 
 I was glad to break up school and get back to my 
 chamber, full of the mortification which a wise man 
 in love experiences on finding his mistress wiser than 
 himself. " Translation ! translation ! " muttered I to 
 myself, as I jerked the door shut behind me. " I am 
 surprised my father has never had me instructed in the 
 modern languages. They are all-important. What is 
 the use of Latin and Greek ? No one speaks them ; but 
 here, the moment I make my appearance in the world, 
 a little girl slaps Italian in my face. However, thank 
 Heaven, a language is easily learned. The moment 
 I return home, I '11 set about studying Italian ; and to
 
 74 MOUNTJOY 
 
 prevent future surprise, I will study Spanish and Ger 
 man at the same time ; and if any young lady attempts 
 to quote Italian upon me again, I '11 bury her under 
 a heap of High Dutch poetry! " 
 
 I felt now like some mighty chieftain, who has car 
 ried the war into a weak country, with full confidence 
 of success, and been repulsed and obliged to draw off 
 his forces from before some inconsiderable fortress. 
 
 " However," thought I, " I have as yet brought only 
 my light artillery into action ; we shall see what is to 
 be done with my heavy ordnance. Julia is evidently 
 well versed in poetry; but it is natural she should be 
 so ; it is allied to painting and music, and is congenial 
 to the light graces of the female character. We will 
 try her on graver themes." 
 
 I felt all my pride awakened; it even for a time 
 swelled higher than my love. I was determined com 
 pletely to establish my mental superiority, and subdue 
 the intellect of this little being: it would then be time 
 to sway the sceptre of gentle empire, and win the affec 
 tions of her heart. 
 
 Accordingly, at dinner I again took the field, en 
 potence. I now addressed myself to Mr. Somerville, 
 for I was about to enter upon topics in which a young 
 girl like her could not be well versed. I led, or rather 
 forced, the conversation into a vein of historical erudi 
 tion, discussing several of the most prominent facts of 
 ancient history and accompanying them with sound, 
 indisputable apothegms. 
 
 Mr. Somerville listened to me with the air of a man 
 receiving information. I was encouraged, and went 
 on gloriously from theme to theme of school declama 
 tion. I sat with Marius on the ruins of Carthage; I 
 defended the bridge with Horatius Codes ; thrust my 
 hand into the flame with Martius Scsevola, and plunged 
 with Curtius into the yawning gulf ; I fought side by 
 side with Leonidas, at the straits of Thermopylae ; and
 
 MOUNTJOY 75 
 
 was going full drive into the battle of Plataea, when 
 my memory, which is the worst in the world, failed me, 
 just as I wanted the name of the Lacedemonian 
 commander. 
 
 " Julia, my dear," said Mr. Somerville, " perhaps 
 you may recollect the name of which Mr. Mount joy is 
 in quest? " 
 
 Julia colored slightly : " I believe," said she, in a 
 low voice, "I believe it was Pausanias." 
 
 This unexpected sally, instead of reinforcing me, 
 threw my whole scheme of battle into confusion, and 
 the Athenians remained unmolested in the field. 
 
 I am half inclined, since, to think Mr. Somerville 
 meant this as a sly hit at my schoolboy pedantry ; but 
 he was too well bred not to seek to relieve me from my 
 mortification. " Oh ! " said he, " Julia is our family 
 book of reference for names, dates, and distances, and 
 has an excellent memory for history and geography." 
 
 I now became desperate ; as a last resource, I turned 
 to metaphysics. " If she is a philosopher in petticoats," 
 thought I, " it is all over with me." 
 
 Here, however, I had the field to myself. I gave 
 chapter and verse of my tutor's lectures, heightened by 
 all his poetical illustrations : I even went farther than 
 he had ever ventured, and plunged into such depths of 
 metaphysics, that I was in danger of sticking in the 
 mire at the bottom. Fortunately, I had auditors who 
 apparently could not detect my flounderings. Neither 
 Mr. Somerville nor his daughter offered the least 
 interruption. 
 
 When the ladies had retired, Mr. Somerville sat 
 some time with me; and as I was no longer anxious 
 to astonish, I permitted myself to listen, and found 
 that he was really agreeable. He was quite communi 
 cative, and from his conversation, I was enabled to 
 form a juster idea of his daughter's character, and the 
 mode in which she had been brought up. Mr. Somer-
 
 76 MOUNTJOY 
 
 ville had mingled much with the world, and with wh'at 
 is termed fashionable society. He had experienced 
 its cold elegances, and gay insincerities; its dissipa 
 tion of the spirits, and squanderings of the heart. Like 
 many men of the world, though he had wandered too 
 far from Nature ever to return to it, yet he had the 
 good taste and good feeling to look back fondly to its 
 simple delights, and to determine that his child, if 
 possible, should never leave them. He had superin 
 tended her education with scrupulous care, storing her 
 mind with the graces of polite literature, and with such 
 knowledge as would enable it to furnish its own amuse 
 ment and occupation, and giving her all the accomplish 
 ments that sweeten and enliven the circle of domestic 
 life. He had been particularly sedulous to exclude all 
 fashionable affectations ; all false sentiment, false 
 sensibility, and false romance. " Whatever advantages 
 she may possess," said he, " she is quite unconscious of 
 them. She is a capricious little being, in everything 
 but her affections; she is, however, free from art; 
 simple, ingenuous, innocent, amiable, and, I thank 
 God! happy." 
 
 Such was the eulogy of a fond father, delivered with 
 a tenderness that touched me. I could not help mak 
 ing a casual inquiry whether, among the graces of 
 polite literature, he had included a slight tincture of 
 metaphysics. He smiled, and told me he had not. 
 
 On the whole, when, as usual, that night, I summed 
 up the day's observations on my pillow, I was not alto 
 gether dissatisfied. " Miss Somerville," said I, " loves 
 poetry, and I like her the better for it. She has the 
 advantage of me in Italian: agreed; what is it to 
 know a variety of languages, but merely to have a 
 variety of sounds to express the same idea? Original 
 thought is the ore of the mind ; language is but the 
 accidental stamp and coinage, by which it is put into 
 circulation. If I can furnish an original idea, what
 
 MOUNTJOY 77 
 
 care I how many languages she can translate it into? 
 She may be able, also, to quote names, and dates, and 
 latitudes, better than I ; but that is a mere effort of the 
 memory. I admit she is more accurate in history and 
 geography than I; but then she knows nothing of 
 metaphysics." 
 
 I had now sufficiently recovered to return home; 
 yet I could not think of leaving Mr. Somerville's, 
 without having a little farther conversation with him 
 on the subject of his daughter's education. 
 
 " This Mr. Somerville," thought I, " is a very ac 
 complished, elegant man; he has seen a good deal of 
 the world, and, upon the whole, has profited by what 
 he has seen. He is not without information, and, as 
 far as he thinks, appears to think correctly; but after 
 all, he is rather superficial, and does not think pro 
 foundly. He seems to take no delight in those meta 
 physical abstractions that are the proper aliment of 
 masculine minds." I called to mind various occasions 
 in which I had indulged largely in metaphysical dis 
 cussions, but could recollect no instance where I had 
 been able to draw him out. He had listened, it is 
 true, with attention, and smiled as if in acquiescence, 
 but had always appeared to avoid reply. Besides, I 
 had made several sad blunders in the glow of eloquent 
 declamation ; but he had never interrupted me, to notice 
 and correct them, as he would have done had he been 
 versed in the theme. 
 
 " Now it is really a great pity," resumed I, " that 
 he should have the entire management of Miss Somer 
 ville's education. What a vast advantage it would 
 be, if she could be put for a little time under the su 
 perintendence of Glencoe. He would throw some 
 deeper shades of thought into her mind, which at pres 
 ent is all sunshine; not but that Mr. Somerville has 
 done very well, as far as he has gone; but then he 
 has merely prepared the soil for the strong plants of
 
 7 8 MOUNTJOY 
 
 useful knowledge. She is well versed in the leading 
 facts of history, and the general course of belles- 
 lettres," said I ; "a little more philosophy would do 
 wonders." 
 
 I accordingly took occasion to ask Mr. Somerville 
 for a few moments' conversation in his study, the 
 morning I was to depart. When we were alone, I 
 opened the mater fully to him. I commenced with the 
 warmest eulogium of Glencoe's powers of mind, and 
 vast acquirements, and ascribed to him all my profi 
 ciency in the higher branches of knowledge. I begged, 
 therefore, to recommend him as a friend calculated 
 to direct the studies of Miss Somerville; to lead her 
 mind, by degrees, to the contemplation of abstract 
 principles, and to produce habits of philosophical 
 analysis ; " which," added I, gently smiling, " are not 
 often cultivated by young ladies." I ventured to hint, 
 in addition, that he would find Mr. Glencoe a most 
 valuable and interesting acquaintance for himself ; one 
 who would stimulate and evolve the powers of his 
 mind; and who might open to him tracts of inquiry 
 and speculation to which perhaps he had hitherto been 
 a stranger. 
 
 Mr. Somerville listened with grave attention. When 
 I had finished, he thanked me in the politest manner 
 for the interest I took in the welfare of his daughter 
 and himself. He observed that, as regarded himself, 
 he was afraid he was too old to benefit by the instruc 
 tions of Mr. Glencoe, and that as to his daughter, he 
 was afraid her mind was but little fitted for the study 
 of metaphysics. " I do not wish," continued he, " to 
 strain her intellects with subjects they cannot grasp, 
 but to make her familiarly acquainted with those that 
 are within the limits of her capacity. I do not pretend 
 to prescribe the boundaries of female genius, and am 
 far from indulging the vulgar opinion that women are 
 unfitted by Nature for the highest intellectual pur-
 
 MOUNTJOY 79 
 
 suits. I speak only with reference to my daughter's 
 taste and talents. She will never make a learned 
 woman; nor in truth do I desire it; for such is the 
 jealousy of our sex, as to mental as well as physical as 
 cendency, that a learned woman is not always the hap 
 piest. I do not wish my daughter to excite envy, nor 
 to battle with the prejudices of the world ; but to glide 
 peaceably through life, on the good will and kind 
 opinion of her friends. She has ample employment for 
 her little head in the course I have marked out for her ; 
 and is busy at present with some branches of natural 
 history, calculated to awaken her perceptions to the 
 beauties and wonders of Nature, and to the inex 
 haustible volume of wisdom constantly spread open 
 before her eyes. I consider that woman most likely 
 to make an agreeable companion, who can draw topics 
 of pleasing remark from every natural object; and 
 most likely to be cheerful and contented, who is con 
 tinually sensible of the order, the harmony, and the 
 invariable beneficence that reign throughout the beau 
 tiful world we inhabit. 
 
 " But," added he, smiling, " I am betraying myself 
 into a lecture, instead of merely giving a reply to your 
 kind offer. Permit me to take the liberty, in return, 
 of inquiring a little about your own pursuits. You 
 speak of having finished your education ; but of course 
 you have a line of private study and mental occupation 
 marked out ; for you must know the importance, both 
 in point of interest and happiness, of keeping the mind 
 employed. May I ask what system you observe in 
 your intellectual exercises ? " 
 
 " Oh, as to system," I observed, " I could never 
 bring myself into anything of the kind. I thought it 
 best to let my genius take its own course, as it al 
 ways acted the most vigorously when stimulated by 
 inclination." 
 
 Mr. Somerville shook his head. " This same
 
 8o MOUNTJOY 
 
 genius," said he, "is a wild quality, that runs away 
 with our most promising young men. It has become 
 so much the fashion, too, to give it the reins, that it is 
 now thought an animal of too noble and generous a 
 nature to be brought to the harness. But it is all a 
 mistake. Nature never designed these high endow 
 ments to run riot through society, and throw the whole 
 system into confusion. No, my dear sir; genius, un 
 less it acts upon system, is very apt to be a useless 
 quality to society; sometimes an injurious, and cer 
 tainly a very uncomfortable one, to its possessor. I 
 have had many opportunities of seeing the progress 
 through life of young men who were accounted 
 geniuses, and have found it too often end in early ex 
 haustion and bitter disappointment ; and have as often 
 noticed that these effects might be traced to a total 
 want of system. There were no habits of business, of 
 steady purpose, and regular application superinduced 
 upon the mind ; everything was left to chance and im 
 pulse, and native luxuriance, and everything of course 
 ran to waste and wild entanglement. Excuse me if I 
 am tedious on this point, for I feel solicitous to im 
 press it upon you, being an error extremely prevalent 
 in our country, and one into which too many of our 
 youth have fallen. I am happy, however, to observe 
 the zeal which still appears to actuate you for the ac 
 quisition of knowledge, and augur every good from 
 the elevated bent of your ambition. May I ask what 
 has been your course of study for the last six 
 months ? " 
 
 Never was question more unluckily timed. For the 
 last six months I had been absolutely buried in novels 
 and romances. 
 
 Mr. Somerville perceived that the question was em 
 barrassing, and with his invariable good breeding, im 
 mediately resumed the conversation, without waiting 
 for a reply. He took care, however, to turn it in such
 
 MOUNTJOY 81 
 
 a way as to draw from me an account of the whole 
 manner in which I had been educated, and the various 
 currents of reading into which my mind had run. He 
 then went on to discuss briefly, but impressively, the 
 different branches of knowledge most important to a 
 young man in my situation; and to my surprise I 
 found him a complete master of those studies on which 
 I had supposed him ignorant, and on which I had been 
 descanting so confidently. 
 
 He complimented me, however, very graciously, 
 upon the progress I had made, but advised me for the 
 present to turn my attention to the physical rather 
 than the moral sciences. " These studies," said he, 
 " store a man's mind with valuable facts, and at the 
 same time repress self-confidence, by letting him know 
 how boundless are the realms of knowledge, and how 
 little we can possibly know. Whereas metaphysical 
 studies, though of an ingenious order of intellectual 
 employment, are apt to bewilder some minds with 
 vague speculations. They never know how far they 
 have advanced, or what may be the correctness of their 
 favorite theory. They render many of our young men 
 verbose and declamatory, and prone to mistake the 
 aberrations of their fancy for the inspirations of divine 
 philosophy." 
 
 I could not but interrupt him, to assent to the truth 
 of these remarks, and to say that it had been my lot, 
 in the course of my limited experience, to encounter 
 young men of the kind, who had overwhelmed me by 
 their verbosity. 
 
 Mr. Somerville smiled. " I trust," said he kindly, 
 " that you will guard against these errors. Avoid the 
 eagerness with which a young man is apt to hurry into 
 conversation, and to utter the crude and ill-digested 
 notions which he has picked up in his recent studies. 
 Be assured that extensive and accurate knowledge is 
 the slow acquisition of a studious lifetime; that a
 
 82 MOUNTJOY 
 
 young man, however pregnant his wit and prompt his 
 talent, can have mastered but the rudiments of learn 
 ing, and, in a manner, attained the implements of 
 study. Whatever may have been your past assiduity, 
 you must be sensible that as yet you have but reached 
 the threshold of true knowledge ; but at the same time, 
 you have the advantage that you are still very young, 
 and have ample time to learn." 
 
 Here our conference ended. I walked out of the 
 study, a very different being from what I was on enter 
 ing it. I had gone in with the air of a professor about 
 to deliver a lecture; I came out like a student, who 
 had failed in his examination, and been degraded in 
 his class. 
 
 " Very young," and " on the threshold of knowl 
 edge ! " This was extremely flattering to one who had 
 considered himself an accomplished scholar and pro 
 found philosopher! 
 
 " It is singular," thought I ; " there seems to have 
 been a spell upon my faculties ever since I have been 
 in this house. I certainly have not been able to do 
 myself justice. Whenever I have undertaken to ad 
 vise, I have had the tables turned upon me. It must 
 be that I am strange and diffident among people I am 
 not accustomed to. I wish they could hear me talk at 
 home!" 
 
 " After all," added I, on farther reflection, 
 " after all, there is a great deal of force in what Mr. 
 Somerville has said. Somehow or other, these men 
 of the world do now and then hit upon remarks that 
 would do credit to a philosopher. Some of his gen 
 eral observations came so home, that I almost thought 
 they were meant for myself. His advice about adopt 
 ing a system of study, is very judicious. I will im 
 mediately put it in practice. My mind shall operate 
 henceforward with the regularity of clock-work." 
 
 How far I succeeded in adopting this plan, how I
 
 THE BERMUDAS 83 
 
 fared in the farther pursuit of knowledge, and how I 
 succeeded in my suit to Julia Somerville, may afford 
 matter for a farther communication to the public, if 
 this simple record of my early life is fortunate enough 
 to excite any curiosity. 
 
 THE BERMUDAS 
 
 A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH 
 
 Who did not think, till within these foure yeares, but that these 
 islands had been rather a habitation for Divells, than fit for men 
 to dwell in? Who did not hate the name, when hee was on land, 
 and shun the place when he was on the seas? But behold the mis- 
 prision and conceits of the world ! For true and large experience 
 hath now told us, it is one of the sweetest paradises that be upon 
 earth. 
 
 A Plaine Descript. of the Barmudas: 1613 
 
 IN the course of a voyage home from England, our 
 ship had been struggling, for two or three weeks, with 
 perverse head-winds and a stormy sea. It was in the 
 month of May, yet the weather had at times a wintry 
 sharpness, and it was apprehended that we were in the 
 neighborhood of floating islands of ice, which at that 
 season of the year drift out of the Gulf of St. Law 
 rence, and sometimes occasion the wreck of noble 
 ships. 
 
 Wearied out by the continued opposition of the ele 
 ments, our captain bore away to the south, in hopes of 
 catching the expiring breath of the trade-winds, and 
 making what is called the southern passage. A few 
 days wrought, as it were, a magical " sea change " in 
 everything around us. We seemed to emerge into a 
 different world. The late dark and angry sea, lashed 
 up into roaring and swashing surges, became calm and 
 sunny; the rude winds died away; and gradually a 
 light breeze sprang up directly aft, filling out every
 
 84 THE BERMUDAS 
 
 sail, and wafting us smoothly along on an even keel. 
 The air softened into a bland and delightful tempera 
 ture. Dolphins began to play about us; the nautilus 
 came floating by, like a fairy ship, with its mimic sail 
 and rainbow tints; and flying-fish, from time to time, 
 made their short excursive flights, and occasionally 
 fell upon the deck. The cloaks and overcoats in which 
 we had hitherto wrapped ourselves, and moped about 
 the vessel, were thrown aside; for a summer warmth 
 had succeeded to the late wintry chills. Sails were 
 stretched as awnings over the quarter-deck, to protect 
 us from the midday sun. Under these we lounged 
 away the day, in luxurious indolence, musing, with 
 half-shut eyes, upon the quiet ocean. The night was 
 scarcely less beautiful than the day. The rising moon 
 sent a quivering column of silver along the undulating 
 surface of the deep, and, gradually climbing the heaven, 
 lit up our towering topsails and swelling mainsails, 
 and spread a pale, mysterious light around. As our 
 ship made her whispering way through this dreamy 
 world of waters, every boisterous sound on board was 
 charmed to silence; and the low whistle, or drowsy 
 song, of a sailor from the forecastle, or the tinkling of 
 a guitar, and the soft warbling of a female voice from 
 the quarter-deck, seemed to derive a witching melody 
 from the scene and hour. I was reminded of Oberon's 
 exquisite description of music and moonlight on the 
 ocean : 
 
 . . . Thou rememberest 
 Since once I sat upon a promontory, 
 And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back, 
 Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, 
 That the rude sea grew civil at her song ; 
 And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, 
 To hear the sea-maid's music. 
 
 Indeed, I was in the very mood to conjure up all 
 the imaginary beings with which poetry has peopled 
 old Ocean, and almost ready to fancy I heard the dis-
 
 THE BERMUDAS 85 
 
 tant song of the mermaid, or the mellow shell of the 
 triton, and to picture to myself Neptune and Amphi- 
 trite with all their pageant sweeping along the dim 
 horizon. 
 
 A day or two of such fanciful voyaging brought us 
 in sight of the Bermudas, which first looked like mere 
 summer clouds, peering above the quiet ocean. All 
 day we glided along in sight of them, with just wind 
 enough to fill our sails; and never did land appear 
 more lovely. They were clad in emerald verdure, be 
 neath the serenest of skies : not an angry wave broke 
 upon their quiet shores, and small fishing craft, riding 
 on the crystal waves, seemed as if hung in air. It 
 was such a scene that Fletcher pictured to himself, 
 when he extolled the halcyon lot of the fisherman : 
 
 Ah ! would thou knewest how much it better were 
 To bide among the simple fisher-swains : 
 
 No shrieking owl, no night-crow lodgeth here, 
 Nor is our simple pleasure mixed with pains. 
 
 Our sports begin with the beginning year : 
 
 In calms, to pull the leaping fish to land ; 
 
 In roughs, to sing and dance along the yellow sand. 
 
 In contemplating these beautiful islands, and the 
 peaceful sea around them, I could hardly realize that 
 these were the " still vexed Bermoothes " of Shak- 
 speare, once the dread of mariners, and infamous in 
 the narratives of the early discoverers, for the dangers 
 and disasters which beset them. Such, however, was 
 the case; and the islands derived additional interest 
 in my eyes, from fancying that I could trace in their 
 early history, and in the superstitious notions connected 
 with them, some of the elements of Shakspeare's wild 
 and beautiful drama of the " Tempest." I shall take 
 the liberty of citing a few historical facts in support of 
 this idea, which may claim some additional attention 
 from the American reader, as being connected with 
 the first settlement of Virginia.
 
 86 THE BERMUDAS 
 
 At the time when Shakspeare was in the fulness 
 of his talent, and seizing upon everything that could 
 furnish aliment to his imagination, the colonization of 
 Virginia was a favorite object of enterprise among 
 people of condition in England, and several of the 
 courtiers of the court of Queen Elizabeth were per 
 sonally engaged in it. In the year 1609 a noble arma 
 ment of nine ships and five hundred men sailed for 
 the relief of the colony. It was commanded by Sir 
 George Somers, as admiral, a gallant and generous 
 gentleman, above sixty years of age, and possessed of 
 an ample fortune, yet still bent upon hardy enterprise, 
 and ambitious of signalizing himself in the service of 
 his country. 
 
 On board of his flag-ship, the Sea-Vulture, sailed 
 also Sir Thomas Gates, lieutenant-general of the col 
 ony. The voyage was long and boisterous. On the 
 twenty-fifth of July the admiral's ship was separated 
 from the rest in a hurricane. For several days she 
 was driven about at the mercy of the elements, and so 
 strained and racked that her seams yawned open, and 
 her hold was half filled with water. The storm sub 
 sided, but left her a mere foundering wreck. The 
 crew stood in the hold to their waists in water, vainly 
 endeavoring to bale her with kettles, buckets, and other 
 vessels. The leaks rapidly gained on them, while their 
 strength was as rapidly declining. They lost all hope 
 of keeping the ship afloat, until they should reach the 
 American coast; and wearied with fruitless toil, de 
 termined, in their despair, to give up all farther at 
 tempt, shut down the hatches, and abandon themselves 
 to Providence. Some, who had spirituous liquors, or 
 " comfortable waters," as the old record quaintly terms 
 them, brought them forth, and shared them with their 
 comrades, and they all drank a sad farewell to one 
 another, as men who were soon to part company in 
 this world.
 
 THE BERMUDAS 87 
 
 In this moment of extremity, the worthy admiral, 
 who kept sleepless watch from the high stern of the 
 vessel, gave the thrilling cry of " land ! " All rushed 
 on deck, in a frenzy of joy, and nothing now was to 
 be seen or heard on board but the transports of men 
 who felt as if rescued from the grave. It is true the 
 land in sight would not, in ordinary circumstances, 
 have inspired much self-gratulation. It could be noth 
 ing else but the group of islands called after their 
 discoverer, one Juan Bermudas, a Spaniard, but stig 
 matized among the mariners of those days as " the 
 islands of devils ! " " For the islands of the Bermudas," 
 says the old narrative of this voyage, " as every man 
 knoweth that hath heard or read of them, were never 
 inhabited by any Christian or heathen people, but were 
 ever esteemed and reputed a most prodigious and in- 
 chanted place, affording nothing but gusts, stormes, 
 and foul weather, which made every navigator and 
 mariner to avoid them as Scylla and Charybdis, or as 
 they would shun the Divell himself." 1 
 
 Sir George Somers and his tempest-tossed comrades, 
 however, hailed them with rapture, as if they had been 
 a terrestrial paradise. Every sail was spread, and every 
 exertion made to urge the foundering ship to land. 
 Before long she struck upon a rock. Fortunately, the 
 late stormy winds had subsided, and there was no surf. 
 A swelling wave lifted her from off the rock, and 
 bore her to another ; and thus she was borne on from 
 rock to rock, until she remained wedged between 
 two, as firmly as if set upon the stocks. The boats 
 were immediately lowered, and, though the shore was 
 above a mile distant, the whole crew were landed in 
 safety. 
 
 Every one had now his task assigned him. Some 
 made all haste to unload the ship, before she should 
 go to pieces ; some constructed wigwams of palmetto- 
 1 A Plaine Description of the Barmudas.
 
 88 THE BERMUDAS 
 
 leaves, and others ranged the island in quest of wood 
 and water. To their surprise and joy, they found it 
 far different from the desolate and frightful place they 
 had been taught by seamen's stories to expect. It was 
 well wooded and fertile; there were birds of various 
 kinds, and herds of swine roaming about, the progeny 
 of a number that had swum ashore, in former years, 
 from a Spanish wreck. The islands abounded with 
 turtle, and great quantities of their eggs were to be 
 found among the rocks. The bays and inlets were full 
 of fish, so tame, that if any one stepped into the water, 
 they would throng around him. Sir George Somers, 
 in a little while, caught enough with hook and line to 
 furnish a meal to his whole ship's company. Some of 
 them were so large that two were as much as a man 
 could carry. Craw-fish, also, were taken in abun 
 dance. The air was soft and salubrious, and the sky 
 beautifully serene. Waller, in his " Summer Islands," 
 has given us a faithful picture of the climate : 
 
 For the kind spring, (which but salutes us here,) 
 Inhabits these, and courts them all the year : 
 Ripe fruits and blossoms on the same trees live ; 
 At once they promise, and at once they give : 
 So sweet the air, so moderate the clime, 
 None sickly lives, or dies before his time. 
 Heaven sure has kept this spot of earth uncursed, 
 To show how all things were created first. 
 
 We may imagine the feelings of the shipwrecked 
 mariners on finding themselves cast by stormy seas upon 
 so happy a coast, where abundance was to be had with 
 out labor; where what in other climes constituted the 
 costly luxuries of the rich, were within every man's 
 reach; and where life promised to be a mere holiday. 
 Many of the common sailors, especially, declared they 
 desired no better lot than to pass the rest of their 
 lives on this favored island. 
 
 The commanders, however, were not so ready to 
 console themselves with mere physical comforts, for
 
 THE BERMUDAS 89 
 
 the severance from the enjoyment of cultivated life 
 and all the objects of honorable ambition. Despairing 
 of the arrival of any chance ship on these shunned 
 and dreaded islands, they fitted out the long-boat, mak 
 ing a deck of the ship's hatches, and having manned 
 her with eight picked men, despatched her, under the 
 command of an able and hardy mariner, named Raven, 
 to proceed to Virginia, and procure shipping to be sent 
 to their relief. 
 
 While waiting in anxious idleness for the arrival 
 of the looked-for aid, dissensions arose between Sir 
 George Somers and Sir Thomas Gates, originating, 
 very probably, in jealousy of the lead which the 
 nautical experience and professional station of the 
 admiral gave him in the present emergency. Each 
 commander of course had his adherents ; these dissen 
 sions ripened into a complete schism ; and this handful 
 of shipwrecked men, thus thrown together on an unin 
 habited island, separated into two parties, and lived 
 asunder in bitter feud, as men rendered fickle by pros 
 perity, instead of being brought into brotherhood by 
 a common calamity. 
 
 Weeks and months elapsed without bringing the 
 looked-for aid from Virginia, though that colony was 
 within but a few days' sail. Fears were now enter 
 tained that the long-boat had been either swallowed up 
 in the sea, or wrecked on some savage coast; one or 
 other of which most probably was the case, as nothing 
 was ever heard of Raven and his comrades. 
 
 Each party now set to work to build a vessel for 
 itself out of the cedar with which the island abounded. 
 The wreck of the Sea-Vulture furnished rigging and 
 various other articles; but they had no iron for bolts 
 and other fastenings; and for want of pitch and tar, 
 they payed the seams of their vessels with lime and 
 turtle's oil, which soon dried, and became as hard as 
 stone.
 
 90 THE BERMUDAS 
 
 On the tenth of May, 1610, they set sail, having 
 been about nine months on the island. They reached 
 Virginia without farther accident, but found the col 
 ony in great distress for provisions. The account that 
 they gave of the abundance that reigned in the Ber 
 mudas, and especially of the herds of swine that roamed 
 the island, determined Lord Delaware, the governor 
 of Virginia, to send thither for supplies. Sir George 
 Somers, with his wonted promptness and generosity, 
 offered to undertake what was still considered a danger 
 ous voyage. Accordingly on the nineteenth of June 
 he set sail, in his own cedar vessel of thirty tons, ac 
 companied by another small vessel, commanded by Cap 
 tain Argall. 
 
 The gallant Somers was doomed again to be tem 
 pest-tossed. His companion vessel was soon driven 
 back to port, but he kept the sea; and, as usual, re 
 mained at his post on deck in all weathers. His voy 
 age was long and boisterous, and the fatigues and 
 exposures which he underwent were too much for a 
 frame impaired by age and by previous hardships. 
 He arrived at Bermudas completely exhausted and 
 broken down. 
 
 His nephew, Captain Matthew Somers, attended him 
 in his illness with affectionate assiduity. Finding his 
 end approaching, the veteran called his men together, 
 and exhorted them to be true to the interests of Vir 
 ginia; to procure provisions, with all possible de 
 spatch, and hasten back to the relief of the colony. 
 
 With this dying charge he gave up the ghost, leav 
 ing his nephew and crew overwhelmed with grief and 
 consternation. Their first thought was to pay honor 
 to his remains. Opening the body, they took out the 
 heart and entrails, and buried them, erecting a cross 
 over the grave. They then embalmed the body, and 
 set sail with it for England; thus, while paying 
 empty honors to their deceased commander, neglecting
 
 THE BERMUDAS 91 
 
 his earnest wish and dying injunction, that they 
 should return with relief to Virginia. 
 
 The little bark arrived safely at Whitechurch in 
 Dorsetshire, with its melancholy freight. The body of 
 the worthy Somers was interred with the military hon 
 ors due to a brave soldier, and many volleys fired over 
 his grave. The Bermudas have since received the name 
 of the Somer Islands, as a tribute to his memory. 
 
 The accounts given by Captain Matthew Somers and 
 his crew of the delightful climate, and the great beauty, 
 fertility, and abundance of these islands, excited the 
 zeal of enthusiasts and the cupidity of speculators, and 
 a plan was set on foot to colonize them. The Vir 
 ginia company sold their right to the islands to one 
 hundred and twenty of their own members, who 
 erected themselves into a distinct corporation, under 
 the name of the " Somer Island Society " ; and Mr. 
 Richard More was sent out, in 1612, as governor, with 
 sixty men, to found a colony; and this leads me to 
 the second branch of this research. 
 
 THE THREE KINGS OF BERMUDA, 
 AND THEIR TREASURE OF AMBERGRIS 
 
 At the time that Sir George Somers was preparing 
 to launch his cedar-built bark, and sail for Virginia, 
 there were three culprits among his men who had been 
 guilty of capital offences. One of them was shot; the 
 others, named Christopher Carter and Edward Waters, 
 escaped. Waters, indeed, made a very narrow escape, 
 for he had actually been tied to a tree to be executed, 
 but cut the rope with a knife, which he had concealed 
 about his person, and fled to the woods, where he was 
 joined by Carter. These two worthies kept themselves 
 concealed in the secret parts of the island, until the de-
 
 9 2 
 
 THE BERMUDAS 
 
 parture of the two vessels. When Sir George Somers 
 revisited the island, in quest of supplies for the Vir 
 ginia colony, these culprits hovered about the landing- 
 place, and succeeded in persuading another seaman, 
 named Edward Chard, to join them, giving him the 
 most seductive picture of the ease and abundance in 
 which they revelled. 
 
 When the bark that bore Sir George's body to Eng 
 land had faded from the watery horizon, these three 
 vagabonds walked forth in their majesty and might, 
 the lords and sole inhabitants of these islands. For a 
 time their little commonwealth went on prosperously 
 and happily. They built a house, sowed corn, and the 
 seeds of various fruits; and having plenty of hogs, 
 wild fowl, and fish of all kinds, with turtle in abun 
 dance, carried on their tripartite sovereignty with 
 great harmony and much feasting. All kingdoms, 
 however, are doomed to revolution, convulsion, or 
 decay; and so it fared with the empire of the three 
 kings of Bermuda, albeit they were monarchs without 
 subjects. In an evil hour, in their search after turtle, 
 among the fissures of the rocks, they came upon a 
 great treasure of ambergris, which had been cast on 
 shore by the ocean. Besides a number of pieces of 
 smaller dimensions, there was one great mass, the 
 largest that had ever been known, weighing eighty 
 pounds, and which of itself, according to the market 
 value of ambergris in those days, was worth about 
 nine or ten thousand pounds. 
 
 From that moment the happiness and harmony of 
 the three kings of Bermuda were gone forever. While 
 poor devils, with nothing to share but the common 
 blessings of the island, which administered to present 
 enjoyment, but had nothing of convertible value, they 
 were loving and united; but here was actual wealth, 
 which would make them rich men whenever they could 
 transport it to market.
 
 THE BERMUDAS 93 
 
 Adieu the delights of the island ! They now became 
 flat and insipid. Each pictured to himself the conse 
 quence he might now aspire to, in civilized life, could 
 he once get there with this mass of ambergris. No 
 longer a poor Jack Tar, frolicking in the low taverns 
 of Wapping, he might roll through London in his 
 coach, and perchance arrive, like Whittington, at the 
 dignity of Lord Mayor. 
 
 With riches came envy and covetousness. Each 
 was now for assuming the supreme power, and getting 
 the monopoly of the ambergris. A civil war at length 
 broke out: Chard and Waters defied each other to 
 mortal combat, and the kingdom of the Bermudas 
 was on the point of being deluged with royal blood. 
 Fortunately, Carter took no part in the bloody feud. 
 Ambition might have made him view it with secret 
 exultation ; for if either or both of his brother poten 
 tates were slain in the conflict, he would be a gainer in 
 purse and ambergris. But he dreaded to be left alone 
 in this uninhabited island, and to find himself the 
 monarch of a solitude; so he secretly purloined and 
 hid the weapons of the belligerent rivals, who, having 
 no means of carrying on the war, gradually cooled 
 down into a sullen armistice. 
 
 The arrival of Governor More, with an overpower 
 ing force of sixty men, put an end to the empire. He 
 took possession of the kingdom, in the name of the 
 Somer Island Company, and forthwith proceeded to 
 make a settlement. The three kings tacitly relinquished 
 their sway, but stood up stoutly for their treasure. It 
 was determined, however, that they had been fitted out 
 at the expense, and employed in the service, of the 
 Virginia Company ; that they had found the ambergris 
 while in the service of that company, and on that 
 company's land ; that the ambergris therefore belonged 
 to that company, or rather to the Somer Island Com 
 pany, in consequence of their recent purchase of the
 
 94 THE BERMUDAS 
 
 island, and all their appurtenances. Having thus 
 legally established their right, and being, moreover, 
 able to back it by might, the company laid the lion's 
 paw upon the spoil; and nothing more remains on 
 historic record of the Three Kings of Bermuda and 
 their treasure of ambergris. 
 
 The reader will now determine whether I am more 
 extravagant than most of the- commentators on Shak- 
 speare, in my surmise that the story of Sir George 
 Somer's shipwreck, and the subsequent occurrences 
 that took place on the uninhabited island, may have 
 furnished the bard with some of the elements of his 
 drama of the " Tempest." The tidings of the ship 
 wreck, and of the incidents connected with it, reached 
 England not long before the production of this drama, 
 and made a great sensation there. A narrative of the 
 whole matter, from which most of the foregoing par 
 ticulars are extracted, was published at the time in 
 London, in a pamphlet form, and could not fail to be 
 eagerly perused by Shakspeare, and to make a vivid 
 impression on his fancy. His expression, in the 
 " Tempest," of " the still vext Bermoothes," accords 
 exactly with the storm-beaten character of those 
 islands. The enchantments, too, with which he has 
 clothed the island of Prospero, may they not be traced 
 to the wild and superstitious notions entertained about 
 the Bermudas ? I have already cited two passages from 
 a pamphlet published at the time, showing that they 
 were esteemed " a most prodigious and inchanted 
 place," and the " habitation of divells " ; and another 
 pamphlet, published shortly afterward, observes : 
 " And whereas it is reported that this land of the Bar- 
 mudas, with the islands about, (which are many, at 
 least an hundred,) are inchanted, and kept with evil 
 and wicked spirits, it is a most idle false report." x 
 1 Newes from the Barmudas : 1612.
 
 THE BERMUDAS 95 
 
 The description, too, given in the same pamphlets 
 of the real beauty and fertility of the Bermudas, and 
 of their serene and happy climate, so opposite to the 
 dangerous and inhospitable character with which they 
 had been stigmatized, accords with the eulogium of 
 Sebastian on the island of Prospero : 
 
 Though this island seem to be desert, uninhabitable, and almost 
 inaccessible, it must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate tem 
 perance. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. Here is 
 every thing advantageous to life. How lush and lusty the grass 
 looks ! how green ! 
 
 I think too, in the exulting consciousness of ease, 
 security, and abundance, felt by the late tempest-tossed 
 mariners, while revelling in the plenteousness of the 
 island, and their inclination to remain there, released 
 from the labors, the cares, and the artificial restraints 
 of civilized life, I can see something of the golden com 
 monwealth of honest Gonzalo : 
 
 Had I a plantation of this isle, my lord, 
 And were the king of it, what would I do? 
 I' the commonwealth I would by contraries 
 Execute all things : for no kind of traffic 
 Would I admit ; no name of magistrate. 
 Letters should not be known ; riches, poverty, 
 And use of service, none ; contract, succession, 
 Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none : 
 No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil : 
 No occupatioh ; all men idle, all. 
 
 All things in common, nature should produce, 
 Without sweat or endeavor : Treason, felony, 
 Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, 
 Would I not have ; but nature should bring forth, 
 Of its own kind all foizon, all abundance, 
 To feed my innocent people. 
 
 But above all, in the three fugitive vagabonds who 
 remained in possession of the island of Bermuda, on 
 the departure of their comrades, and in their squabbles 
 about supremacy, on the finding of their treasure, I
 
 96 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 
 
 see typified Sebastian, Trinculo, and their worthy com 
 panion Caliban : 
 
 Trinculo, the king and all our company being drowned, we will 
 inherit here. 
 
 Monster, I will kill this man ; his daughter and I will be king 
 and queen, (save our graces!) and Trinculo and thyself shall be 
 viceroys. 
 
 I do not mean to hold up the incidents and characters 
 in the narrative and in the play as parallel, or as being 
 strikingly similar: neither would I insinuate that the 
 narrative suggested the play; I would only suppose 
 that Shakspeare, being occupied about that time on 
 the drama of the " Tempest," the main story of which, 
 I believe, is of Italian origin, had many of the fanciful 
 ideas of it suggested to his mind by the shipwreck of 
 Sir George Somers on the " still vext Bermoothes," 
 and by the popular superstitions connected with these 
 islands, and suddenly put in circulation by that event. 
 
 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL; 
 
 OR, A JUDICIAL TRIAL BY COMBAT 
 
 THE world is daily growing older and wiser. Its in 
 stitutions vary with its years, and mark its growing 
 wisdom; and none more so than its modes of investi 
 gating truth, and ascertaining guilt or innocence. In 
 its nonage, when man was yet a fallible being, and 
 doubted the accuracy of his own intellect, appeals were 
 made to Heaven in dark and doubtful cases of atro 
 cious accusation. 
 
 The accused was required to plunge his hand in 
 boiling oil, or to walk across red-hot ploughshares, 
 or to maintain his innocence in armed fight and listed 
 field, in person or by champion. If he passed these
 
 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 97 
 
 ordeals unscathed, he stood acquitted, and the result 
 was regarded as a verdict from on high. 
 
 It is somewhat remarkable that, in the gallant age 
 of chivalry, the gentler sex should have been most 
 frequently the subjects of these rude trials and peril 
 ous ordeals ; and that, too, when assailed in their most 
 delicate and vulnerable part, their honor. 
 
 In the present very old and enlightened age of the 
 world when the human intellect is perfectly competent 
 to the management of its own concerns, and needs no 
 special interposition of Heaven in its affairs, the trial 
 by jury has superseded these superhuman ordeals ; and 
 the unanimity of twelve discordant minds is necessary 
 to constitute a verdict. Such a unanimity would^ at 
 first sight, appear also to require a miracle from 
 Heaven; but it is produced by a simple device of 
 human ingenuity. The twelve jurors are locked up in 
 their box, there to fast until abstinence shall have so 
 clarified their intellects that the whole jarring panel 
 can discern the truth, and concur in a unanimous de 
 cision. One point is certain, that truth is one and is 
 immutable; until the jurors all agree, they cannot all 
 be right. 
 
 It is not our intention, however, to discuss this great 
 judicial point, or to question the avowed superiority 
 of the mode of investigating truth adopted in this anti 
 quated and very sagacious era. It is our object merely 
 to exhibit to the curious reader one of the most memo 
 rable cases of judicial combat we find in the annals of 
 Spain. It occurred at the bright commencement of 
 the reign, and in the youthful, and, as yet, glorious 
 days of Roderick the Goth ; who subsequently tar 
 nished his fame at home by his misdeeds, and, finally, 
 lost his kingdom and his life on the banks of the 
 Guadalete, in that disastrous battle which gave up 
 Spain a conquest to the Moors. The following is the 
 story : 
 
 7
 
 98 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 
 
 There was once upon a time a certain Duke of Lor 
 raine, who was acknowledged throughout his domains 
 to be one of the wisest princes that ever lived. In fact 
 there was no one measure adopted by him that did not 
 astonish his privy councillors and gentlemen in atten 
 dance; and he said such witty things, and made such 
 sensible speeches, that the jaws of his high chamberlain 
 were wellnigh dislocated from laughing with delight 
 at one, and gaping with wonder at the other. 
 
 This very witty and exceedingly wise potentate lived 
 for half a century in single blessedness; at length his 
 courtiers began to think it a great pity so wise and 
 wealthy a prince should not have a child after his own 
 likeness, to inherit his talents and domains; so they 
 urged him most respectfully to marry, for the good 
 of his estate and the welfare of his subjects. 
 
 He turned their advice over in his mind some four 
 or five years, and then sent forth emissaries to summon 
 to his court all the beautiful maidens in the land, who 
 were ambitious of sharing a ducal crown. The court 
 was soon crowded with beauties of all styles and com 
 plexions, from among whom he chose one in the earli 
 est budding of her charms, and acknowledged by all 
 the gentlemen to be unparalleled for grace and loveli 
 ness. The courtiers extolled the duke to the skies 
 for making such a choice, and considered it another 
 proof of his great wisdom. " The duke," said they, 
 " is waxing a little too old ; the damsel, on the other 
 hand, is a little too young; if one is lacking in years, 
 the other has a superabundance; thus a want on one 
 side is balanced by an excess on the other, and the re 
 sult is a well-assorted marriage." 
 
 The duke, as is often the case with wise men who 
 marry rather late, and take damsels rather youthful 
 to their bosoms, became dotingly fond of his wife, 
 and very properly indulged her in all things. He was, 
 consequently, cried up by his subjects in general, and
 
 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 99 
 
 by the ladies in particular, as a pattern for husbands; 
 and, in the end, from the wonderful docility with 
 which he submitted to be reined and checked, ac 
 quired the amiable and enviable appellation of Duke 
 Philibert the wife-ridden. 
 
 There was only one thing that disturbed the conjugal 
 felicity of this paragon of husbands: though a con 
 siderable time elapsed after his marriage, there was 
 still no prospect of an heir. The good duke left no 
 means untried to propitiate Heaven. He made vows 
 and pilgrimages, he fasted and he prayed, but all to 
 no purpose. The courtiers were all astonished at the 
 circumstance. They could not account for it. While 
 the meanest peasant in the country had sturdy brats 
 by dozens, without putting up a prayer, the duke wore 
 himself to skin and bone with penances and fastings, 
 yet seemed farther off from his object than ever. 
 
 At length the worthy prince fell dangerously ill, and 
 felt his end approaching. He looked sorrowfully and 
 dubiously upon his young and tender spouse, who hung 
 over him with tears and sobbings. " Alas ! " said he, 
 " tears are soon dried from youthful eyes, and sorrow 
 lies lightly on a youthful heart. In a little while thou 
 wilt forget in the arms of another husband him who 
 has loved thee so tenderly." 
 
 "Never! never!" cried the duchess. "Never will 
 I cleave to another! Alas, that my lord should think 
 me capable of such inconstancy ! " 
 
 The worthy and wife-ridden duke was soothed by 
 her assurances ; for he could not brook the thought of 
 giving her up even after he should be dead. Still he 
 wished to have some pledge of her enduring constancy. 
 
 " Far be it from me, my dearest wife," said he, 
 " to control thee through a long life. A year and a 
 day of strict fidelity will appease my troubled spirit. 
 Promise to remain faithful to my memory for a year 
 and a day, and I will die in peace."
 
 ioo THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 
 
 The duchess made a solemn vow to that effect, but 
 the uxorious feelings of the duke were not yet satis 
 fied. " Safe bind, safe find," thought he ; so he made 
 a will, bequeathing to her all his domains, on condition 
 of her remaining true to him for a year and a day after 
 his decease; but, should it appear that, within that 
 time, she had in any wise lapsed from her fidelity, the 
 inheritance should go to his nephew, the lord of a 
 neighboring territory. 
 
 Having made his will, the good duke died and was 
 buried. Scarcely was he in his tomb, when his nephew 
 came to take possession, thinking, as his uncle had died 
 without issue, the domains would be devised to him 
 of course. He was in a furious passion when the will 
 was produced, and the young widow declared inheritor 
 of the dukedom. As he was a violent, high-handed 
 man, and one of the sturdiest knights in the land, fears 
 were entertained that he might attempt to seize on the 
 territories by force. He had, however, two bachelor 
 uncles for bosom counsellors, swaggering, rake 
 helly old cavaliers, who, having led loose and riotous 
 lives, prided themselves upon knowing the world, and 
 being deeply experienced in human nature. " Prithee, 
 man, be of good cheer," said they ; " the duchess is a 
 young and buxom widow. She has just buried our 
 brother, who, God rest his soul! was somewhat too 
 much given to praying and fasting, and kept his pretty 
 wife always tied to his girdle. She is now like a bird 
 from a cage. Think you she will keep her vow? 
 Pooh, pooh impossible ! Take our words for it 
 we know mankind, and, above all, womankind. She 
 cannot hold out for such a length of time; it is not 
 in womanhood, it is not in widowhood ; we know 
 it, and that 's enough. Keep a sharp lookout upon the 
 widow, therefore, and within the twelvemonth you will 
 catch her tripping, and then the dukedom is your own." 
 
 The nephew was pleased with this counsel, and im-
 
 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 101 
 
 mediately placed spies round the duchess, and bribed 
 several of her servants to keep watch upon her, so 
 that she could not take a single step, even from one 
 apartment of her palace to another, without being ob 
 served. Never was young and beautiful widow ex 
 posed to so terrible an ordeal. 
 
 The duchess was aware of the watch thus kept upon 
 her. Though confident of her own rectitude, she knew 
 that it is not enough for a woman to be virtuous, 
 she must be above the reach of slander. For the 
 whole term of her probation, therefore, she proclaimed 
 a strict non-intercourse with the other sex. She 
 had females for cabinet ministers and chamberlains, 
 through whom she transacted all her public and private 
 concerns; and it is said that never were the affairs of 
 the dukedom so adroitly administered. 
 
 All males were rigorously excluded from the palace ; 
 she never went out of its precincts, and whenever she 
 moved about its courts and gardens, she surrounded 
 herself with a body-guard of young maids of honor, 
 commanded by dames renowned for discretion. She 
 slept in a bed without curtains, placed in the centre of 
 a room illuminated by innumerable wax tapers. Four 
 ancient spinsters, virtuous as Virginia, perfect dragons 
 of watchfulness, who only slept during the daytime, 
 kept vigils throughout the night, seated in the four 
 corners of the room on stools without backs or arms, 
 and with seats cut in checkers of the hardest wood, to 
 keep them from dozing. 
 
 Thus wisely and wearily did the young duchess con 
 duct herself for twelve long months, and slander al 
 most bit her tongue off in despair, at finding no room 
 even for a surmise. Never was ordeal more burden 
 some, or more enduringly sustained. 
 
 The year passed away. The last, odd day arrived, 
 and a long, long day it was. It was the twenty-first of 
 June, the longest day in the year. It seemed as if it
 
 102 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 
 
 would never come to an end. A thousand times did 
 the duchess and her ladies watch the sun from the 
 windows of the palace, as he slowly climbed the vault 
 of heaven, and seemed still more slowly to roll down. 
 They could not help expressing their wonder, now 
 and then, why the duke should have tagged this super 
 numerary day to the end of the year, as if three hun 
 dred and sixty-five days were not sufficient to try and 
 task the fidelity of any woman. It is the last grain that 
 turns the scale the last drop that overflows the gob 
 let and the last moment of delay that exhausts the 
 patience. By the time the sun sank below the horizon, 
 the duchess was in a fidget that passed all bounds, and, 
 though several hours were yet to pass before the day 
 regularly expired, she could not have remained those 
 hours in durance to gain a royal crown, much less a 
 ducal coronet. So she gave orders, and her palfrey, 
 magnificently caparisoned, was brought into the court 
 yard of the castle, with palfreys for all her ladies in 
 attendance. In this way she sallied forth, just as the 
 sun had gone down. It was a mission of piety, a 
 pilgrim cavalcade to a convent at the foot of a neigh 
 boring mountain, to return thanks to the blessed 
 Virgin, for having sustained her through this fearful 
 ordeal. 
 
 The orisons performed, the duchess and her ladies 
 returned, ambling gently along the border of a forest. 
 It was about that mellow hour of twilight when night 
 and day are mingled, and all objects are indistinct. 
 Suddenly some monstrous animal sprang from out a 
 thicket, with fearful howlings. The female body 
 guard was thrown into confusion, and fled different 
 ways. It was some time before they recovered from 
 their panic, and gathered once more together; but 
 the duchess was not to be found. The greatest anxiety 
 was felt for her safety. The hazy mist of twilight had 
 prevented their distinguishing perfectly the animal
 
 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 103 
 
 which had affrighted them. Some thought it a wolf, 
 others a bear, others a wild man of the woods. For 
 upwards of an hour did they beleaguer the forest, with 
 out daring to venture in, and were on the point of 
 giving up the duchess as torn to pieces and devoured, 
 when, to their great joy, they beheld her advancing in 
 the gloom, supported by a stately cavalier. 
 
 He was a stranger knight, whom nobody knew. It 
 was impossible to distinguish his countenance in the 
 dark; but all the ladies agreed that he was of noble 
 presence and captivating address. He had rescued 
 the duchess from the very fangs of the monster, which, 
 he assured the ladies, was neither a wolf, nor a bear, 
 nor yet a wild man of the woods, but a veritable fiery 
 dragon, a species of monster peculiarly hostile to beau 
 tiful females in the days of chivalry, and which all 
 the efforts of knight-errantry had not been able to 
 extirpate. 
 
 The ladies crossed themselves when they heard of 
 the danger from which they had escaped, and could 
 not enough admire the gallantry of the cavalier. The 
 duchess would fain have prevailed on her deliverer to 
 accompany her to her court; but he had no time to 
 spare, being a knight errant who had many adventures 
 on hand, and many distressed damsels and afflicted 
 widows to rescue and relieve in various parts of the 
 country. Taking a respectful leave, therefore, he pur 
 sued his wayfaring, and the duchess and her train re 
 turned to the palace. Throughout the whole way, the 
 ladies were unwearied in chanting the praises of the 
 stranger knight; nay, many of them would willingly 
 have incurred the danger of the dragon to have en 
 joyed the happy deliverance of the duchess. As to 
 the latter, she rode pensively along, but said nothing. 
 
 No sooner was the adventure of the wood made 
 public, than a whirlwind was raised about the ears of 
 the beautiful duchess. The blustering nephew of the
 
 104 
 
 deceased duke went about, armed to the teeth, with a 
 swaggering uncle at each shoulder, ready to back him, 
 and swore the duchess had forfeited her domain. It 
 was in vain that she called all the saints, and angels, 
 and her ladies in attendance into the bargain, to wit 
 ness that she had passed a year and a day of immacu 
 late fidelity. One fatal hour remained to be accounted 
 for; and into the space of one little hour sins enough 
 may be conjured up by evil tongues to blast the fame 
 of a whole life of virtue. 
 
 The two graceless uncles, who had seen the world, 
 were ever ready to bolster the matter through, and as 
 they were brawny, broad-shouldered warriors, and vet 
 erans in brawl as well as debauch, they had great sway 
 with the multitude. If any one pretended to assert the 
 innocence of the duchess, they interrupted him with a 
 loud ha! ha! of derision. "A pretty story, truly," 
 would they cry, " about a wolf and a dragon, and a 
 young widow rescued in the dark by a sturdy varlet, 
 who dares not show his face in the daylight. You may 
 tell that to those who do not know human nature ; for 
 our parts, we know the sex, and that 's enough." 
 
 If, however, the other repeated his assertion, they 
 would suddenly knit their brows, swell, look big, and 
 put their hands upon their swords. As few people like 
 to fight in a cause that does not touch their own inter 
 ests, the nephew and the uncles were suffered to have 
 their way, and swagger uncontradicted. 
 
 The matter was at length referred to a tribunal 
 composed of all the dignitaries of the dukedom, and 
 many and repeated consultations were held. The char 
 acter of the duchess throughout the year was as bright 
 and spotless as the moon in a cloudless night; one 
 fatal hour of darkness alone intervened to eclipse its 
 brightness. Finding human sagacity incapable of dis 
 pelling the mystery, it was determined to leave the 
 question to Heaven ; or, in other words, to decide it by
 
 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 105 
 
 the ordeal of the sword, a sage tribunal in the age 
 of chivalry. The nephew and two bully uncles were 
 to maintain their accusation in listed combat, and six 
 months were allowed to the duchess to provide herself 
 with three champions, to meet them in the field. Should 
 she fail in this, or should her champions be vanquished, 
 her honor would be considered as attainted, her fidelity 
 as forfeit, and her dukedom would go to the nephew 
 as a matter of right. 
 
 With this determination the duchess was fain to 
 comply. Proclamations were accordingly made, and 
 heralds sent to various parts ; but day after day, week 
 after week, and month after month elapsed, without 
 any champion appearing to assert her loyalty through 
 out that darksome hour. The fair widow was reduced 
 to despair, when tidings reached her of grand tourna 
 ments to be held at Toledo, in celebration of the nup 
 tials of Don Roderick, the last of the Gothic kings, 
 with the Morisco princess Exilona. As a last resort, 
 the duchess repaired to the Spanish court, to implore 
 the gallantry of its assembled chivalry. 
 
 The ancient city of Toledo was a scene of gorgeous 
 revelry on the event of the royal nuptials. The youth 
 ful king, brave, ardent, and magnificent, and his lovely 
 bride, beaming with all the radiant beauty of the East, 
 were hailed with shouts and acclamations whenever 
 they appeared. Their nobles vied with each other in 
 the luxury of their attire, their prancing steeds, and 
 splendid retinues ; and the haughty dames of the court 
 appeared in a blaze of jewels. 
 
 In the midst of all this pageantry, the beautiful but 
 afflicted Duchess of Lorraine made her approach to the 
 throne. She was dressed in black, and closely veiled; 
 four duennas of the most staid and severe aspect, and 
 six beautiful demoiselles, formed her female attend 
 ants. She was guarded by several very ancient, with 
 ered, and gray-headed cavaliers; and her train was
 
 106 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 
 
 borne by one of the most deformed and diminutive 
 dwarfs in existence. 
 
 Advancing to the foot of the throne, she knelt down, 
 and, throwing up her veil, revealed a countenance so 
 beautiful that half the courtiers present were ready to 
 renounce wives and mistresses, and devote themselves 
 to her service; but when she made known that she 
 came in quest of champions to defend her fame, every 
 cavalier pressed forward to offer his arm and sword, 
 without inquiring into the merits of the case; for it 
 seemed clear that so beauteous a lady could have done 
 nothing but what was right ; and that, at any rate, she 
 ought to be championed in following the bent of her 
 humors, whether right or wrong. 
 
 Encouraged by such gallant zeal, the duchess suf 
 fered herself to be raised from the ground, and related 
 the whole story of her distress. When she concluded, 
 the king remained for some time silent, charmed by 
 the music of her voice. At length, " As I hope for 
 salvation, most beautiful duchess," said he, " were I 
 not a sovereign king, and bound in duty to my king 
 dom, I myself would put lance in rest to vindicate your 
 cause ; as it is, I here give full permission to my knights, 
 and promise lists and a fair field, and that the contest 
 shall take place before the walls of Toledo, in presence 
 of my assembled court." 
 
 As soon as the pleasure of the king was known, there 
 was a strife among the cavaliers present for the honor 
 of the contest. It was decided by lot, and the successful 
 candidates were objects of great envy, for every one 
 was ambitious of finding favor in the eyes of the beau 
 tiful widow. 
 
 Missives were sent summoning the nephew and his 
 two uncles to Toledo, to maintain their accusation, and 
 a day was appointed for the combat. When the day 
 arrived all Toledo was in commotion at an early hour. 
 The lists had been prepared in the usual place, just
 
 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 107 
 
 without the walls, at the foot of the rugged rocks on 
 which the city is built, and on that beautiful meadow 
 along the Tagus, known by the name of the King's 
 Garden. The populace had already assembled, each one 
 eager to secure a favorable place; the balconies were 
 filled with the ladies of the court, clad in their richest 
 attire, and bands of youthful knights, splendidly armed 
 and decorated with their ladies' devices, were man 
 aging their superbly caparisoned steeds about the field. 
 The king at length came forth in state, accompanied 
 by the queen Exilona. They took their seats in a 
 raised balcony, under a canopy of rich damask; and, 
 at sight of them, the people rent the air with 
 acclamations. 
 
 The nephew and his uncles now rode into the field, 
 armed cap-a-pie, and followed by a train of cavaliers 
 of their own roystering cast, great swearers and 
 carousers, arrant swashbucklers, with clanking armor 
 and jingling spurs. When the people of Toledo beheld 
 the vaunting and discourteous appearance of these 
 knights, they were more anxious than ever for the 
 success of the gentle duchess; but, at the same time, 
 the sturdy and stalwart frames of these warriors 
 showed that whoever won the victory from them must 
 do it at the cost of many a bitter blow. 
 
 As the nephew and his riotous crew rode in at one 
 side of the field, the fair widow appeared at the other, 
 with her suite of grave gray-headed courtiers, her 
 ancient duennas and dainty demoiselles, and the little 
 dwarf toiling along under the weight of her train. 
 Every one made way for her as she passed, and blessed 
 her beautiful face, and prayed for success to her cause. 
 She took her seat in a lower balcony, not far from the 
 sovereigns ; and her pale face, set off by her mourning 
 weeds, was as the moon, shining forth from among the 
 clouds of night. 
 
 The trumpets sounded for the combat. The war-
 
 io8 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 
 
 riors were just entering the lists, when a stranger 
 knight, armed in panoply, and followed by two pages 
 and an esquire, came galloping into the field, and, 
 riding up to the royal balcony, claimed the combat as 
 a matter of right. 
 
 " In me," cried he, " behold the cavalier who had 
 the happiness to rescue the beautiful duchess from the 
 peril of the forest, and the misfortune to bring on her 
 this grievous calumny. It was but recently, in the 
 course of my errantry, that tidings of her wrongs have 
 reached my ears, and I have urged hither at all speed, 
 to stand forth in her vindication." 
 
 No sooner did the duchess hear the accents of the 
 knight than she recognized his voice, and joined her 
 prayers with his that he might enter the lists. The 
 difficulty was to determine which of the three cham 
 pions already appointed should yield his place, each in 
 sisting on the honor of the combat. The stranger 
 knight would have settled the point, by taking the 
 whole contest upon himself ; but this the other knights 
 would not permit. It was at length determined, as 
 before, by lot, and the cavalier who lost the chance 
 retired murmuring and disconsolate. 
 
 The trumpets again sounded the lists were opened. 
 The arrogant nephew and his two drawcansir uncles 
 appeared so completely cased in steel, that they and 
 their steeds were like moving masses of iron. When 
 they understood the stranger knight to be the same that 
 had rescued the duchess from her peril, they greeted 
 him with the most boisterous derision. 
 
 " O ho ! sir Knight of the Dragon," said they, " you 
 who pretend to champion fair widows in the dark, come 
 on, and vindicate your deeds of darkness in the open 
 day." 
 
 The only reply of the cavalier was to put lance in 
 rest, and brace himself for the encounter. Needless is 
 it to relate the particulars of a battle, which was like
 
 THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 109 
 
 so many hundred combats that have been said and sung 
 in prose and verse. Who is there but must have fore 
 seen the event of a contest where Heaven had to de 
 cide on the guilt or innocence of the most beautiful 
 and immaculate of widows ? 
 
 The sagacious reader, deeply read in this kind of 
 judicial combats, can imagine the encounter of the 
 graceless nephew and the stranger knight. He sees 
 their concussion, man to man, and horse to horse, in 
 mid career, and sir Graceless hurled to the ground and 
 slain. He will not wonder that the assailants of the 
 brawny uncles were less successful in their rude en 
 counter; but he will picture to himself the stout 
 stranger spurring to their rescue, in the very critical 
 moment ; he will see him transfixing one with his lance, 
 and cleaving the other to the chine with a back stroke 
 of his sword, thus leaving the trio of accusers dead 
 upon the field, and establishing the immaculate fidelity 
 of the duchess, and her title to the dukedom, beyond 
 the shadow of a doubt. 
 
 The air rang with acclamations ; nothing was heard 
 but praises of the beauty and virtue of the duchess, and 
 of the prowess of the stranger knight; but the public 
 joy was still more increased when the champion raised 
 his visor, and revealed the countenance of one of the 
 bravest cavaliers of Spain, renowned for his gallantry 
 in the service of the sex, and who had been round the 
 world in quest of similar adventures. 
 
 That worthy knight, however, was severely wounded, 
 and remained for a long time ill of his wounds. The 
 lovely duchess, grateful for having twice owed her 
 protection to his arm, attended him daily during his 
 illness, and finally rewarded his gallantry with her 
 hand. 
 
 The king would fain have had the knight establish 
 his title to such high advancement by farther deeds of 
 arms; but his courtiers declared that he already mer-
 
 no THE KNIGHT OF MALTA 
 
 ited the lady, by thus vindicating her fame and fortune 
 in a deadly combat to entrance; and the lady herself 
 hinted that she was perfectly satisfied of his prowess in 
 arms, from the proofs she had received of his achieve 
 ment in the forest. 
 
 Their nuptials were celebrated with great magnifi 
 cence. The present husband of the duchess did not 
 pray and fast like his predecessors, Philibert the wife- 
 ridden; yet he found greater favor in the eyes of 
 Heaven, for their union was blessed with a numerous 
 progeny: the daughters chaste and beauteous as their 
 mother; the sons stout and valiant as their sire, and 
 renowned, like him, for relieving disconsolate damsels 
 and desolate widows. 
 
 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA 
 
 IN the course of a tour in Sicily, in the days of my 
 juvenility, I passed some little time at the ancient city 
 of Catania, at the foot of Mount ^Etna. Here I be 
 came acquainted with the Chevalier L , an old 
 
 Knight of Malta. It was not many years after the time 
 that Napoleon had dislodged the knights from their 
 island, and he still wore the insignia of his order. He 
 was not, however, one of those reliques of that once 
 chivalrous body, who have been described as " a few 
 wornout old men, creeping about certain parts of Eu 
 rope, with the Maltese cross on their breasts " ; on the 
 contrary, though advanced in life, his form was still 
 lithe and vigorous. He had a pale, thin, intellectual 
 visage, with a high forehead, and a bright, visionary 
 eye. He seemed to take a fancy to me, as I certainly 
 did to him, and we soon became intimate. I visited 
 him occasionally at his apartments, in the wing of an 
 old palace, looking toward Mount ^Etna. He was an
 
 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA in 
 
 antiquary, a virtuoso, and a connoisseur. His rooms 
 were decorated with mutilated statues, dug up from 
 Grecian and Roman ruins ; old vases, lachrymals, and 
 sepulchral lamps. He had astronomical and chemical 
 instruments, and black-letter books, in various lan 
 guages. I found that he had dipped a little in chi 
 merical studies, and had a hankering after astrology 
 and alchemy. He affected to believe in dreams and 
 visions, and delighted in the fanciful Rosicrucian doc 
 trines. I cannot persuade myself, however, that he 
 really believed in all these ; I rather think he loved to 
 let his imagination carry him away into the boundless 
 fairy land which they unfolded. 
 
 In company with the chevalier, I made several ex 
 cursions on horseback about the environs of Catania, 
 and the picturesque skirts of Mount ytna. One of 
 these led through a village which had sprung up on 
 the very track of an ancient eruption, the houses being 
 built of lava. At one time we passed, for some dis 
 tance, along a narrow lane, between two high dead 
 convent-walls. It was a cut-throat looking place, in 
 a country where assassinations are frequent; and just 
 about midway through it we observed blood upon the 
 pavement and the walls, as if a murder had actually 
 been committed there. 
 
 The chevalier spurred on his horse, until he had 
 extricated himself completely from this suspicious 
 neighborhood. He then observed that it reminded him 
 of a similar blind alley in Malta, infamous on account 
 of the many assassinations that had taken place there; 
 concerning one of which he related a long and tragical 
 story, that lasted until we reached Catania. It in 
 volved various circumstances of a wild and super 
 natural character, but which he assured me were 
 handed down in tradition, and generally credited by 
 the old inhabitants of Malta. 
 
 As I like to pick up strange stories, and as I was
 
 ii2 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA 
 
 particularly struck with several parts of this, I made 
 a minute of it, on my return to my lodgings. The 
 memorandum was lost, with several of my travelling 
 papers, and the story had faded from my mind, when 
 recently, on perusing a French memoir, I came sud 
 denly upon it, dressed up, it is true, in a very different 
 manner, but agreeing in the leading facts, and given 
 upon the word of that famous adventurer, the Count 
 Cagliostro. 
 
 I have amused myself, during a snowy day in the 
 country, by rendering it roughly into English, for the 
 entertainment of a youthful circle round the Christmas 
 fire. It was well received by my auditors, who, how 
 ever, are rather easily pleased. One. proof of its merits 
 is, that it sent some of the youngest of them quaking 
 to their beds, and gave them very fearful dreams. 
 Hoping that it may have the same effect upon the 
 ghost-hunting reader, I subjoin it. I would observe, 
 that wherever I have modified the French version of 
 the story, it has been in conformity to some recollection 
 of the narrative of my friend, the Knight of Malta. 
 
 THE GRAND PRIOR OF MINORCA 
 A VERITABLE GHOST STORY 
 
 Keep my wits, heaven ! They say spirits appear 
 To melancholy minds, and the graves open ! 
 
 FLETCHER 
 
 About the middle of the last century, while the 
 Knights of Saint John of Jerusalem still maintained 
 something of their ancient state and sway in the island 
 of Malta, a tragical event took place there, which is 
 the groundwork of the following narrative. 
 
 It may be as well to premise, that, at the time we 
 are treating of, the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem,
 
 THE GRAND PRIOR OF MINORCA 113 
 
 grown excessively wealthy, had degenerated from its 
 originally devout and warlike character. Instead of 
 being a hardy body of " monk-knights," sworn sol 
 diers of the Cross, fighting the Paynim in the Holy 
 Land, or scouring the Mediterranean, and scourging 
 the Barbary coasts with their galleys, or feeding the 
 poor, and attending upon the sick at their hospitals, 
 they led a life of luxury and libertinism, and were to 
 be found in the most voluptuous courts of Europe. 
 The order, in fact, had become a mode of providing 
 for the needy branches of the Catholic aristocracy of 
 Europe. " A commandery," we are told, was a splen 
 did provision for a younger brother; and men of rank, 
 however dissolute, provided they belonged to the high 
 est aristocracy, became Knights of Malta, just as they 
 did bishops, or colonels of regiments, or court cham 
 berlains. After a brief residence at Malta, the knights 
 passed the rest of their time in their own countries, or 
 only made a visit now and then to the island. While 
 there, having but little military duty to perform, they 
 beguiled their idleness by paying attentions to the fair. 
 
 There was one circle of society, however, into which 
 they could not obtain currency. This was composed 
 of a few families of the old Maltese nobility, natives 
 of the island. These families, not being permitted to 
 enroll any of their members in the order, affected to 
 hold no intercourse with its chevaliers ; admitting none 
 into their exclusive coteries but the Grand Master, 
 whom they acknowledged as their sovereign, and the 
 members of the chapter which composed his council. 
 
 To indemnify themseves for this exclusion, the 
 chevaliers carried their gallantries into the next class 
 of society, composed of those who held civil, admin 
 istrative, and judicial situations. The ladies of this 
 class were called honorate, or honorables, to distin 
 guish them from the inferior orders ; and among them 
 were many of superior grace, beauty, and fascination. 
 
 8
 
 ii 4 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA 
 
 Even in the more hospitable class, the chevaliers 
 were not all equally favored. Those of Germany had 
 the decided preference, owing to their fair and fresh 
 complexions, and the kindliness of their manners; 
 next to these, came the Spanish cavaliers, on account 
 of their profound and courteous devotion, and most 
 discreet secrecy. Singular as it may seem, the cheva 
 liers of France fared the worst. The Maltese ladies 
 dreaded their volatility, and their proneness to boast 
 of their amours, and shunned all entanglement with 
 them. They were forced, therefore, to content them 
 selves with conquests among females of the lower 
 orders. They revenged themselves, after the gay 
 French manner, by making the " honorate " the ob 
 jects of all kinds of jests and mystifications ; by prying 
 into their tender affairs with the more favored cheva 
 liers, and making them the theme of song and epigram. 
 
 About this time a French vessel arrived at Malta, 
 bringing out a distinguished personage of the Order 
 of Saint John of Jerusalem, the Commander de Foul- 
 querre, who came to solicit the post of commander- 
 in-chief of the galleys. He was descended from an old 
 and warrior line of French nobility, his ancestors hav 
 ing long been seneschals of Poitou, and claiming de 
 scent from the first Counts of Angouleme. 
 
 The arrival of the commander caused a little uneasi 
 ness among the peaceably inclined, for he bore the 
 character in the island, of being fiery, arrogant, and 
 quarrelsome. He had already been three times at 
 Malta, and on each visit had signalized himself by 
 some rash and deadly affray. As he was now thirty- 
 five years of age, however, it was hoped that time 
 might have taken off the fiery edge of his spirit, and 
 that he might prove more quiet and sedate than for 
 merly. The commander set up an establishment be 
 fitting his rank and pretensions; for he arrogated to 
 himself an importance greater even than that of the
 
 THE GRAND PRIOR OF MINORCA 115 
 
 Grand Master. His house immediately became the 
 rallying-place of all the young French chevaliers. They 
 informed him of all the slights they had experienced 
 or imagined, and indulged their petulant and satirical 
 vein at the expense of the honorate and their admirers. 
 The chevaliers of other nations soon found the topics 
 and tone of conversation at the commander's irksome 
 and offensive, and gradually ceased to visit there. The 
 commander remained at the head of a national clique, 
 who looked up to him as their model. If he was not 
 as boisterous and quarrelsome as formerly, he had 
 become haughty and overbearing. He was fond of 
 talking over his past affairs of punctilio and bloody 
 duel. When walking the streets, he was generally 
 attended by a ruffling train of young French cheva 
 liers, who caught his own air of assumption and 
 bravado. These he would conduct to the scenes of 
 his deadly encounters, point out the very spot where 
 each fatal lunge had been given, and dwell vainglori- 
 ously on every particular. 
 
 Under his tuition the young French chevaliers began 
 to add bluster and arrogance to their former petulance 
 and levity ; they fired up on the most trivial occasions, 
 particularly with those who had been most successful 
 with the fair; and would put on the most intolerable 
 drawcansir airs. The other chevaliers conducted them 
 selves with all possible forbearance and reserve; but 
 they saw it would be impossible to keep on long, in 
 this manner, without coming to an open rupture. 
 
 Among the Spanish cavaliers was one named Don 
 Luis de Lima Vasconcellos. He was distantly related 
 to the Grand Master; and had been enrolled at an 
 early age among his pages, but had been rapidly pro 
 moted by him, until, at the age of twenty-six, he had 
 been given the richest Spanish commandery in the 
 order. He had, moreover, been fortunate with the 
 fair, with one of whom, the most beautiful honor ata
 
 n6 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA 
 
 of Malta, he had long maintained the most tender 
 correspondence. 
 
 The character, rank, and connections of Don Luis 
 put him on a par with the imperious Commander de 
 Foulquerre, and pointed him out as a leader and 
 champion to his countrymen. The Spanish cavaliers 
 repaired to him, therefore, in a body; represented all 
 the grievances they had sustained and the evils they 
 apprehended, and urged him to use his influence 
 with the commander and his adherents to put a stop 
 to the growing abuses. 
 
 Don Luis was gratified by this mark of confidence 
 and esteem on the part of his countrymen, and prom 
 ised to have an interview with the Commander de 
 Foulquerre on the subject. He resolved to conduct 
 himself with the utmost caution and delicacy on the 
 occasion ; to represent to the commander the evil con 
 sequences which might result from the inconsiderate 
 conduct of the young French chevaliers, and to entreat 
 him to exert the great influence he so deservedly pos 
 sessed over them, to restrain their excesses. Don Luis 
 was aware, however, of the peril that attended any 
 interview of the kind with this imperious and fractious 
 man, and apprehended, however it might commence, 
 that it would terminate in a duel. Still it was an affair 
 of honor, in which Castilian dignity was concerned; 
 beside, he had a lurking disgust at the overbearing 
 manners of De Foulquerre, and perhaps had been some 
 what offended by certain intrusive attentions which he 
 had presumed to pay to the beautiful honorata. 
 
 It was now Holy Week; a time too sacred for 
 worldy feuds and passions, especially in a community 
 under the dominion of a religious order : it was agreed, 
 therefore, that the dangerous interview in question 
 should not take place until after the Easter holidays. 
 It is probable, from subsequent circumstances, that 
 the Commander de Foulquerre had some information
 
 117 
 
 of this arrangement among the Spanish cavaliers, and 
 was determined to be beforehand, and to mortify the 
 pride of their champion, who was thus preparing to 
 read him a lecture. He chose Good Friday for his 
 purpose. On this sacred day it is customary, in Cath 
 olic countries, to make a tour of all the churches, offer 
 ing up prayers in each. In every Catholic church, 
 as is well known, there is a vessel of holy water near 
 the door. In this, every one, on entering, dips his 
 ringers, and makes therewith the sign of the cross on 
 his forehead and breast. An office of gallantry, among 
 the young Spaniards, is to stand near the door, dip 
 their hands in the holy vessel, and extend them courte 
 ously and respectfully to any lady of their acquaint 
 ance who may enter; who thus receives the sacred 
 water at second hand, on the tips of her fingers, and 
 proceeds to cross herself with all due decorum. The 
 Spaniards, who are the most jealous of lovers, are 
 impatient when this piece of devotional gallantry is 
 proffered to the object of their affections by any other 
 hand : on Good Friday, therefore, when a lady makes 
 a tour of the churches, it is the usage among them for 
 the inamorato to follow her from church to church, so 
 as to present her the holy water at the door of each; 
 thus testifying his own devotion, and at the same time 
 preventing the officious services of a rival. 
 
 On the day in question Don Luis followed the beauti 
 ful honorata, to whom, as has already been observed, 
 he had long been devoted. At the very first church 
 she visited, the Commander de Foulquerre was sta 
 tioned at the portal, with several of the young French 
 chevaliers about him. Before Don Luis could offer her 
 the holy water, he was anticipated by the commander, 
 who thrust himself between them, and, while he per 
 formed the gallant office to the lady, rudely turned his 
 back upon her admirer, and trod upon his feet. The 
 insult was enjoyed by the young Frenchmen who were
 
 n8 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA 
 
 present : it was too deep and grave to be forgiven by 
 Spanish pride; and at once put an end to all Don 
 Luis's plans of caution and forbearance. He repressed 
 his passion for the moment, however, and waited until 
 all the parties left the church : then, accosting the com 
 mander with an air of coolness and unconcern, he in 
 quired after his health, and asked to what church he 
 proposed making his second visit. " To the Magis 
 terial Church of St. John." Don Luis offered to con 
 duct him thither by the shortest route. His offer was 
 accepted, apparently without suspicion, and they pro 
 ceeded together. After walking some distance, they 
 entered a long, narrow lane, without door or window 
 opening upon it, called the " Strada Stretta," or nar 
 row street. It was a street in which duels were tacitly 
 permitted, or connived at, in Malta, and were suffered 
 to pass as accidental encounters. Everywhere else 
 they were prohibited. This restriction had been in 
 stituted to diminish the number of duels formerly so 
 frequent in Malta. As a farther precaution to render 
 these encounters less fatal, it was an offence, punish 
 able with death, for any one to enter this street armed 
 with either poniard or pistol. It was a lonely, dismal 
 street, just wide enough for two men to stand upon 
 their guard and cross their swords; few persons ever 
 traversed it, unless with some sinister design; and on 
 any preconcerted duello, the seconds posted themselves 
 at each end, to stop all passengers and prevent 
 interruption. 
 
 In the present instance, the parties had scarce entered 
 the street, when Don Luis drew his sword, and called 
 upon the commander to defend himself. 
 
 De Foulquerre was evidently taken by surprise: he 
 drew back, and attempted to expostulate; but Don 
 Luis persisted in defying him to the combat. 
 
 After a second or two, he likewise drew his sword, 
 but immediately lowered the point.
 
 THE GRAND PRIOR OF MINORCA 119 
 
 " Good Friday ! " ejaculated he, shaking his head : 
 " one word with you ; it is full six years since I have 
 been in a confessional : I am shocked at the state of my 
 conscience ; but within three days that is to say, on 
 Monday next " 
 
 Don Luis would listen to nothing. Though natur 
 ally of a peaceable disposition, he had been stung to 
 fury; and people of that character, when once in 
 censed, are deaf to reason. He compelled the com 
 mander to put himself on his guard. The latter, though 
 a man accustomed to brawl and battle, was singularly 
 dismayed. Terror was visible in all his features. He 
 placed himself with his back to the wall, and the 
 weapons were crossed. The contest was brief and 
 fatal. At the very first thrust the sword of Don Luis 
 passed through the body of his antagonist. The com 
 mander staggered to the wall, and leaned against it. 
 
 "On Good Friday!" ejaculated he again, with a 
 failing voice and despairing accents. " Heaven pardon 
 you ! " added he ; " take my sword to Tetefoulques, 
 and have a hundred masses performed in the chapel of 
 the castle, for the repose of my soul ! " With these 
 words he expired. 
 
 The fury of Don Luis was at an end. He stood 
 aghast, gazing at the bleeding body of the commander. 
 He called to mind the prayer of the deceased for three 
 days' respite, to make his peace with Heaven ; he had 
 refused it ; had sent him to the grave, with all his sins 
 upon his head ! His conscience smote him to the core ; 
 he gathered up the sword of the commander, which 
 he had been enjoined to take to Tetefoulques, and hur 
 ried from the fatal Strada Stretta. 
 
 The duel, of course, made a great noise in Malta, 
 but had no injurious effect on the worldly fortunes of 
 Don Luis. He made a full declaration of the whole 
 matter, before the proper authorities; the chapter of 
 the order considered it one of those casual encounters
 
 120 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA 
 
 of the Strada Stretta, which were mourned over, but 
 tolerated; the public, by whom the late commander 
 had been generally detested, declared that he deserved 
 his fate. It was but three days after the event that 
 Don Luis was advanced to one of the highest dignities 
 of the order, being invested by the Grand Master with 
 the Priorship of the kingdom of Minorca. 
 
 From that time forward, however, the whole char 
 acter and conduct of Don Luis underwent a change. 
 He became a prey to a dark melancholy, which nothing 
 could assuage. The most austere piety, the severest 
 penances, had no effect in allaying the horror which 
 preyed upon his mind. He was absent for a long time 
 from Malta, having gone, it was said, on remote pil 
 grimages: when he returned, he was more haggard 
 than ever. There seemed something mysterious and 
 inexplicable in this disorder of his mind. The follow 
 ing is the revelation, made by himself, of the horrible 
 visions or chimeras by which he was haunted : 
 
 " When I had made my declaration before the chap 
 ter," said he, " my provocations were publicly known, 
 I had made my peace with man ; but it was not so 
 with God, nor with my confessor, nor with my own 
 conscience. My act was doubly criminal, from the day 
 on which it was committed, and from my refusal to a 
 delay of three days, for the victim of my resentment to 
 receive the sacraments. His despairing ejaculation, 
 ' Good Friday ! Good Friday ! ' continually rang in 
 my ears. ' Why did I not grant the respite ! ' cried I 
 to myself ; ' was it not enough to kill the body, but 
 must I seek to kill the soul ! ' 
 
 " On the night following Friday I started suddenly 
 from my sleep. An unaccountable horror was upon 
 me. I looked wildly around. It seemed as if I were 
 not in my apartment, nor in my bed, but in the fatal 
 Strada Stretta, lying on the pavement. I again saw 
 the commander leaning against the wall ; I again heard
 
 THE GRAND PRIOR OF MINORCA 121 
 
 his dying words : ' Take my sword to Tetefoulques, 
 and have a hundred masses performed in the chapel 
 of the castle, for the repose of my soul ! ' 
 
 " On the following night I caused one of my ser 
 vants to sleep in the same room with me. I saw and 
 heard nothing, either on that night or any of the nights 
 following, until the next Friday, when I had again 
 the same vision, with this difference, that my valet 
 seemed to be lying some distance from me on the 
 pavement of the Strada Stretta. The vision continued 
 to be repeated on every Friday night, the commander 
 always appearing in the same manner, and uttering 
 the same words : ' Take my sword to Tetefoulques, and 
 have a hundred masses performed in the chapel of the 
 castle, for the repose of my soul ! ' 
 
 " On questioning my servant on the subject, he 
 stated that on these occasions he dreamed that he was 
 lying in a very narrow street, but he neither saw nor 
 heard anything of the commander. 
 
 " I knew nothing of this Tetefoulques, whither the 
 defunct was so urgent I should carry his sword. I 
 made inquiries, therefore, concerning it, among the 
 French chevaliers. They informed me that it was an 
 old castle, situated about four leagues from Poitiers, 
 in the midst of a forest. It had been built in old times, 
 several centuries since, by Foulques Taillefer (or 
 Fulke-Hackiron), a redoubtable hard-fighting Count 
 of Angouleme, who gave it to an illegitimate son, 
 afterwards created Grand Seneschal of Poitou, which 
 son became the progenitor of the Foulquerres of Tete 
 foulques, hereditary seneschals of Poitou. They far 
 ther informed me, that strange stories were told of 
 this old castle, in the surrounding country, and that 
 it contained many curious reliques. Among these 
 were the arms of Foulques Taillefer, together with 
 those of the warriors he had slain ; and that it was an 
 immemorial usage with the Foulquerres to have the
 
 122 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA 
 
 weapons deposited there which they had yielded either 
 in war or single combat. This, then, was the reason 
 of the dying injunction of the commander respect 
 ing his sword. I carried this weapon with me where- 
 ever I went, but still I neglected to comply with his 
 request. 
 
 " The vision still continued to harass me with un- 
 diminished horror. I repaired to Rome, where I con 
 fessed myself to the Grand Cardinal penitentiary, and 
 informed him of the terrors with which I was haunted. 
 He promised me absolution, after I should have per 
 formed certain acts of penance, the principal of which 
 was to execute the dying request of the commander, 
 by carrying his sword to Tetefoulques, and having the 
 hundred masses performed in the chapel of the castle 
 for the repose of his soul. 
 
 " I set out for France as speedily as possible, and 
 made no delay in my journey. On arriving at Poitiers, 
 I found that the tidings of the death of the commander 
 had reached there, but had caused no more affliction 
 than among the people of Malta. Leaving my equipage 
 in the town, I put on the garb erf a pilgrim, and taking 
 a guide, set out on foot for Tetefoulques. Indeed, 
 the roads in this part of the country were impracticable 
 for carriages. 
 
 " I found the castle of Tetefoulques a grand but 
 gloomy and dilapidated pile. All the gates were closed, 
 and there reigned over the whole place an air of almost 
 savage loneliness and desertion. I had understood that 
 its only inhabitants were the concierge, or warder, and 
 a kind of hermit who had charge of the chapel. After 
 ringing for some time at the gate, I at length suc 
 ceeded in bringing forth the warder, who bowed with 
 reverence to my pilgrim's garb. I begged him to con 
 duct me to the chapel, that being the end of my pil 
 grimage. We found the hermit there, chanting the 
 funeral service: a dismal sound to one who came to
 
 THE GRAND PRIOR OF MINORCA 123 
 
 perform a penance for the death of a member of the 
 family. When he had ceased to chant, I informed him 
 that I came to accomplish an obligation of conscience, 
 and that I wished him to perform a hundred masses 
 for the repose of the soul of the commander. He 
 replied that, not being in orders, he was not authorized 
 to perform mass, but that he would willingly under 
 take to see that my debt of conscience was discharged. 
 I laid my offering on the altar, and would have placed 
 the sword of the commander there likewise. ' Hold ! ' 
 said the hermit, with a melancholy shake of the head, 
 ' this is no place for so deadly a weapon, that has 
 so often been bathed in Christian blood. Take it to 
 the armory; you will find there trophies enough of 
 like character. It is a place into which I never 
 enter.' 
 
 " The warder here took up the theme abandoned by 
 the peaceful man of God. He assured me that I would 
 see in the armory the swords of all the warrior race 
 of Foulquerres, together with those of the enemies 
 over whom they had triumphed. This, he observed, 
 had been a usage kept up since the time of Mellusine, 
 and of her husband, Geoffrey a la Grand-dent, or 
 Geoffrey with the Great-tooth. 
 
 " I followed the gossiping warder to the armory. 
 It was a great dusty hall, hung round with Gothic- 
 looking portraits of a stark line of warriors, each with 
 his weapon, and the weapons of those he had slain in 
 battle, hung beside his picture. The most conspicuous 
 portrait was that of Foulques Taillefer (Fulke-Hack- 
 iron), Count of Angouleme, and founder of the castle. 
 He was represented at full length, armed cap-a-pie, 
 and grasping a huge buckler, on which were emblaz 
 oned three lions passant. The figure was so striking, 
 that it seemed ready to start from the canvas; and I 
 observed beneath this picture a trophy composed of 
 many weapons, proofs of the numerous triumphs of
 
 1*4 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA 
 
 this hard-fighting old cavalier. Beside the weapons 
 connected with the portraits, there were swords of all 
 shapes, sizes, and centuries, hung round the hall, with 
 piles of armor placed, as it were, in effigy. 
 
 " On each side of an immense chimney were sus 
 pended the portraits of the first seneschal of Poitou 
 (the illegitimate son of Foulques Taillefer) and his 
 wife, Isabella de Lusignan, the progenitors of the grim 
 race of Foulquerres that frowned around. They had 
 the look of being perfect likenesses; and as I gazed 
 on them, I fancied I could trace in their antiquated 
 features some family resemblance to their unfortunate 
 descendant whom I had slain! This was a dismal 
 neighborhood, yet the armory was the only part of the 
 castle that had a habitable air; so I asked the warder 
 whether he could not make a fire, and give me some 
 thing for supper there, and prepare me a bed in one 
 corner. 
 
 " ' A fire and a supper you shall have, and that cheer 
 fully, most worthy pilgrim,' said he ; ' but as to a bed, 
 I advise you to come and sleep in my chamber.' 
 
 " ' Why so ? ' inquired I ; ' why shall I not sleep in 
 this hall?' 
 
 " ' I have my reasons ; I will make a bed for you 
 close to mine.' 
 
 " I made no objections, for I recollected that it was 
 Friday, and I dreaded the return of my vision. He 
 brought in billets of wood, kindled a fire in the great 
 overhanging chimney, and then went forth to prepare 
 my supper. I drew a heavy chair before the fire, and 
 seating myself in it, gazed musingly round upon the 
 portraits of the Foulquerres and the antiquated armor 
 and weapons, the mementos of many a bloody deed. 
 As the day declined, the smoky draperies of the hall 
 gradually became confounded with the dark ground of 
 the paintings, and the lurid gleams from the chimney 
 only enabled me to see visages staring at me from the
 
 THE GRAND PRIOR OF MINORCA 125 
 
 gathering darkness. All this was dismal in the ex 
 treme, and somewhat appalling; perhaps it was the 
 state of my conscience that rendered me peculiarly 
 sensitive and prone to fearful imaginings. 
 
 " At length the warder brought in my supper. It 
 consisted of a dish of trout and some crawfish taken 
 in the fosse of the castle. He procured also a bottle 
 of wine, which he informed me was wine of Poitou. 
 I requested him to invite the hermit to join me in my 
 repast, but the holy man sent back word that he allowed 
 himself nothing but roots and herbs, cooked with water. 
 I took my meal, therefore, alone, but prolonged it as 
 much as possible, and sought to cheer my drooping 
 spirits by the wine of Poitou, which I found very 
 tolerable. 
 
 " When supper was over I prepared for my evening 
 devotions. I have always been very punctual in re 
 citing my breviary; it is the prescribed and bounden 
 duty of all cavaliers of the religious orders; and I can 
 answer for it, is faithfully performed by those of 
 Spain. I accordingly drew forth from my pocket a 
 small missal and a rosary, and told the warder he need 
 only designate to me the way to his chamber, where I 
 could come and rejoin him when I had finished my 
 prayers. 
 
 " He accordingly pointed out a winding staircase 
 opening from the hall. ' You will descend this stair 
 case,' said he, ' until you come to the fourth landing- 
 place, where you enter a vaulted passage, terminated 
 by an arcade, with a statue of the blessed Jeanne of 
 France; you cannot help finding my room, the door 
 of which I will leave open; it is the sixth door from 
 the landing-place. I advise you not to remain in this 
 hall after midnight. Before that hour you will hear 
 the hermit ring the bell, in going the rounds of the 
 corridors. Do not linger here after that signal.' 
 
 " The warder retired, and I commenced my devo-
 
 126 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA 
 
 tions. I continued at them earnestly, pausing from 
 time to time to put wood upon the fire. I did not dare 
 to look much around me, for I felt myself becoming 
 a prey to fearful fancies. The pictures appeared to 
 become animated. If I regarded one attentively, for 
 any length of time, it seemed to move the eyes and 
 lips. Above all, the portraits of the Grand Seneschal 
 and his lady, which hung on each side of the great 
 chimney, the progenitors of the Foulquerres of Tete- 
 foulques, regarded me, I thought, with angry and 
 baleful eyes ; I even fancied they exchanged significant 
 glances with each other. Just then a terrible blast of 
 wind shook all the casements, and, rushing through 
 the hall, made a fearful rattling and clashing among 
 the armor. To my startled fancy, it seemed something 
 supernatural. 
 
 " At length I heard the bell of the hermit, and has 
 tened to quit the hall. Taking a solitary light, which 
 stood on the supper-table, I descended the winding 
 staircase, but before I had reached the vaulted passage 
 leading to the statue of the blessed Jeanne of France, 
 a blast of wind extinguished my taper. I hastily re 
 mounted the stairs, to light it again at the chimney; 
 but judge of my feelings, when, on arriving at the 
 entrance to the armory, I beheld the Seneschal and his 
 lady, who had descended from their frames, and seated 
 themselves on each side of the fireplace! 
 
 " ' Madam, my love,' said the Seneschal, with great 
 formality and in antiquated phrase, ' what think you 
 of the presumption of this Castilian, who comes to 
 harbor himself and make wassail in this our castle, 
 after having slain our descendant, the commander, and 
 that without granting him time for confession?' 
 
 ' Truly, my lord,' answered the female spectre, 
 with no less stateliness of manner, and with great as 
 perity of tone * truly, my lord, I opine that this 
 Castilian did a grievous wrong in this encounter, and
 
 THE GRAND PRIOR OF MINORCA 127 
 
 he should never be suffered to depart hence, without 
 your throwing him the gauntlet.' I paused to hear 
 no more, but rushed again down stairs to seek the cham 
 ber of the warder. It was impossible to find it in the 
 darkness and in the perturbation of my mind. After 
 an hour and a half of fruitless search, and mortal 
 horror and anxieties, I endeavored to persuade myself 
 that the day was about to break, and listened impa 
 tiently .for the crowing of the cock; for I thought if 
 I could hear his cheerful note, I should be reassured; 
 catching, in the disordered state of my nerves, at the 
 popular notion that ghosts never appear after the first 
 crowing of the cock. 
 
 " At length I rallied myself, and endeavored to shake 
 off the vague terrors which haunted me. I tried to per 
 suade myself that the two figures which I had seemed 
 to see and hear, had existed only in my troubled im 
 agination. I still had the end of a candle in my hand, 
 and determined to make another effort to relight it and 
 find my way to bed, for I was ready to sink with 
 fatigue. I accordingly sprang up the staircase, three 
 steps at a time, stopped at the door of the armory, and 
 peeped cautiously in. The two Gothic figures were 
 no longer in the chimneycorners, but I neglected to 
 notice whether they had reascended to their frames. 
 I entered and made desperately for the fireplace, but 
 scarce had I advanced three strides, when Messire 
 Foulques Taillefer stood before me, in the centre of 
 the hall, armed cap-a-pie, and standing in guard, with 
 the point of his sword silently presented to me. I 
 would have retreated to the staircase, but the door of 
 it was occupied by the phantom figure of an esquire, 
 who rudely flung a gauntlet in my face. Driven to 
 fury, I snatched down a sword from the wall; by 
 chance, it was that of the commander which I had 
 placed there. I rushed upon my fantastic adversary, 
 and seemed to pierce him through and through; but
 
 I 2 8 THE KNIGHT OF MALTA 
 
 at the same time I felt as if something pierced my 
 heart, burning like a red-hot iron. My blood inundated 
 the hall, and I fell senseless. 
 
 " When I recovered consciousness, it was broad day, 
 and I found myself in a small chamber, attended by the 
 warder and the hermit. The former told me that on 
 the previous night he had awakened long after the 
 midnight hour, and perceiving that I had not come to 
 his chamber, he had furnished himself with a vase of 
 holy water, and set out to seek me. He found me 
 stretched senseless on the pavement of the armory, and 
 bore me to his room. I spoke of my wound, and of 
 the quantity of blood that I had lost. He shook his 
 head, and knew nothing about it ; and to my surprise, 
 on examination, I found myself perfectly sound and 
 unharmed. The wound and blood, therefore, had been 
 all delusion. Neither the warder nor the hermit put 
 any questions to me, but advised me to leave the castle 
 as soon as possible. I lost no time in complying with 
 their counsel, and felt my heart relieved from an op 
 pressive weight, as I left the gloomy and fate-bound 
 batttlements of Tetefoulques behind me. 
 
 " I arrived at Bayonne, on my way to Spain, on the 
 following Friday. At midnight I was startled from 
 my sleep, as I had formerly been ; but it was no longer 
 by the vision of the dying commander. It was old 
 Foulques Taillefer who stood before me, armed cap- 
 a-pie, and presenting the point of his sword. I made 
 the sign of the cross, and the spectre vanished, but I 
 received the same red-hot thrust in the heart which I 
 had felt in the armory, and I seemed to be bathed in 
 blood. I would have called out, or have risen from my 
 bed and gone in quest of succor, but I could neither 
 speak nor stir. This agony endured until the crowing 
 of the cock, when I fell asleep again ; but the next day 
 I was ill, and in a most pitiable state. I have continued
 
 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 129 
 
 to be harassed by the same vision every Friday night; 
 no acts of penitence and devotion have been able to 
 relieve me from it; and it is only a lingering hope in 
 divine mercy that sustains me, and enables me to sup 
 port so lamentable a visitation." 
 
 The Grand Prior of Minorca wasted gradually away 
 under this constant remorse of conscience and this 
 horrible incubus. He died some time after having 
 revealed the preceding particulars of his case, evidently 
 the victim of a diseased imagination. 
 
 The above relation has been rendered, in many parts 
 literally, from the French memoir, in which it is given 
 as a true story: if so, it is one of those instances in 
 which truth is more romantic than fiction. 
 
 "A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED 
 PROSPERITY" 
 
 IN the course of a voyage from England, I once fell 
 in with a convoy of merchant ships, bound for the 
 West Indies. The weather was uncommonly bland; 
 and the ships vied with each other in spreading sail 
 to catch a light, favoring breeze, until their hulls 
 were almost hidden beneath a cloud of canvas. The 
 breeze went down with the sun, and his last yellow 
 rays shone upon a thousand sails, idly flapping against 
 the masts. 
 
 I exulted in the beauty of the scene, and augured 
 a prosperous voyage; but the veteran master of the 
 ship shook his head, and pronounced this halcyon calm 
 a " weather-breeder." And so it proved. A storm 
 burst forth in the night; the sea roared and raged; 
 and when the day broke I beheld the late gallant con- 
 
 9
 
 130 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 voy scattered in every direction; some dismasted, 
 others scudding under bare poles, and many firing 
 signals of distress. 
 
 I have since been occasionally reminded of this scene, 
 by those calm, sunny seasons in the commercial world, 
 which are known by the name of " times of unexampled 
 prosperity." They are the sure weather-breeders of 
 traffic. Every now and then the world is visited by 
 one of these delusive seasons, when " the credit sys 
 tem," as it is called, expands to full luxuriance ; every 
 body trusts everybody ; a bad debt is a thing unheard 
 of; the broad way to certain and sudden wealth lies 
 plain and open ; and men are tempted to dash forward 
 boldly, from the facility of borrowing. 
 
 Promissory notes, interchanged between scheming 
 individuals, are liberally discounted at the banks, which 
 become so many mints to coin words into cash; and 
 as the supply of words is inexhaustible, it may readily 
 be supposed what a vast amount of promissory capital 
 is soon in circulation. Every one now talks in thou 
 sands; nothing is heard but gigantic operations in 
 trade ; great purchases and sales of real property, and 
 immense sums made at every transfer. All, to be 
 sure, as yet exists in promise; but the believer in 
 promises calculates the aggregate as solid capital, and 
 falls back in amazement at the amount of public wealth, 
 the " unexampled state of public prosperity ! " 
 
 Now is the time for speculative and dreaming or 
 designing men. They relate their dreams and projects 
 to the ignorant and credulous, dazzle them with golden 
 visions, and set them maddening after shadows. The 
 example of one stimulates another; speculation rises 
 on speculation ; bubble rises on bubble ; every one helps 
 with his breath to swell the windy superstructure, and 
 admires and wonders at the magnitude of the inflation 
 he has contributed to produce. 
 
 Speculation is the romance of trade, and casts con-
 
 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 131 
 
 tempt upon all its sober realities. It renders the stock 
 jobber a magician, and the exchange a region of en 
 chantment. It elevates the merchant into a kind of 
 knight-errant, or rather a commercial Quixote. The 
 slow but sure gains of snug percentage become despi 
 cable in his eyes : no " operation " is thought worthy 
 of attention, that does not double or treble the invest 
 ment. No business is worth following, that does not 
 promise an immediate fortune. As he sits musing over 
 his ledger, with pen behind his ear, he is like La 
 Mancha's hero in his study, dreaming over his books 
 of chivalry. His dusty counting-house fades before 
 his eyes, or changes into a Spanish mine : he gropes 
 after diamonds, or dives after pearls. The subter 
 ranean garden of Aladdin is nothing to the realms of 
 wealth that break upon his imagination. 
 
 Could this delusion always last, the life of a mer 
 chant would indeed be a golden dream; but it is as 
 short as it is brilliant. Let but a doubt enter, and the 
 " season of unexampled prosperity " is at end. The 
 coinage of words is suddenly curtailed ; the promissory 
 capital begins to vanish into smoke ; a panic succeeds, 
 and the whole superstructure, built upon credit, and 
 reared by speculation, crumbles to the ground, leaving 
 scarce a wreck behind : 
 
 It is such stuff as dreams are made of. 
 
 When a man of business, therefore, hears on every 
 side rumors of fortunes suddenly acquired; when he 
 finds banks liberal, and brokers busy; when he sees 
 adventurers flush of paper capital, and full of scheme 
 and enterprise; when he perceives a greater disposi 
 tion to buy than to sell; when trade overflows its 
 accustomed channels, and deluges the country; when 
 he hears of new regions of commercial adventure; of 
 distant marts and distant mines, swallowing merchan 
 dise and disgorging gold; when he finds joint stock
 
 132 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 companies of all kinds forming; railroads, canals, and 
 locomotive engines, springing up on every side ; when 
 idlers suddenly become men of business, and dash into 
 the game of commerce as they would into the hazards 
 of the faro-table; when he beholds the streets glitter 
 ing with new equipages, palaces conjured up by the 
 magic of speculation, tradesmen flushed with sudden 
 success, and vying with each other in ostentatious ex 
 pense ; in a word, when he hears the whole community 
 joining in the theme of " unexampled prosperity," let 
 him look upon the whole as a " weather-breeder," and 
 prepare for the impending storm. 
 
 The foregoing remarks are intended merely as a 
 prelude to a narrative I am about to lay before the 
 public, of one of the most memorable instances of the 
 infatuation of gain to be found in the whole history 
 of commerce. I allude to the famous Mississippi 
 bubble. It is a matter that has passed into a proverb, 
 and become a phrase in every one's mouth, yet of 
 which not one merchant in ten has probably a distinct 
 idea. I have therefore thought that an authentic ac 
 count of it would be interesting and salutary, at the 
 present moment, when we are suffering under the 
 effects of a severe access of the credit system, and just 
 recovering from one of its ruinous delusions. 
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 
 
 Be fore entering into the story of this famous chimera, 
 it is proper to give a few particulars concerning the 
 individual who engendered it. JOHN LAW was born 
 in Edinburgh, in 1671. His father, William Law, 
 was a rich goldsmith, and left his son an estate of 
 considerable value, called Lauriston, situated about 
 four miles from Edinburgh. Goldsmiths, in those days, 
 acted occasionally as bankers, and his father's opera-
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 133 
 
 tions, under this character, may have originally turned 
 the thoughts of the youth to the science of calculation, 
 in which he became an adept; so that at an early age 
 he excelled in playing at all games of combination. 
 
 In 1694, he appeared in London, where a handsome 
 person and an easy and insinuating address gained him 
 currency in the first circles, and the nickname of " Beau 
 Law." The same personal advantages gave him suc 
 cess in the world of gallantry, until he became involved 
 in a quarrel with Beau Wilson, his rival in fashion, 
 whom he killed in a duel, and then fled to France to 
 avoid prosecution. 
 
 He returned to Edinburgh in 1700, and remained 
 there several years ; during which time he first broached 
 his great credit system, offering to supply the deficiency 
 of coin by the establishment of a bank, which, accord 
 ing to his views, might emit a paper currency equivalent 
 to the whole landed estate of the kingdom. 
 
 His scheme excited great astonishment in Edin 
 burgh ; but, though the government was not sufficiently 
 advanced in financial knowledge to detect the fallacies 
 upon which it was founded, Scottish caution and sus 
 picion served in place of wisdom, and the project was 
 rejected. Law met with no better success with the 
 English parliament; and the fatal affair of the death 
 of Wilson still hanging over him, for which he had 
 never been able to procure a pardon, he again went to 
 France. 
 
 The financial affairs of France were at this time in 
 a deplorable condition. The wars, the pomp, and pro 
 fusion of Louis XIV., and his religious persecutions 
 of whole classes of the most industrious of his subjects, 
 had exhausted his treasury, and overwhelmed the na 
 tion with debt. The old monarch clung to his selfish 
 magnificence, and could not be induced to diminish his 
 enormous expenditure; and his minister of finance 
 was driven to his wits' end to devise all kinds of dis-
 
 i 3 4 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 astrous expedients to keep up the royal state, and to 
 extricate the nation from its embarrassments. 
 
 In this state of things Law ventured to bring for 
 ward his financial project. It was founded on the plan 
 of the bank of England, which had already been in 
 successful operation several years. He met with im 
 mediate patronage and a congenial spirit in the Duke 
 of Orleans, who had married a natural daughter of 
 the king. The duke had been astonished at the facility 
 with which England had supported the burden of a 
 public debt, created by the wars of Anne and William, 
 and which exceeded in amount that under which France 
 was groaning. The whole matter was soon explained 
 by Law to his satisfaction. The latter maintained that 
 England had stopped at the mere threshold of an art 
 capable of creating unlimited sources of national 
 wealth. The duke was dazzled with his splendid views 
 and specious reasonings, and thought he clearly com 
 prehended his system. Demarets, the Comptroller- 
 General of Finance, was not so easily deceived. He 
 pronounced the plan of Law more pernicious than any 
 of the disastrous expedients that the government had 
 yet been driven to. The old king also, Louis XIV., 
 detested all innovations, especially those which came 
 from a rival nation : the project of a bank, therefore, 
 was utterly rejected. 
 
 Law remained for a while in Paris, leading a gay 
 and affluent existence, owing to his handsome person, 
 easy manners, flexible temper, and a faro-bank which 
 he had set up. His agreeable career was interrupted 
 by a message from D'Argenson, Lieutenant-General of 
 Police, ordering him to quit Paris, alleging that he 
 was "rather too skilful at the game which he had 
 introduced! " 
 
 For several succeeding years he shifted his resi 
 dence from state to state of Italy and Germany, offer 
 ing his scheme of finance to every court that he visited,
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 135 
 
 but without success. The Duke of Savoy, Victor 
 Amadeas, afterward King of Sardinia, was much 
 struck with his project ; but after considering it for a 
 time, replied, " I am not sufficiently powerful to ruin 
 myself." 
 
 The shifting, adventurous life of Law, and the 
 equivocal means by which he appeared to live, playing 
 high, and always with great success, threw a cloud of 
 suspicion over him wherever he went, and caused 
 him to be expelled by the magistracy from the semi- 
 commercial, semi-aristocratical cities of Venice and 
 Genoa. 
 
 The events of 1715 brought Law back again to 
 Paris. Louis XIV. was dead. Louis XV. was a mere 
 child, and during his minority the Duke of Orleans 
 held the reins of government as Regent. Law had at 
 length found his man. 
 
 The Duke of Orleans has been differently repre 
 sented by different contemporaries. He appears to 
 have had excellent natural qualities, perverted by a 
 bad education. He was of the middle size, easy and 
 graceful, with an agreeable countenance, and open, 
 affable demeanor. His mind was quick and sagacious, 
 rather than profound; and his quickness of intellect 
 and excellence of memory supplied the lack of studious 
 application. His wit was prompt and pungent; he 
 expressed himself with vivacity and precision; his 
 imagination was vivid, his temperament sanguine and 
 joyous, his courage daring. His mother, the Duchess 
 of Orleans, expressed his character in a jeu d'esprit. 
 " The fairies," said she, " were invited to be present 
 at his birth, and each one conferring a talent on my 
 son, he possesses them all. Unfortunately, we had 
 forgotten to invite an old fairy, who, arriving after 
 all the others, exclaimed, ' He shall have all the talents, 
 excepting that to make good use of them.' ' 
 
 Under proper tuition, the duke might have risen
 
 136 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 to real greatness; but in his early years he was put 
 under the tutelage of the Abbe Dubois, one of the sub 
 tlest and basest spirits that ever intrigued its way into 
 eminent place and power. The Abbe was of low origin 
 and despicable exterior, totally destitute of morals, and 
 prefidious in the extreme ; but with a supple, insinuat 
 ing address, and an accommodating spirit, tolerant of 
 all kinds of profligacy in others. Conscious of his own 
 inherent baseness, he sought to secure an influence over 
 his pupil by corrupting his principles and fostering 
 his vices; he debased him, to keep himself from being 
 despised. Unfortunately he succeeded. To the early 
 precepts of this infamous pander have been attributed 
 those excesses that disgrace the manhood of the Re 
 gent, and gave a licentious character to his whole course 
 of government. His love of pleasure, quickened and 
 indulged by those who should have restrained it, led 
 him into all kinds of sensual indulgence. He had been 
 taught to think lightly of the most serious duties and 
 sacred ties, to turn virtue into a jest, and consider re 
 ligion mere hypocrisy. He was a gay misanthrope, 
 that had a sovereign but sportive contempt for man 
 kind; believed that his most devoted servant would 
 be his enemy if interest prompted, and maintained that 
 an honest man was he who had the art to conceal that 
 he was the contrary. 
 
 He surrounded himself with a set of dissolute men 
 like himself, who, let loose from the restraint under 
 which they had been held during the latter hypocritical 
 days of Louis XIV., now gave way to every kind of 
 debauchery. With these men the Regent used to shut 
 himself up, after the hours of business, and excluding 
 all graver persons and graver concerns, celebrate the 
 most drunken and disgusting orgies, where obscenity 
 and blasphemy formed the seasoning of conversation. 
 For the profligate companions of these revels he in 
 vented the appellation of his roues, the literal meaning
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 137 
 
 of which is, men broken on the wheel; intended, no 
 doubt, to express their broken-down characters and 
 dislocated fortunes; although a contemporary asserts 
 that it designated the punishment that most of them 
 merited. Madame de Labran, who was present at one 
 of the Regent's suppers, was disgusted by the conduct 
 and conversation of the host and his guests, and ob 
 served at table, that God, after he had created man, 
 took the refuse clay that was left and made of it the 
 souls of lackeys and princes. 
 
 Such was the man that now ruled the destinies of 
 France. Law found him full of perplexities from the 
 disastrous state of the finances. He had already 
 tampered with the coinage, calling in the coin of the 
 nation, restamping it, and issuing it at a nominal in 
 crease of one fifth, thus defrauding the nation out of 
 twenty per cent, of its capital. He was not likely, 
 therefore, to be scrupulous about any means likely to 
 relieve him from financial difficulties; he had even 
 been led to listen to the cruel alternative of a national 
 bankruptcy. 
 
 Under these circumstances Law confidently brought 
 forward his scheme of a bank that was to pay off the 
 national debt, increase the revenue, and at the same 
 time diminish the taxes. The following is stated as 
 the theory by which he recommended his system to the 
 Regent. The credit enjoyed by a banker or a mer 
 chant, he observed, increases his capital tenfold; that 
 is to say, he who has a capital of one hundred thousand 
 livres, may, if he possess sufficient credit, extend his 
 operations to a million, and reap profits to that amount. 
 In like manner, a state that can collect into a bank all 
 the current coin of the kingdom, would be as powerful 
 as if its capital were increased tenfold. The specie 
 must be drawn into the bank, not by way of loan, or 
 by taxations, but in the way of deposit. This might be 
 effected in different modes, either by inspiring con-
 
 i 3 8 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 fidence, or by exerting authority. One mode, he ob 
 served, had already been in use. Each time that a 
 state makes a recoinage, it becomes momentarily the 
 depository of all the money called in belonging to the 
 subjects of that state. His bank was to effect the same 
 purpose; that is to say, to receive in deposit all the 
 coin of the kingdom, but to give in exchange its bills, 
 which, being of an invariable value, bearing an interest, 
 and being payable on demand, would not only supply 
 the place of coin, but prove a better and more profit 
 able currency. 
 
 The Regent caught with avidity at the scheme. It 
 suited his bold, reckless spirit and his grasping ex 
 travagance. Not that he was altogether the dupe of 
 Law's specious projects; still he was apt, like many 
 other men unskilled in the arcana of finance, to mis 
 take the multiplication of money for the multiplication 
 of wealth, not understanding that it was a mere agent 
 or instrument in the interchange of traffic, to represent 
 the value of the various productions of industry ; and 
 that an increased circulation of coin or bank-bills, in 
 the shape of currency, only adds a proportionably in 
 creased and fictitious value to such productions. Law 
 enlisted the vanity of the Regent in his cause. He per 
 suaded him that he saw more clearly than others into 
 sublime theories of finance, which were quite above 
 the ordinary apprehension. He used to declare that, 
 excepting the Regent and the Duke of Savoy, no one 
 had thoroughly comprehended his system. 
 
 It is certain that it met with strong opposition from 
 the Regent's ministers, the Duke de Noailles and the 
 Chancellor d'Anguesseau, and it was no less strenu 
 ously opposed by the parliament of Paris. Law, how 
 ever, had a potent though secret coadjutor in the 
 Abb Dubois, now rising, during the regency, into 
 great political power, and who retained a baneful in 
 fluence over the mind of the Regent. This wily priest,
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 139 
 
 as avaricious as he was ambitious, drew large sums 
 from Law as subsidies, and aided him greatly in many 
 of his most pernicious operations. He aided him, in 
 the present instance, to fortify the mind of the Regent 
 against all the remonstrances of his ministers and the 
 parliament. 
 
 Accordingly, on the 2d of May, 1716, letters patent 
 were granted to Law to establish a bank of deposit, 
 discount, and circulation, under the firm of " Law and 
 Company," to continue for twenty years. The capital 
 was fixed at six millions of livres, divided into shares 
 of five hundred livres each, which were to be sold for 
 twenty-five per cent, of the Regent's debased coin, and 
 seventy-five per cent, of the public securities, which 
 were then at a great reduction from their nominal 
 value, and which then amounted to nineteen hundred 
 millions. The ostensible object of the bank, as set 
 forth in the patent, was to encourage the commerce 
 and manufactures of France. The louis-d'ors and 
 crowns of the bank were always to retain the same 
 standard of value, and its bills to be payable in them 
 on demand. 
 
 At the outset, while the bank was limited in its opera 
 tions, and while its paper really represented the specie 
 in its vaults, it seemed to realize all that had been 
 promised from it. It rapidly acquired public con 
 fidence and an extended circulation, and produced an 
 activity in commerce unknown under the baneful gov 
 ernment of Louis XIV. As the bills of the bank bore 
 an interest, and as it was stipulated they would be of 
 invariable value, and as hints had been artfully circu 
 lated that the coin would experience successive diminu 
 tion, everybody hastened to the bank to exchange gold 
 and silver for paper. So great became the throng of 
 depositors, and so intense their eagerness, that there 
 was quite a press and struggle at the back door, and a 
 ludicrous panic was awakened, as if there was danger
 
 140 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 of their not being admitted. An anecdote of the time 
 relates that one of the clerks, with an ominous smile, 
 called out to the struggling multitude, " Have a little 
 patience, my friends; we mean to take all your 
 money " ; an assertion disastrously verified in the 
 sequel. 
 
 Thus by the simple establishment of a bank, Law 
 and the Regent obtained pledges of confidence for 
 the consummation of farther and more complicated 
 schemes, as yet hidden from the public. In a little 
 while the bank shares rose enormously, and the amount 
 of its notes in circulation exceeded one hundred and 
 ten millions of livres. A subtle stroke of policy had 
 rendered it popular with the aristocracy. Louis XIV. 
 had, several years previously, imposed an income tax 
 of a tenth, giving his royal word that it should cease 
 in 1717. This tax had been exceedingly irksome to 
 the privileged orders; and, in the present disastrous 
 times, they had dreaded an augmentation of it. In 
 consequence of the successful operation of Law's 
 scheme, however, the tax was abolished, and now noth 
 ing was to be heard among the nobility and clergy but 
 praises of the Regent and the bank. 
 
 Hitherto all had gone well, and all might have con 
 tinued to go well, had not the paper system been farther 
 expanded. But Law had yet the grandest part of his 
 scheme to develop. He had to open his ideal world of 
 speculation, his El Dorado of unbounded wealth. The 
 English had brought the vast imaginary commerce of 
 the South Seas in aid of their banking operations. 
 Law sought to bring, as an immense auxiliary of his 
 bank, the whole trade of the Mississippi. Under this 
 name was included not merely the river so called, but 
 the vast region known as Louisiana, extending from 
 north latitude 29 up to .Canada in north latitude 40. 
 This country had been granted by Louis XIV. to the 
 Sieur Crozat, but he had been induced to resign his
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 141 
 
 patent. In conformity to the plea of Mr. Law, letters 
 patent were granted in August, in 1717, for the crea 
 tion of a commercial company, which was to have the 
 colonizing of this country, and the monopoly of its 
 trade and resources, and of the beaver or fur trade 
 with Canada. It was called the Western, but be 
 came better known as the Mississippi Company. The 
 capital was fixed at one hundred millions of livres, 
 divided into shares, bearing an interest of four per 
 cent., which were subscribed for in the public secur 
 ities. As the bank was to cooperate with the company, 
 the Regent ordered that its bills should be received the 
 same as coin, in all payments of the public revenue. 
 Law was appointed chief director of this company, 
 which was an exact copy of the Earl of Oxford's South 
 Sea Company, set on foot in 1711, and which dis 
 tracted all England with the frenzy of speculation. In 
 like manner with the delusive picturings given in that 
 memorable scheme of the sources of rich trade to be 
 opened in the South Sea countries, Law held forth 
 magnificent prospects of the fortunes to be made in 
 colonizing Louisiana, which was represented as a veri 
 table land of promise, capable of yielding every variety 
 of the most precious produce. Reports, too, were art 
 fully circulated, with great mystery, as if to the " cho 
 sen few," of mines of gold and silver recently dis 
 covered in Louisiana, and which would insure instant 
 wealth to the early purchasers. These confidential 
 whispers, of course, soon became public; and were 
 confirmed by travellers fresh from the Mississippi, and 
 doubtless bribed, who had seen the mines in question, 
 and declared them superior in richness to those of 
 Mexico and Peru. Nay more, ocular proof was fur 
 nished to public credulity, in ingots of gold, conveyed 
 to the mint, as if just brought from the mines of 
 Louisiana. 
 
 Extraordinary measures were adopted to force a
 
 142 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 colonization. An edict was issued to collect and trans 
 port settlers to the Mississippi. The police lent its aid. 
 The streets and prisons of Paris, and of the provin 
 cial cities, were swept of mendicants and vagabonds of 
 all kinds, who were conveyed to Havre de Grace. 
 About six thousand were crowded into ships, where no 
 precautions had been taken for their health or accom 
 modation. Instruments of all kinds proper for the 
 working of mines were ostentatiously paraded in 
 public, and put on board the vessels; and the 
 whole set sail for this fabled El Dorado, which was 
 to prove the grave of the greater part of its wretched 
 colonists. 
 
 D'Anguesseau, the chancellor, a man of probity and 
 integrity, still lifted his voice against the paper system 
 of Law, and his project of colonization, and was elo 
 quent and prophetic in picturing the evils they were 
 calculated to produce; the private distress and public 
 degradation; the corruption of morals and manners; 
 the triumph of knaves and schemers; the ruin of for 
 tunes, and the downfall of families. He was incited 
 more and more to this opposition by the Duke de 
 Noailles, the Minister of Finance, who was jealous of 
 the growing ascendency of Law over the mind of the 
 Regent, but was less honest than the chancellor in his 
 opposition. The Regent was excessively annoyed by 
 the difficulties they conjured up in the way of his dar 
 ling schemes of finance, and the countenance they gave 
 to the opposition of parliament ; which body, disgusted 
 more and more with the abuses of the regency, and the 
 system of Law, had gone so far as to carry its remon 
 strances to the very foot of the throne. 
 
 He determined to relieve himself from these two 
 ministers, who, either through honesty or policy, inter 
 fered with all his plans. Accordingly, on the 28th of 
 January, 1718, he dismissed the chancellor from office, 
 and exiled him to his estate in the country ; and shortly
 
 H3 
 
 afterward removed the Duke de Noailles from the ad 
 ministration of the finance. 
 
 The opposition of parliament to the Regent and his 
 measures was carried on with increasing violence. 
 That body aspired to an equal authority with the Re 
 gent in the administration of affairs, and pretended, 
 by its decree, to suspend an edict of the regency order 
 ing a new coinage, and altering the value of the cur 
 rency. But its chief hostility was levelled against 
 Law, a foreigner and a heretic, and one who was con 
 sidered by a majority of the members in the light of 
 a malefactor. In fact, so far was this hostility carried, 
 that secret measures were taken to investigate his mal 
 versations, and to collect evidence against him; and it 
 was resolved in parliament that, should the testimony 
 collected justify their suspicions, they would have him 
 seized and brought before them; would give him a 
 brief trial, and, if convicted, would hang him in the 
 court-yard of the palace, and throw open the gates 
 after the execution, that the public might behold his 
 corpse ! 
 
 Law received intimation of the danger hanging over 
 him, and was in terrible trepidation. He took refuge 
 in the Palais Royal, the residence of the Regent, and 
 implored his protection. The Regent himself was em 
 barrassed by the sturdy opposition of parliament, 
 which contemplated nothing less than a decree revers 
 ing most of his public measures, especially those of 
 finance. His indecision kept Law for a time in an 
 agony of terror and suspense. Finally, by assembling 
 a board of justice, and bringing to his aid the absolute 
 authority of the king, he triumphed over parliament, 
 and relieved Law from his dread of being hanged. 
 
 The system now went on with flowing sail. The 
 Western, or Mississippi Company, being identified with 
 the bank, rapidly increased in power and privileges. 
 One monopoly after another was granted to it, the
 
 144 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 trade of the Indian Seas, the slave-trade with Senegal 
 and Guinea, the farming of tobacco, the national coin 
 age, etc. Each new privilege was made a pretext for 
 issuing more bills, and caused an immense advance in 
 the price of stock. At length, on the 4th of December, 
 1718, the Regent gave the establishment the imposing 
 title of the Royal Bank, and proclaimed that he had 
 effected the purchase of all the shares, the proceeds 
 of which he had added to its capital. This measure 
 seemed to shock the public feeling more than any other 
 connected with the system, and roused the indignation 
 of parliament. The French nation had been so accus 
 tomed to attach an idea of everything noble, lofty, and 
 magnificent, to the royal name and person, especially 
 during the stately and sumptuous reign of Louis XIV., 
 that they could not at first tolerate the idea of royalty 
 being in any degree mingled with matters of traffic and 
 finance, and the king being, in a manner, a banker. 
 It was one of the downward steps, however, by which 
 royalty lost its illusive splendor in France and became 
 gradually cheapened in the public mind. 
 
 Arbitrary measures now began to be taken to force 
 the bills of the bank into artificial currency. On the 
 27th of December appeared an order in council, forbid 
 ding, under severe penalties, the payment of any sum 
 above six hundred livres in gold or silver. This decree 
 rendered bank-bills necessary in all transactions of 
 purchase and sale, and called for a new emission. The 
 prohibition was occasionally evaded or opposed; con 
 fiscations were the consequence; informers were re 
 warded, and spies and traitors began to spring up in 
 all the domestic walks of life. 
 
 The worst effect of this illusive system was the mania 
 for gain, or rather for gambling in stocks, that now 
 seized upon the whole nation. Under the exciting 
 effects of lying reports, and the forcing effects of gov 
 ernment decrees, the shares of the company went on
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 145 
 
 rising in value, until they reached thirteen hundred 
 per cent. Nothing was now spoken of but the price of 
 shares, and the immense fortunes suddenly made by 
 lucky speculators. Those whom Law had deluded used 
 every means to delude others. The most extravagant 
 dreams were indulged concerning the wealth to flow 
 in upon the company from its colonies, its trade, and 
 its various monopolies. It is true nothing as yet had 
 been realized, nor could in some time be realized, from 
 these distant sources, even if productive ; but the imag 
 inations of speculators are ever in the advance, and 
 their conjectures are immediately converted into facts. 
 Lying reports now flew from mouth to mouth, of sure 
 avenues to fortune suddenly thrown open. The more 
 extravagant the fable, the more readily was it believed. 
 To doubt, was to awaken anger or incur ridicule. In 
 a time of public infatuation it requires no small exer 
 cise of courage to doubt a popular fallacy. 
 
 Paris now became the centre of attraction for the 
 adventurous and the avaricious, who flocked to it not 
 merely from the provinces, but from neighboring coun 
 tries. A stock exchange was established in a house 
 in the Rue Quincampoix, and became immediately 
 the gathering-place of stock-jobbers. The exchange 
 opened at seven o'clock with the beat of drum and 
 sound of bell, and closed at night with the same sig 
 nals. Guards were stationed at each end of the street, 
 to maintain order and exclude carriages and horses. 
 The whole street swarmed throughout the day like a 
 beehive. Bargains of all kinds were seized upon with 
 avidity. Shares of stock passed from hand to hand, 
 mounting in value, one knew not why. Fortunes were 
 made in a moment, as if by magic; and every lucky 
 bargain prompted those around to a more desperate 
 throw of the dice. The fever went on, increasing in 
 intensity as the day declined ; and when the drum beat 
 and the bell rang at night, to close the exchange, there
 
 146 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 were exclamations of impatience and despair, as if the 
 wheel of fortune had suddenly been stopped, when 
 about to make its luckiest evolution. 
 
 To ingulf all classes in this ruinous vortex, Law now 
 split the shares of fifty millions of stock each into one 
 hundred shares; thus, as in the splitting of lottery 
 tickets, accommodating- the venture to the humblest 
 purse. Society was thus stirred up to its very dregs, 
 and adventurers of the lowest order hurried to the 
 stock-market. All honest, industrious pursuits and 
 modest gains were now despised. Wealth was to be 
 obtained instantly, without labor and without stint. 
 The upper classes were as base in their venality as the 
 lower. The highest and most powerful nobles, aban 
 doning all generous pursuits and lofty aims, engaged 
 in the vile scuffle for gain. They were even baser than 
 the lower classes ; for some of them, who were mem 
 bers of the council of the regency, abused their station 
 and their influence, and promoted measures by which 
 shares rose while in their hands, and they made im 
 mense profits. 
 
 The Duke de Bourbon, the Prince of Conti, the 
 Dukes de la Force and D'Antin, were among the fore 
 most of these illustrious stock-jobbers. They were 
 nicknamed the Mississippi Lords, and they smiled at 
 the sneering title. In fact, the usual distinctions of 
 society had lost their consequence, under the reign of 
 this new passion. Rank, talent, military fame, no 
 longer inspired deference. All respect for others, all 
 self-respect, were forgotten in the mercenary struggle 
 of the stock-market. Even prelates and ecclesiastical 
 corporations, forgetting their true objects of devotion, 
 mingled among the votaries of Mammon. They were 
 not behind those who wielded the civil power in fabri 
 cating ordinances suited to their avaricious purposes. 
 Theological decisions forthwith appeared, in which the 
 anathema launched by the Church against usury was
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 147 
 
 conveniently construed as not extending to the traffic 
 in bank shares! 
 
 The Abbe Dubois entered into the mysteries of stock 
 jobbing with all the zeal of an apostle, and enriched 
 himself by the spoils of the credulous; and he con 
 tinually drew large sums from Law, as considerations 
 for his political influence. Faithless to his country, in 
 the course of his gambling speculations he transferred 
 to England a great amount of specie, which had been 
 paid into the royal treasury; thus contributing to the 
 subsequent dearth of the precious metals. 
 
 The female sex participated in this sordid frenzy. 
 Princesses of the blood, and ladies of the highest nobil 
 ity, were among the most rapacious of stock-jobbers. 
 The Regent seemed to have the riches of Croesus at his 
 command, and lavished money by hundreds of thou 
 sands upon his female relatives and favorites, as well 
 as upon his roues, the dissolute companions of his de 
 bauches. " My son," writes the Regent's mother, in 
 her correspondence, " gave me shares to the amount 
 of two millions, which I distributed among my house 
 hold. The king also took several millions for his own 
 household. All the royal family have had them; all 
 the children and grandchildren of France, and the 
 princes of the blood." 
 
 Luxury and extravagance kept pace with this sud 
 den inflation of fancied wealth. The hereditary pal 
 aces of nobles were pulled down, and rebuilt on a 'scale 
 of augmented splendor. Entertainments were given, 
 of incredible cost and magnificence. Never before had 
 been such display in houses, furniture, equipages, and 
 amusements. This was particularly the case among 
 persons of the lower ranks, who had suddenly become 
 possessed of millions. Ludicrous anecdotes are related 
 of some of these upstarts. One, who had just launched 
 a splendid carriage, when about to use it for the first 
 time, instead of getting in at the door, mounted,
 
 148 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 through habitude, to his accustomed place behind. 
 Some ladies of quality, seeing a well-dressed woman 
 covered with diamonds, but whom nobody knew, alight 
 from a very handsome carriage, inquired who she 
 was, of the footman. He replied, with a sneer, " It 
 is a lady who has recently tumbled from a garret into 
 this carriage." Mr. Law's domestics were said to be 
 come in like manner suddenly enriched by the crumbs 
 that fell from his table. His coachman, having made 
 a fortune, retired from his service. Mr. Law requested 
 him to procure a coachman in his place. He appeared 
 the next day with two, whom he pronounced equally 
 good, and told Mr. Law, " Take which of them you 
 choose, and I will take the other ! " 
 
 Nor were these novi homini treated with the dis 
 tance and disdain they would formerly have experi 
 enced from the haughty aristocracy of France. The 
 pride of the old noblesse had been stifled by the stronger 
 instinct of avarice. They rather sought the intimacy 
 and confidence of these lucky upstarts ; and it has been 
 observed that a nobleman would gladly take his seat 
 at the table of the fortunate lackey of yesterday, in 
 hopes of learning from him the secret of growing rich ! 
 
 Law now went about with a countenance radiant 
 with success, and apparently dispensing wealth on 
 every side. " He is admirably skilled in all that relates 
 to finance," writes the Duchess of Orleans, the Regent's 
 mother, " and has put the affairs of the state in such 
 good order, that all the king's debts have been paid. 
 He is so much run after, that he has no repose night 
 or day. A duchess even kissed his hand publicly. If 
 a duchess can do this, what will other ladies do ! " 
 
 Wherever he went, his path, we are told, was beset 
 by a sordid throng, who waited to see him pass, and 
 sought to obtain the favor of a word, a nod, or smile, 
 as if a mere glance from him would bestow fortune. 
 When at home his house was absolutely besieged by
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 149 
 
 furious candidates for fortune. " They forced the 
 doors," says the Duke de St. Simon ; " they scaled his 
 windows from the garden; they made their way into 
 his cabinet down the chimney ! " 
 
 The same venal court was paid by all classes to his 
 family. The highest ladies of the court vied with each 
 other in meannesses, to purchase the lucrative friend 
 ship of Mrs. Law and her daughter. They waited 
 upon them with as much assiduity and adulation as if 
 they had been princesses of the blood. The Regent 
 one day expressed a desire that some duchess should 
 accompany his daughter to Genoa. " My Lord," said 
 some one present, " if you would have a choice from 
 among the duchesses, you need but send to Mrs. Law's ; 
 you will find them all assembled there." 
 
 The wealth of Law rapidly increased with the ex 
 pansion of the bubble. In the course of a few months 
 he purchased fourteen titled estates, paying for them 
 in paper; and the public hailed these sudden and vast 
 acquisitions of landed property, as so many proofs of 
 the soundness of his system. In one instance he met 
 with a shrewd bargainer, who had not the general 
 faith in his paper money. The President de Novion 
 insisted on being paid for an estate in hard coin. Law 
 accordingly brought the amount, four hundred thou 
 sand livres, in specie, saying, with a sarcastic smile, 
 that he preferred paying in money, as its weight ren 
 dered it a mere incumbrance. As it happened, the 
 President could give no clear title to the land, and the 
 money had to be refunded. He paid it back in paper, 
 which Law dared not refuse, lest he should depreciate 
 it in the market ! 
 
 The course of illusory credit went on triumphantly 
 for eighteen months. Law had nearly fulfilled one of 
 his promises, for the greater part of the public debt 
 had been paid off; but how paid? In bank shares, 
 which had been trumped up several hundred per cent.
 
 150 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 above their value, and which were to vanish like smoke 
 in the hands of the holders. 
 
 One of the most striking attributes of Law, was the 
 imperturbable assurance and self-possession with which 
 he replied to every objection and found a solution for 
 every problem. He had the dexterity of a juggler in 
 evading difficulties; and what was peculiar, made fig 
 ures themselves, which are the very elements of exact 
 demonstration, the means to dazzle and bewilder. 
 
 Toward the latter end of 1719 the Mississippi 
 scheme had reached its highest point of glory. Half 
 a million of strangers had crowded into Paris, in quest 
 of fortune. The hotels and lodging-houses were over 
 flowing; lodgings were procured with excessive diffi 
 culty; granaries were turned into bedrooms; provi 
 sions had risen enormously in price; splendid houses 
 were multiplying on every side; the streets were 
 crowded with carriages; above a thousand new equi 
 pages had been launched. 
 
 On the eleventh of December Law obtained another 
 prohibitory decree, for the purpose of sweeping all the 
 remaining specie in circulation into the bank. By this 
 it was forbidden to make any payments in silver above 
 ten livres, or in gold above three hundred. 
 
 The repeated decrees of this nature, the object of 
 which was to depreciate the value of gold and increase 
 the illusive credit of paper, began to awaken doubts 
 of a system which required such bolstering. Capital 
 ists gradually awoke from their bewilderment. Sound 
 and able financiers consulted together, and agreed to 
 make common cause against this continual expansion 
 of a paper system. The shares of the bank and of the 
 company began to decline in value. Wary men took 
 the alarm, and began to realise, a word now first 
 brought into use, to express the conversion of ideal 
 property into something real. 
 
 The Prince of Conti, one of the most prominent and
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 151 
 
 grasping of the Mississippi Lords, was the first to give 
 a blow to the credit of the bank. There was a mixture 
 of ingratitude in his conduct that characterized the 
 venal baseness of the times. He had received, from 
 time to time, enormous sums from Law, as the price 
 of his influence and patronage. His avarice had in 
 creased with every acquisition, until Law was com 
 pelled to refuse one of his exactions. In revenge, the 
 prince immediately sent such an amount of paper to 
 the bank to be cashed, that it required four wagons 
 to bring away the silver, and he had the meanness to 
 loll out of the window of his hotel, and jest and exult, 
 as it was trundled into his porte-cochere. 
 
 This was the signal for other drains of like nature. 
 The English and Dutch merchants, who had purchased 
 a great amount of bank paper at low prices, cashed 
 them at the bank, and carried the money out of the 
 country. Other strangers did the like, thus draining 
 the kingdom of its specie, and leaving paper in its 
 place. 
 
 The Regent, perceiving these symptoms of decay in 
 the system, sought to restore it to public confidence by 
 conferring marks of confidence upon its author. He 
 accordingly resolved to make Law Comptroller-General 
 of the Finances of France. There was a material 
 obstacle in the way* Law was a Protestant, and the 
 Regent, unscrupulous as he was himself, did not dare 
 publicly to outrage the severe edicts which Louis XIV., 
 in his bigot days, had fulminated against all heretics. 
 Law soon let him know that there would be no diffi 
 culty on that head. He was ready at any moment to 
 abjure his religion in the way of business. For de 
 cency's sake, however, it was judged proper he should 
 previously be convinced and converted. A ghostly 
 instructor was soon found ready to accomplish his 
 conversion in the shortest possible time. This was the 
 Abbe Tencin, a profligate creature of the profligate
 
 152 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 Dubois, and like him working his way to ecclesiastical 
 promotion and temporal wealth by the basest means. 
 
 Under the instructions of the Abbe Tencin, Law 
 soon mastered the mysteries and dogmas of the Cath 
 olic doctrine; and, after a brief course of ghostly 
 training, declared himself thoroughly convinced and 
 converted. To avoid the sneers and jests of the 
 Parisian public, the ceremony of abjuration took place 
 at Melun. Law made a pious present of one hun 
 dred thousand livres to the Church of St. Roque, 
 and the Abbe Tencin was rewarded for his edify 
 ing labors by sundry shares and bank-bills, which 
 he shrewdly took care to convert into cash, having as 
 little faith in the system as in the piety of his new 
 convert. A more grave and moral community might 
 have been outraged by this scandalous farce; but the 
 Parisians laughed at it with their usual levity, and con 
 tented themselves with making it the subject of a num 
 ber of songs and epigrams. 
 
 Law being now orthodox in his faith, took out let 
 ters of naturalization, and having thus surmounted the 
 intervening obstacles, was elevated by the Regent to 
 the post of Comptroller-General. So accustomed had 
 the community become to all juggles and transmuta 
 tions in this hero of finance, that no one seemed 
 shocked or astonished at his sudden elevation. On the 
 contrary, being now considered perfectly established in 
 place and power, he became more than ever the object 
 of venal adoration. Men of rank and dignity thronged 
 his antechamber, waiting patiently their turn for an 
 audience; and titled dames demeaned themselves to 
 take the front seats of the carriages of his wife and 
 daughter, as if they had been riding with princesses of 
 the blood royal. Law's head grew giddy with his ele 
 vation, and he began to aspire after aristocratical dis 
 tinction. There was to be a court ball, at which several 
 of the young noblemen were to dance in a ballet with
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 153 
 
 the youthful king. Law requested that his son might 
 be admitted into the ballet, and the Regent consented. 
 The young scions of nobility, however, were indignant, 
 and scouted the " intruding upstart." Their more 
 worldly parents, fearful of displeasing the modern 
 Midas, reprimanded them in vain. The striplings had 
 not yet imbibed the passion for gain, and still held to 
 their high blood. The son of the banker received 
 slights and annoyances on all sides, and the public 
 applauded them for their spirit. A fit of illness came 
 opportunely to relieve the youth from an honor 
 which would have cost him a world of vexations and 
 affronts. 
 
 In February, 1720, shortly after Law's instalment 
 in office, a decree came out uniting the bank to the 
 India Company, by which last name the whole estab 
 lishment was now known. The decree stated, that, as 
 the bank was royal, the king was bound to make good 
 the value of its bills; that he committed to the com 
 pany the government of the bank for fifty years, and 
 sold to it fifty millions of stock belonging to him, for 
 nine hundred millions, a simple advance of eighteen 
 hundred per cent. The decree farther declared, in the 
 king's name, that he would never draw on the bank 
 until the value of his drafts had first been lodged in it 
 by his receivers-general. 
 
 The bank, it was said, had by this time issued notes 
 to the amount of one thousand millions, being more 
 paper than all the banks of Europe were able to cir 
 culate. To aid its credit, the receivers of the revenue 
 were directed to take bank-notes of the sub-receivers. 
 All payments, also, of one hundred livres and upward, 
 were ordered to be made in bank-notes. These com 
 pulsory measures for a short time gave a false credit 
 to the bank, which proceeded to discount merchants' 
 notes, to lend money on jewels, plate, and other valu 
 ables, as well as on mortgages.
 
 154 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 Still farther to force on the system, an edict next 
 appeared, forbidding any individual, or any corporate 
 body, civil or religious, to hold in possession more 
 than five hundred livres in current coin ; that is to say, 
 about seven louis-d'ors ; the value of the louis-d'or in 
 paper being, at the time, seventy-two livres. All the 
 gold and silver they might have, above this pittance, 
 was to be brought to the royal bank, and exchanged 
 either for shares or bills. 
 
 As confiscation was the penalty of disobedience to 
 this decree, and informers were assured a share of the 
 forfeitures, a bounty was in a manner held out to 
 domestic spies and traitors, and the most odious scru 
 tiny was awakened into the pecuniary affairs of fami 
 lies and individuals. The very confidence between 
 friends and relatives was impaired, and all the domes 
 tic ties and virtues of society were threatened, until 
 a general sentiment of indignation broke forth, that 
 compelled the Regent to rescind the odious decree. 
 Lord Stairs, the British ambassador, speaking of the 
 system of espionage encouraged by this edict, observed 
 that it was impossible to doubt that Law was a thor 
 ough Catholic, since he had thus established the inqui 
 sition, after having already proved transubstantiation 
 by changing specie into paper. 
 
 Equal abuses had taken place under the colonizing 
 project. In his thousand expedients to amass capital, 
 Law had sold parcels of land in Mississippi, at the rate 
 of three thousand livres for a league square. Many 
 capitalists had purchased estates large enough to con 
 stitute almost a principality; the only evil was, Law 
 had sold a property which he could not deliver. The 
 agents of police, who aided in recruiting the ranks of 
 the colonists, had been guilty of scandalous impositions. 
 Under pretence of taking up mendicants and vaga 
 bonds, they had scoured the streets at night, seizing 
 upon honest mechanics or their sons, and hurrying
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 155 
 
 them to their crimping-houses for the sole purpose of 
 extorting money from them as a ransom. The popu 
 lace was roused to indignation by these abuses. The 
 officers of police were mobbed in the exercise of their 
 odious functions, and several of them were killed, which 
 put an end to this flagrant abuse of power. 
 
 In March, a most extraordinary decree of the council 
 fixed the price of shares of the India Company at nine 
 thousand livres each. All ecclesiastical communities 
 and hospitals were now prohibited from investing 
 money at interest in anything but India stock. With 
 all these props and stays, the system continued to totter. 
 How could it be otherwise, under a despotic govern 
 ment that could alter the value of property at every 
 moment? The very compulsory measures that were 
 adopted to establish the credit of the bank hastened its 
 fall, plainly showing there was a want of solid security. 
 Law caused pamphlets to be published, setting forth, 
 in eloquent language, the vast profits that must accrue 
 to holders of the stock, and the impossibility of the 
 king's ever doing it any harm. On the very back of 
 these assertions came forth an edict of the king, dated 
 the 22d of May, wherein, under pretence of having 
 reduced the value of his coin, it was declared necessary 
 to reduce the value of his bank-notes one half, and of 
 the India shares from nine thousand to five thousand 
 livres ! 
 
 This decree came like a clap of thunder upon share 
 holders. They found one half of the pretended value 
 of the paper in their hands annihilated in an instant; 
 and what certainty had they with respect to the other 
 half? The rich considered themselves ruined; those 
 in humbler circumstances looked forward to abject 
 beggary. 
 
 The parliament seized the occasion to stand forth as 
 the protector of the public, and refused to register the 
 decree. It gained the credit of compelling the Regent
 
 156 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 to retrace his step, though it is more probable he yielded 
 to the universal burst of public astonishment and repro 
 bation. On the 2/th of May the edict was revoked, 
 and bank-bills were restored to their previous value. 
 But the fatal blow had been struck; the delusion was 
 at an end. Government itself had lost all public con 
 fidence equally with the bank it had engendered, and 
 which its own arbitrary acts had brought into discredit. 
 " All Paris," says the Regent's mother, in her letters, 
 " has been mourning at the cursed decree which Law 
 has persuaded my son to make. I have received anony 
 mous letters stating that I have nothing to fear on my 
 own account, but that my son shall be pursued with 
 fire and sword." 
 
 The Regent now endeavored to avert the odium of 
 his ruinous schemes from himself. He affected to have 
 suddenly lost confidence in Law, and on the 2Qth of 
 May discharged him from his employ as Comptroller- 
 General, and stationed a Swiss guard of sixteen men 
 in his house. He even refused to see him, when, on 
 the following day, he applied at the portal of the 
 Palais Royal for admission ; but having played off this 
 farce before the public, he admitted him secretly the 
 same night, by a private door, and continued as before 
 to cooperate with him in his financial schemes. 
 
 On the first of June, the Regent issued a decree per 
 mitting persons to have as much money as they pleased 
 in their possession. Few, however, were in a state to 
 benefit by this permission. There was a run upon the 
 bank, but a royal ordinance immediately suspended 
 payment until farther orders. To relieve the public 
 mind, a city stock was created of twenty-five mil 
 lions, bearing an interest of two and a half per cent., 
 for which bank-notes were taken in exchange. The 
 bank-notes thus withdrawn from circulation were pub 
 licly burnt before the Hotel de Ville. The public, how 
 ever, had lost confidence in everything and everybody,
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 157 
 
 and suspected fraud and collusion in those who pre 
 tended to burn the bills. 
 
 A general confusion now took place in the financial 
 world. Families who had lived in opulence found 
 themselves suddenly reduced to indigence. Schemers 
 who had been revelling in the delusion of princely 
 fortunes found their estates vanishing into thin air. 
 Those who had any property remaining sought to se 
 cure it against reverses. Cautious persons found there 
 was no safety for property in a country where the coin 
 was continually shifting in value, and where a des 
 potism was exercised over public securities, and even 
 over the private purses of individuals. They began to 
 send their effects into other countries ; when lo ! on the 
 2Oth of June, a royal edict commanded them to bring 
 back their effects, under penalty of forfeiting twice 
 their value, and forbade them, under like penalty, from 
 investing their money in foreign stocks. This was 
 soon followed by another decree, forbidding any one 
 to retain precious stones in his possession, or to sell 
 them to foreigners ; all must be deposited in the bank 
 in exchange for depreciating paper ! 
 
 Execrations were now poured out, on all sides, 
 against Law, and menaces of vengeance. What a con 
 trast, in a short time, to the venal incense once offered 
 up to him ! " This person," writes the Regent's 
 mother, " who was formerly worshipped as a god, is 
 now not sure of his life. It is astonishing how greatly 
 terrified he is. He is as a dead man; he is pale as a 
 sheet, and it is said he can never get over it. My son 
 is not dismayed, though he is threatened on all sides, 
 and is very much amused with Law's terrors." 
 
 About the middle of July, the last grand attempt 
 was made by Law and the Regent to keep up the sys 
 tem and provide for the immense emission of paper. 
 A decree was fabricated, giving the India Company 
 the entire monopoly of commerce, on condition that it
 
 158 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 would, in the course of a year, reimburse six hundred 
 millions of livres of its bills, at the rate of fifty millions 
 per month. 
 
 On the 1 7th this decree was sent to parliament to be 
 registered. It at once raised a storm of opposition in 
 that assembly, and a vehement discussion took place. 
 While that was going on, a disastrous scene was pass 
 ing out of doors. 
 
 The calamitous effects of the system had reached the 
 humblest concerns of human life. Provisions had risen 
 to an enormous price; paper money was refused at 
 all the shops; the people had not wherewithal to buy 
 bread. It had been found absolutely indispensable to 
 relax a little from the suspension of specie payments, 
 and to allow small sums to be scantily exchanged for 
 paper. The doors of the bank and the neighboring 
 street were immediately thronged with a famishing 
 multitude seeking cash for bank-notes of ten livres. 
 So great was the press and struggle, that several per 
 sons were stifled and crushed to death. The mob 
 carried three of the bodies to the court-yard of the 
 Palais Royal. Some cried for the Regent to come 
 forth, and behold the effect of his system; others de 
 manded the death of Law, the impostor, who had 
 brought this misery and ruin upon the nation. 
 
 The moment was critical : the popular fury was 
 rising to a tempest, when Le Blanc, the Secretary of 
 State, stepped forth. He had previously sent for the 
 military, and now only sought to gain time. Singling 
 out six or seven stout fellows, who seemed to be the 
 ringleaders of the mob, " My good fellows," said he, 
 calmly, " carry away these bodies, and place them in 
 some church, and then come back quickly to me for 
 your pay." They immediately obeyed; a kind of 
 funeral procession was formed ; the arrival of troops 
 dispersed those who lingered behind; and Paris was 
 probably saved from an insurrection.
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 159 
 
 About ten o'clock in the morning, all being quiet, 
 Law ventured to go in his carriage to the Palais Royal. 
 He was saluted with cries and curses as he passed 
 along the streets; and he reached the Palais Royal in 
 a terrible fright. The Regent amused himself with his 
 fears, but retained him with him, and sent off his car 
 riage, which was assailed by the mob, pelted with 
 stones, and the glasses shivered. The news of this 
 outrage was communicated to parliament in the midst 
 of a furious discussion of the decree for the commer 
 cial monopoly. The first president, who had been 
 absent for a short time, reentered, and communicated 
 the tidings in a whimsical couplet: 
 
 Messieurs, Messieurs ! bonne nouvelle ! 
 Le carrosse de Law est reduit en carrelle ! 
 
 Gentlemen, Gentlemen ! good news ! 
 
 The carriage of Law is shivered to atoms ! 
 
 The members sprang up with joy. " And Law ! " 
 exclaimed they, " has he been torn to pieces ? " The 
 president was ignorant of the result of the tumult; 
 whereupon the debate was cut short, the decree re 
 jected, and the house adjourned, the members hurry 
 ing to learn the particulars. Such was the levity with 
 which public affairs were treated at that dissolute and 
 disastrous period. 
 
 On the following day there was an ordinance from 
 the king, prohibiting all popular assemblages; and 
 troops were stationed at various points, and in all 
 public places. The regiment of guards was ordered 
 to hold itself in readiness, and the musketeers to be 
 at their hotels, with their horses ready saddled. A 
 number of small offices were opened, where people 
 might cash small notes, though with great delay and 
 difficulty. An edict was also issued, declaring that 
 whoever should refuse to take bank-notes in the course 
 of trade, should forfeit double the amount !
 
 160 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 The continued and vehement opposition of parlia 
 ment to the whole delusive system of finance had been 
 a constant source of annoyance to the Regent; but 
 this obstinate rejection of his last grand expedient of 
 a commercial monopoly was not to be tolerated. He 
 determined to punish that intractable body. The Abbe 
 Dubois and Law suggested a simple mode; it was to 
 suppress the parliament altogether, being, as they 
 observed, so far from useful, that it was a constant 
 impediment to the march of public affairs. The Re 
 gent was half inclined to listen to their advice; but 
 upon calmer consideration, and the advice of friends, 
 he adopted a more moderate course. On the 2Oth of 
 July, early in the morning, all the doors of the parlia 
 ment-house were taken possession of by the troops. 
 Others were sent to surround the house of the first 
 president, and others to the houses of the various 
 members; who were all at first in great alarm, until 
 an order from the king was put into their hands, to 
 render themselves at Pontoise, in the course of two 
 days, to which place the parliament was thus suddenly 
 and arbitrarily transferred. 
 
 This despotic act, says Voltaire, would at any 
 other time have caused an insurrection; but one half 
 of the Parisians were occupied by their ruin, and the 
 other half by their fancied riches, which were soon 
 to vanish. The president and members of parliament 
 acquiesced in the mandate without a murmur; they 
 even went as if on a party of pleasure, and made every 
 preparation to lead a joyous life in their exile. The 
 musketeers, who held possession of the vacated parlia 
 ment-house, a gay corps of fashionable young fellows, 
 amused themselves with making songs and pasqui 
 nades, at the expense of the exiled legislators; and at 
 length, to pass away time, formed themselves into a 
 mock parliament; elected their presidents, kings, min 
 isters, and advocates; took their seats in due form;
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 161 
 
 arraigned a cat at their bar, in place of the Sieur Law, 
 and, after giving it a " fair trial," condemned it to be 
 hanged. In this manner, public affairs and public 
 institutions were lightly turned to jest. 
 
 As to the exiled parliament, it lived gayly and 
 luxuriously at Pontoise, at the public expense; for 
 the Regent had furnished funds, as usual, with a lavish 
 hand. The first president had the mansion of the 
 Duke de Bouillon put at his disposal, all ready fur 
 nished, with a vast and delightful garden on the 
 borders of a river. There he kept open house to all 
 the members of parliament. Several tables were 
 spread every day, all furnished luxuriously and splen 
 didly; the most exquisite wines and liquors, the 
 choicest fruits and refreshments of all kinds, abounded. 
 A number of small chariots for one and two horses 
 were always at hand, for such ladies and old gentle 
 men as wished to take an airing after dinner, and 
 card and billiard tables for such as chose to amuse 
 themselves in that way until supper. The sister and 
 the daughter of the first president did the honors of his 
 house, and he himself presided there with an air of 
 great ease, hospitality, and magnificence. It became a 
 party of pleasure to drive from Paris to Pontoise, 
 which was six leagues distant, and partake of the 
 amusements and festivities of the place. Business 
 was openly slighted; nothing was thought of but 
 amusement. The Regent and his government were 
 laughed at, and made the subjects of continual pleas 
 antries ; while the enormous expenses incurred by this 
 idle and lavish course of life more than doubled the 
 liberal sums provided. This was the way in which 
 the parliament resented their exile. 
 
 During all this time the system was getting more 
 and more involved. The stock exchange had some 
 time previously been removed to the Place Vendome; 
 but the tumult and noise becoming intolerable to the
 
 1 62 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 residents of that polite quarter, and especially to the 
 chancellor, whose hotel was there, the Prince and 
 Princess Carignan, both deep gamblers in Mississippi 
 stock, offered the extensive garden of their Hotel de 
 Soissons as a rallying-place for the worshippers of 
 Mammon. The offer was accepted. A number of 
 barracks were immediately erected in the garden, as 
 offices for the stock-brokers, and an order was obtained 
 from the Regent, under pretext of police regulations, 
 that no bargain should be valid, unless concluded in 
 these barracks. The rent of them immediately 
 mounted to a hundred livres a month for each, 
 and the whole yielded these noble proprietors an 
 ignoble revenue of half a million of livres. 
 
 The mania for gain, however, was now at an end. 
 A universal panic succeeded. " Sauve qui pent! " was 
 the watchword. Every one was anxious to exchange 
 falling paper for something of intrinsic and perma 
 nent value. Since money was not to be had, jewels, 
 precious stones, plate, porcelain, trinkets of gold and 
 silver, all commanded any price, in paper. Land was 
 bought at fifty years' purchase, and he esteemed him 
 self happy who could get it even at this price. Mo 
 nopolies now became the rage among the noble holders 
 of paper. The Duke de la Force bought up nearly 
 all the tallow, grease, and soap; others, the coffee 
 and spices; others, hay and oats. Foreign exchanges 
 were almost impracticable. The debts of Dutch and 
 English merchants were paid in this fictitious money, 
 all the coin of the realm having disappeared. All the 
 relations of debtor and creditor were confounded. 
 With one thousand crowns one might pay a debt of 
 eighteen thousand livres. 
 
 The Regent's mother, who once exulted in the af 
 fluence of bank paper, now wrote in a very different 
 tone. " I have often wished," said she, in her letters, 
 " that these bank-notes were in the depths of the in-
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 163 
 
 fernal regions. They have given my son more trouble 
 than relief. Nobody in France has a penny. . . . 
 My son was once popular; but since the arrival of 
 this cursed Law he is hated more and more. Not a 
 week passes without my receiving letters filled with 
 frightful threats, and speaking of him as a tyrant. I 
 have just received one, threatening him with poison. 
 When I showed it to him, he did nothing but laugh." 
 
 In the mean time, Law was dismayed by the in 
 creasing troubles, and terrified at the tempest he had 
 raised. He was not a man of real courage ; and, fear 
 ing for his personal safety, from popular tumult, or 
 the despair of ruined individuals, he again took refuge 
 in the palace of the Regent. The latter, as usual, 
 amused himself with his terrors, and turned every 
 new disaster into a jest; but he, too, began to think 
 of his own security. 
 
 In pursuing the schemes of Law, he had, no doubt, 
 calculated to carry through his term of government 
 with ease and splendor, and to enrich himself, his con 
 nections, and his favorites; and had hoped that the 
 catastrophe of the system would not take place until 
 after the expiration of the regency. 
 
 He now saw his mistake, that it was impossible 
 much longer to prevent an explosion; and he deter 
 mined at once to get Law out of the way, and then to 
 charge him with the whole tissue of delusions of this 
 paper alchemy. He accordingly took occasion of the 
 recall of parliament in December, 1720, to suggest 
 to Law the policy of his avoiding an encounter with 
 that hostile and exasperated body. Law needed no 
 urging to the measure. His only desire was to escape 
 from Paris and its tempestuous populace. Two days 
 before the return of parliament, he took his sudden 
 and secret departure. He travelled in a chaise bearing 
 the arms of the Regent, and was escorted by a kind of 
 safeguard of servants, in the duke's livery. His first
 
 1 64 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 place of refuge was an estate of the Regent's, about 
 six leagues from Paris, from whence he pushed for 
 ward to Bruxelles. 
 
 As soon as Law was fairly out of the way, the 
 Duke of Orleans summoned a council of the regency, 
 and informed them that they were assembled to de 
 liberate on the state of the finances and the affairs 
 of the India Company. Accordingly La Houssaye, 
 Comptroller-General, rendered a perfectly clear state 
 ment, by which it appeared that there were bank-bills 
 in circulation to the amount of two milliards seven 
 hundred millions of livres, without any evidence that 
 this enormous sum had been emitted in virtue of any 
 ordinance from the general assembly of the India 
 Company, which alone had the right to authorize such 
 emissions. 
 
 The council was astonished at this disclosure, and 
 looked to the Regent for explanation. Pushed to the 
 extreme, the Regent avowed that Law had emitted 
 bills to the amount of twelve hundred millions beyond 
 what had been fixed by ordinances, and in contradic 
 tion to express prohibitions ; that, the thing being 
 done, he, the Regent, had legalized or rather covered 
 the transaction, by decrees ordering such emissions, 
 which decrees he had antedated. 
 
 A stormy scene ensued between the Regent and the 
 Duke de Bourbon, little to the credit of either, both 
 having been deeply implicated in the cabalistic opera 
 tions of the system. In fact, the several members of 
 the council had been among the most venal " benefici 
 aries " of the scheme, and had interests at stake which 
 they were anxious to secure. From all the circum 
 stances of the case, I am inclined to think that others 
 were more to blame than Law for the disastrous effects 
 of his financial projects. His bank, had it been con 
 fined to its original limits, and left to the control of its 
 own internal regulations, might have gone on prosper-
 
 THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 165 
 
 ously, and been of great benefit to the nation. It was 
 an institution fitted for a free country; but, unfortu 
 nately, it was subject to the control of a despotic gov 
 ernment, that could, at its pleasure, alter the value of 
 the specie within its vaults, and compel the most extrava 
 gant expansions of its paper circulation. The vital 
 principle of a bank is security in the regularity of its 
 operations, and the immediate convertibility of its 
 paper into coin ; and what confidence could be reposed 
 in an institution, or its paper promises, when the sover 
 eign could at any moment centuple those promises in 
 the market, and seize upon all the money in the bank? 
 The compulsory measures used, likewise, to force bank 
 notes into currency, against the judgment of the 
 public, was fatal to the system; for credit must be 
 free and uncontrolled as the common air. The Re 
 gent was the evil spirit of the system, that forced Law 
 on to an expansion of his paper currency far beyond 
 what he had ever dreamed of. He it was that in a 
 manner compelled the unlucky projector to devise all 
 kinds of collateral companies and monopolies, by which 
 to raise funds to meet the constantly and enormously 
 increasing emissions of shares and notes. Law was 
 but like a poor conjurer in the hands of a potent spirit 
 that he has evoked, and that obliges him to go on, des 
 perately and ruinously, with his conjurations. He 
 only thought at the outset to raise the wind, but the 
 Regent compelled him to raise the whirlwind. 
 
 The investigation of the affairs of the company by 
 the council resulted in nothing beneficial to the public. 
 The princes and nobles who had enriched themselves 
 by all kinds of juggles and extortions escaped un 
 punished, and retained the greater part of their spoils. 
 Many of the " suddenly rich," who had risen from 
 obscurity to a giddy height of imaginary prosperity, 
 and had indulged in all kinds of vulgar and ridiculous 
 excesses, awoke as out of a dream, in their original
 
 166 TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY 
 
 poverty, now made more galling and humiliating by 
 their transient elevation. 
 
 The weight of the evil, however, fell on more 
 valuable classes of society, honest tradesmen and 
 artisans, who had been seduced away from the slow 
 accumulations of industry, to the specious chances of 
 speculation. Thousands of meritorious families, also, 
 once opulent, had been reduced to indigence by a too 
 great confidence in government. There was a general 
 derangement in the finances, that long exerted a bane 
 ful influence over the national prosperity; but the 
 most disastrous effects of the system were upon the 
 morals and manners of the nation. The faith of en 
 gagements, the sanctity of promises in affairs of busi 
 ness, were at an end. Every expedient to grasp 
 present profit, or to evade present difficulty, was toler 
 ated. While such deplorable laxity of principle was 
 generated in the busy classes, the chivalry of France 
 had soiled their pennons ; and honor and glory, so 
 long the idols of the Gallic nobility, had been tumbled 
 to the earth, and trampled in the dirt of the stock- 
 market. 
 
 As to Law, the originator of the system, he appears 
 eventually to have profited but little by his schemes. 
 " He was a quack," says Voltaire, " to whom the state 
 was given to be cured, but who poisoned it with his 
 drugs, and who poisoned himself." The effects 
 which he left behind in France were sold at a low 
 price, and the proceeds dissipated. His landed estates 
 were confiscated. He carried away with him barely 
 enough to maintain himself, his wife, and daughter, 
 with decency. The chief relic of his immense fortune 
 was a great diamond, which he was often obliged to 
 pawn. He was in England in 1721, and was presented 
 to George the First. He returned, shortly afterward, 
 to the Continent, shifting about from place to place, 
 and died in Venice, in 1729. His wife and daughter,
 
 THE PARISIAN HOTEL 167 
 
 accustomed to live with the prodigality of princesses, 
 could not conform to their altered fortunes, but dissi 
 pated the scanty means left to them, and sank into 
 abject poverty. " I saw his wife," says Voltaire, " at 
 Bruxelles, as much humiliated as she had been haughty 
 and triumphant at Paris." An elder brother of Law 
 remained in France, and was protected by the Duchess 
 of Bourbon. His descendants acquitted themselves 
 honorably, in various public employments ; and one of 
 them was the Marquis Lauriston, sometime Lieutenant- 
 General and Peer of France. 
 
 SKETCHES IN PARIS IN 1825 
 
 FROM THE TRAVELLING NOTE-BOOK OF 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 
 
 THE PARISIAN HOTEL 
 
 A GREAT hotel in Paris is a street set on end : the 
 grand staircase is the highway, and every floor or 
 apartment a separate habitation. The one in which 
 I am lodged may serve as a specimen. It is a large 
 quadrangular pile, built round a spacious paved court. 
 The ground-floor is occupied by shops, magazines, and 
 domestic offices. Then comes the entre-sol, with low 
 ceilings, short windows, and dwarf chambers; then 
 succeed a succession of floors, or stories, rising one 
 above the other, to the number of Mahomet's heavens. 
 Each floor is a mansion, complete within itself, with 
 antechamber, saloons, dining and sleeping rooms, 
 kitchen, and other conveniences. Some floors are di 
 vided into two or more suites of apartments. Each 
 apartment has its main door of entrance, opening upon 
 the staircase, or landing-places, and locked like a
 
 1 68 SKETCHES IN PARIS 
 
 street-door. Thus several families and numerous 
 single persons live under the same roof, totally in 
 dependent of each other, and may live so for years, 
 without holding more intercourse than is kept up in 
 other cities by residents in the same street. 
 
 Like the great world, this little microcosm has its 
 gradations of rank and style and importance. The 
 premier, or first floor, with its grand saloons, lofty 
 ceilings, and splendid furniture, is decidedly the aris- 
 tocratical part of the establishment. The second floor 
 is scarcely less aristocratical and magnificent; the 
 other floors go on lessening in splendor as they gain 
 in altitude, and end with the attics, the region of petty 
 tailors, clerks, and sewing-girls. To make the filling 
 up of the mansion complete, every odd nook and corner 
 is fitted up as a joli petit appartement a gargon, (a 
 pretty little bachelor's apartment,) that is to say, some 
 little dark inconvenient nestling-place for a poor devil 
 of a bachelor. 
 
 The whole domain is shut up from the street by a 
 great porte-cochere, or portal, calculated for the ad 
 mission of carriages. This consists of two massy 
 folding doors, that swing heavily open upon a spacious 
 entrance, passing under the front of the edifice into 
 the court-yard. On one side is a grand staircase lead 
 ing to the upper apartments. Immediately without 
 the portal is the porter's lodge, a small room with one 
 or two bedrooms adjacent, for the accommodation of 
 the concierge, or porter, and his family. This is one 
 of the most important functionaries of the hotel. He 
 is, in fact, the Cerberus of the establishment, and no 
 one can pass in or out without his knowledge and con 
 sent. The porte-cochere in general is fastened by a 
 sliding bolt, from which a cord or wire passes into 
 the porter's lodge. Whoever wishes to go out must 
 speak to the porter, who draws the bolt. A visitor 
 from without gives a single rap with the massive
 
 THE PARISIAN HOTEL 169 
 
 knocker; the bolt is immediately drawn, as if by an 
 invisible hand; the door stands ajar, the visitor pushes 
 it open, and enters. A face presents itself at the glass 
 door of the porter's little chamber; the stranger pro 
 nounces the name of the person he comes to seek. If 
 the person or family is of importance, occupying the 
 first or second floor, the porter sounds a bell once or 
 twice, to give notice that a visitor is at hand. The 
 stranger in the mean time ascends the great staircase, 
 the highway common to all, and arrives at the outer 
 door, equivalent to a street-door, of the suite of rooms 
 inhabited by his friends. Beside this hangs a bell- 
 cord, with which he rings for admittance. 
 
 When the family or person inquired for is of less 
 importance, or lives in some remote part of the mansion 
 less easy to be apprised, no signal is given. The appli 
 cant pronounces the name at the porter's door, and is 
 told, " Montez au troisieme, au quatrieme; sonnez a 
 la porte a droite, ou a gauche," (" Ascend to the third 
 or fourth story ; ring the bell on the right or left hand 
 door,") as the case may be. 
 
 The porter and his wife act as domestics to such 
 of the inmates of the mansion as do not keep servants ; 
 making their beds, arranging their rooms, lighting their 
 fires, and doing other menial offices, for which they 
 receive a monthly stipend. They are also in con 
 fidential intercourse with the servants of the other in 
 mates, and, having an eye on all the incomers and out- 
 goers, are thus enabled, by hook and by crook, to learn 
 the secrets and the domestic history of every member 
 of the little territory within the porte-cochere. 
 
 The porter's lodge is accordingly a great scene of 
 gossip, where all the private affairs of this interior 
 neighborhood are discussed. The court-yard, also, is 
 an assembling-place in the evening for the servants of 
 the different families, and a sisterhood of sewing-girls 
 from the entre-sols and the attics, to play at various
 
 170 SKETCHES IN PARIS 
 
 games, and dance to the music of their own songs and 
 the echoes of their feet; at which assemblages the 
 porter's daughter takes the lead, fresh, pretty, 
 buxom girl, generally called " La Petite," though al 
 most as tall as a grenadier. These little evening 
 gatherings, so characteristic of this gay country, are 
 countenanced by the various families of the mansion, 
 who often look down from their windows and balconies 
 on moonlight evenings, and enjoy the simple revels 
 of their domestics. I must observe, however, that the 
 hotel I am describing is rather a quiet, retired one, 
 where most of the inmates are permanent residents 
 from year to year, so that there is more of the spirit of 
 neighborhood than in the bustling, fashionable hotels 
 in the gay parts of Paris, which are continually 
 changing their inhabitants. 
 
 MY FRENCH NEIGHBOR 
 
 I often amuse myself by watching from my window 
 (which, by the by, is tolerably elevated) the move 
 ments of the teeming little world below me ; and as I 
 am on sociable terms with the porter and his wife, I 
 gather from them, as they light my fire, or serve 
 my breakfast, anecdotes of all my fellow-lodgers. I 
 have been somewhat curious in studying a little antique 
 Frenchman, who occupies one of the jolies chambrcs 
 a garqon already mentioned. He is one of those super 
 annuated veterans who flourished before the Revolution, 
 and have weathered all the storms of Paris, in conse 
 quence, very probably, of being fortunately too insig 
 nificant to attract attention. He has a small income, 
 which he manages with the skill of a French economist ; 
 appropriating so much for his lodgings, so much for 
 his meals, so much for his visits to St. Cloud and 
 Versailles, and so much for his seat at the theatre.
 
 MY FRENCH NEIGHBOR 171 
 
 He has resided at the hotel for years, and always in 
 the same chamber, which he furnishes at his own ex 
 pense. The decorations of the room mark his various 
 ages. There are some gallant pictures, which he hung 
 up in his younger days, with a portrait of a lady of 
 rank, whom he speaks tenderly of, dressed in the old 
 French taste, and a pretty opera-dancer, pirouetting 
 in a hoop-petticoat, who lately died at a good old age. 
 In a corner of this picture is stuck a prescription for 
 rheumatism, and below it stands an easy-chair. He 
 has a small parrot at the window, to amuse him when 
 within doors, and a pug-dog to accompany him in his 
 daily peregrinations. While I am writing, he is 
 crossing the court to go out. He is attired in his best 
 coat of sky-blue, and is doubtless bound for the 
 Tuileries. His hair is dressed in the old style, with 
 powdered ear-locks and a pigtail. His little dog trips 
 after him, sometimes on four legs, sometimes on three, 
 and looking as if his leather small-clothes were too 
 tight for him. Now the old gentleman stops to have 
 a word with an old crony who lives in the entre-sol, 
 and is just returning from his promenade. Now they 
 take a pinch of snuff together ; now they pull out huge 
 red cotton handkerchiefs, (those " flags of abomina 
 tion," as they have well been called,) and blow their 
 noses most sonorously. Now they turn to make re 
 marks upon their two little dogs, who are exchanging 
 the morning's salutation; now they part, and my old 
 gentleman stops to have a passing word with the 
 porter's wife; and now he sallies forth, and is fairly 
 launched upon the town for the day. 
 
 No man is so methodical as a complete idler, and 
 none so scrupulous in measuring and portioning out 
 his time as he whose time is worth nothing. The old 
 gentleman in question has his exact hour for rising, 
 and for shaving himself by a small mirror hung against 
 his casement. He sallies forth at a certain hour every
 
 I 7 2 SKETCHES IN PARIS 
 
 morning, to take his cup of coffee and his roll at a 
 certain cafe, where he reads the papers. He has been 
 a regular admirer of the lady who presides at the bar, 
 and always stops to have a little badinage with her, en 
 passant. He has his regular walks on the Boulevards 
 and in the Palais Royal, where he sets his watch by 
 the petard fired off by the sun at mid-day. He has 
 his daily resort in the Garden of the Tuileries, to meet 
 with a knot of veteran idlers like himself, who talk 
 on pretty much the same subjects whenever they meet. 
 He has been present at all the sights and shows and 
 rejoicings of Paris for the last fifty years; has wit 
 nessed the great events of the revolution ; the guillotin 
 ing of the king and queen; the coronation of Bona 
 parte ; the capture of Paris, and the restoration of the 
 Bourbons. All these he speaks of with the coolness 
 of a theatrical critic; and I question whether he has 
 not been gratified by each in its turn ; not from any 
 inherent love of tumult, but from that insatiable appe 
 tite for spectacle which prevails among the inhabitants 
 of this metropolis. I have been amused with a farce, 
 in which one of these systematic old triflers is repre 
 sented. He sings a song detailing his whole day's 
 round of insignificant occupations, and goes to bed 
 delighted with the idea that his next day will be an 
 exact repetition of the same routine : 
 
 Je me couche le soir, 
 Enchante de pouvoir 
 Recommencer mon train 
 Le lendemain 
 Matin.
 
 THE ENGLISHMAN AT PARIS 173 
 
 THE ENGLISHMAN AT PARIS 
 
 In another part of the hotel, a handsome suite of 
 rooms is occupied by an old English gentleman, of 
 great probity, some understanding, and very consider 
 able crustiness, who has come to France to live eco 
 nomically. He has a very fair property, but his wife, 
 being of that blessed kind compared in Scripture to 
 the fruitful vine, has overwhelmed him with a family 
 of buxom daughters, who hang clustering about him, 
 ready to be gathered by any hand. He is seldom to be 
 seen in public without one hanging on each arm, and 
 smiling on all the world, while his own mouth is 
 drawn down at each corner like a mastiff's, with in 
 ternal growling at everything about him. He adheres 
 rigidly to English fashion in dress, and trudges about 
 in long gaiters and broad-brimmed hat; while his 
 daughters almost overshadow him with feathers, 
 flowers, and French bonnets. 
 
 He contrives to keep up an atmosphere of English 
 habits, opinions, and prejudices, and to carry a sem 
 blance of London into the very heart of Paris. His 
 mornings are spent at Galignani's news-room, where 
 he forms one of a knot of inveterate quidnuncs, who 
 read the same articles over a dozen times in a dozen 
 different papers. He generally dines in company with 
 some of his own countrymen, and they have what is 
 called a " comfortable sitting " after dinner, in the 
 English fashion, drinking wine, discussing the news 
 of the London papers, and canvassing the French 
 character, the French metropolis, and the French revo 
 lution, ending with a unanimous admission of English 
 courage, English morality, English cookery, English 
 wealth, the magnitude of London, and the ingratitude 
 of the French. 
 
 His evenings are chiefly spent at a club of his coun-
 
 174 SKETCHES IN PARIS 
 
 trymen, where the London papers are taken. Some 
 times his daughters entice him to the theatres, but not 
 often. He abuses French tragedy, as all fustian and 
 bombast, Talma as a ranter, and Duchesnois as a 
 mere termagant. It is true his ear is not sufficiently 
 familiar with the lauguage to understand French verse, 
 and he generally goes to sleep during the performance. 
 The wit of the French comedy is flat and pointless 
 to him. He would not give one of Munden's wry 
 faces, or Liston's inexpressible looks, for the whole 
 of it. 
 
 He will not admit that Paris has any advantage 
 over London. The Seine is a muddy rivulet in com 
 parison with the Thames ; the West End of London 
 surpasses the finest parts of the French capital; and 
 on some one's observing that there was a very thick 
 fog out of doors, " Pish ! " said he, crustily, " it 's 
 nothing to the fogs we have in London ! " 
 
 He has infinite trouble in bringing his table into 
 anything like conformity to English rule. With his 
 liquors, it is true, he is tolerably successful. He pro 
 cures London porter and a stock of port and sherry, 
 at considerable expense, for he observes that he cannot 
 stand those cursed thin French wines; they dilute his 
 blood so much as to give him the rheumatism. As to 
 their white wines, he stigmatizes them as mere sub 
 stitutes for cider; and as to claret, why " it would be 
 port if it could." He has continual quarrels with his 
 French cook, whom he renders wretched by insisting 
 on his conforming to Mrs. Glasse; for it is easier to 
 convert a Frenchman from his religion than his cook 
 ery. The poor fellow, by dint of repeated efforts, 
 once brought himself to serve up ros bif sufficiently 
 raw to suit what he considered the cannibal taste of 
 his master; but then he could not refrain, at the last 
 moment, adding some exquisite sauce, that put the old 
 gentleman in a fury.
 
 THE ENGLISHMAN AT PARIS 175 
 
 He detests wood-fires, and has procured a quantity 
 of coal ; but not having a grate, he is obliged to burn 
 it on the hearth. Here he sits poking and stirring the 
 fire with one end of a tongs, while the room is as 
 murky as a smithy; railing at French chimneys, 
 French masons, and French architects ; giving a poke 
 at the end of every sentence, as though he were stirring 
 up the very bowels of the delinquents he is anathema 
 tizing. He lives in a state militant with inanimate 
 objects around him; gets into high dudgeon with doors 
 and casements because they will not come under Eng 
 lish law, and has implacable feuds with sundry re 
 fractory pieces of furniture. Among these is one in 
 particular with which he is sure to have a high quarrel 
 every time he goes to dress. It is a commode, one of 
 those smooth, polished, plausible pieces of French fur 
 niture that have the perversity of five hundred devils. 
 Each drawer has a will of its own; will open or not, 
 just as the whim takes it, and sets lock and key at 
 defiance. Sometimes a drawer will refuse to yield to 
 either persuasion or force, and will part with both 
 handles rather than yield; another will come out in 
 the most coy and coquettish manner imaginable, elbow 
 ing along, zigzag, one corner retreating as the other 
 advances, making a thousand difficulties and objections 
 at every move, until the old gentleman, out of all 
 patience, gives a sudden jerk, and brings drawer and 
 contents into the middle of the floor. His hostility 
 to this unlucky piece of furniture increases every day, 
 as if incensed that it does not grow better. He is like 
 the fretful invalid, who cursed his bed, that the longer 
 he lay the harder it grew. The only benefit he has 
 derived from the quarrel is, that it has furnished him 
 with a crusty joke, which he utters on all occasions. 
 He swears that a French commode is the most incom 
 modious thing in existence, and that although the 
 nation cannot make a joint-stool that will stand steady,
 
 1 76 SKETCHES IN PARIS 
 
 yet they are always talking of everything's being 
 perfectionee. 
 
 His servants understand his humor, and avail them 
 selves of it. He was one day disturbed by a perti 
 nacious rattling and shaking at one of the doors, and 
 bawled out in an angry tone to know the cause of the 
 disturbance. " Sir," said the footman, testily, " it 's 
 this confounded French lock!" "Ah!" said the old 
 gentleman, pacified by this hit at the nation, " I thought 
 there was something French at the bottom of it ! " 
 
 ENGLISH AND FRENCH CHARACTER 
 
 As I am a mere looker-on in Europe, and hold my 
 self as much as possible aloof from its quarrels and 
 prejudices, I feel something like one overlooking a 
 game, who, without any great skill of his own, can 
 occasionally perceive the blunders of much abler 
 players. This neutrality of feeling enables me to en 
 joy the contrasts of character presented in this time 
 of general peace, when the various people of Europe, 
 who have so long been sundered by wars, are brought 
 together and placed side by side in this great gathering- 
 place of nations. No greater contrast, however, is 
 exhibited than that of the French and English. The 
 peace has deluged this gay capital with English visi 
 tors of all ranks and conditions. They throng every 
 place of curiosity and amusement; fill the public gar 
 dens, the galleries, the cafes, saloons, theatres ; always 
 herding together, never associating with the French. 
 The two nations are like two threads of different colors, 
 tangled together, but never blended. 
 
 In fact, they present a continual antithesis, and seem 
 to value themselves upon being unlike each other ; yet 
 each have their peculiar merits, which should entitle 
 them to each other's esteem. The French intellect is
 
 ENGLISH AND FRENCH CHARACTER 177 
 
 quick and active. It flashes its way into a subject with 
 the rapidity of lightning, seizes upon remote conclu 
 sions with a sudden bound, and its deductions are 
 almost intuitive. The English intellect is less rapid, 
 but more persevering; less sudden, but more sure in 
 its deductions. The quickness and mobility of the 
 French enable them to find enjoyment in the multi 
 plicity of sensations. They speak and act more from 
 immediate impressions than from reflection and medi 
 tation. They are therefore more social and communi 
 cative, more fond of society and of places of public 
 resort and amusement. An Englishman is more re 
 flective in his habits. He lives in the world of his 
 own thoughts, and seems more self -existent and self- 
 dependent. He loves the quiet of his own apartment ; 
 even when abroad, he in a manner makes a little soli 
 tude around him by his silence and reserve ; he moves 
 about shy and solitary, and as it were, buttoned up, 
 body and soul. 
 
 The French are great optimists; they seize upon 
 every good as it flies, and revel in the passing pleasure. 
 The Englishman is too apt to neglect the present good 
 in preparing against the possible evil. However adver 
 sities may lower, let the sun shine but for a moment, 
 and forth sallies the mercurial Frenchman, in holiday 
 dress and holiday spirits, gay as a butterfly, as though 
 his sunshine were perpetual; but let the sun beam 
 never so brightly, so there be but a cloud in the hori 
 zon, the wary Englishman ventures forth distrustfully, 
 with his umbrella in his hand. 
 
 The Frenchman has a wonderful facility at turning 
 small things to advantage. No one can be gay and 
 luxurious on smaller means; no one requires less ex 
 pense to be happy. He practises a kind of gilding in 
 his style of living, and hammers out every guinea into 
 gold-leaf. The Englishman, on the contrary, is ex 
 pensive in his habits and expensive in his enjoyments.
 
 1 78 SKETCHES IN PARIS 
 
 He values everything, whether useful or ornamental, 
 by what it costs. He has no satisfaction in show, un 
 less it be solid and complete. Everything goes with 
 him by the square foot. Whatever display he makes, 
 the depth is sure to equal the surface. 
 
 The Frenchman's habitation, like himself, is open, 
 cheerful, bustling, and noisy. He lives in a part of a 
 great hotel, with wide portal, paved court, a spacious 
 dirty stone staircase, and a family on every floor. All 
 is clatter and chatter. He is good-humored and talk 
 ative with his servants, sociable with his neighbors, 
 and complaisant to all the world. Anybody has access 
 to himself and his apartments; his very bedroom is 
 open to visitors, whatever may be its state of confu 
 sion; and all this not from any peculiarly hospitable 
 feeling, but from that communicative habit which pre 
 dominates over his character. 
 
 The Englishman, on the contrary, ensconces himself 
 in a snug brick mansion, which he has all to himself ; 
 locks the front-door; puts broken bottles along his 
 walls, and spring-guns and man-traps in his gardens; 
 shrouds himself with trees and window-curtains; ex 
 ults in his quiet and privacy, and seems disposed to 
 keep out noise, daylight, and company. His house, 
 like himself, has a reserved, inhospitable exterior; yet 
 whoever gains admittance is apt to find a warm heart 
 and warm fireside within. 
 
 The French excel in wit, the English in humor; the 
 French have gayer fancy, the English richer imagina 
 tions. The former are full of sensibility, easily moved, 
 and prone to sudden and great excitement; but their 
 excitement is not durable ; the English are more phleg 
 matic, not so readily affected, but capable of being 
 aroused to great enthusiasm. The faults of these oppo 
 site temperaments are, that the vivacity of the French 
 is apt to sparkle up and be frothy, the gravity of the 
 English to settle down and grow muddy. When the
 
 TUILERIES AND WINDSOR CASTLE 179 
 
 two characters can be fixed in a medium, the French 
 kept from effervescence and the English from stagna 
 tion, both will be found excellent. 
 
 This contrast of character may also be noticed in the 
 great concerns of the two nations. The ardent French 
 man is all for military renown: he fights for glory, 
 that is to say, for success in arms. For, provided the 
 national flag be victorious, he cares little about the 
 expense, the injustice, or the inutility of the war. It 
 is wonderful how the poorest Frenchman will revel 
 on a triumphant bulletin; a great victory is meat 
 and drink to him ; and at the sight of a military sov 
 ereign, bringing home captured cannon and captured 
 standards, he throws up his greasy cap in the air, 
 and is ready to jump out of his wooden shoes for 
 
 joy- 
 John Bull, on the contrary, is a reasoning, consider 
 ate person. If he does wrong, it is in the most rational 
 way imaginable. He fights because the good of the 
 world requires it. He is a moral person, and makes 
 war upon his neighbor for the maintenance of peace 
 and good order, and sound principles. He is a money- 
 making personage, and fights for the prosperity of 
 commerce and manufactures. Thus the two nations 
 have been fighting, time out of mind, for glory and 
 good. The French, in pursuit of glory, have had their 
 capital twice taken; and John, in pursuit of good, has 
 run himself over head and ears in debt. 
 
 THE TUILERIES AND WINDSOR CASTLE 
 
 I have sometimes fancied I could discover national 
 characteristics in national edifices. In the Chateau of 
 the Tuileries, for instance, I perceive the same jumble 
 of contrarieties that marks the French character; the 
 same whimsical mixture of the great and the little, the
 
 i8o SKETCHES IN PARIS 
 
 splendid and the paltry, the sublime and the grotesque. 
 On visiting this famous pile, the first thing that strikes 
 both eye and ear is military display. The courts glitter 
 with steel-clad soldiery, and resound with tramp of 
 horse, the roll of drum, and the bray of trumpet. Dis 
 mounted guardsmen patrol its arcades, with loaded 
 carbines, jingling spurs, and clanking sabres. Gigantic 
 grenadiers are posted about its staircases; young 
 officers of the guards loll from the balconies, or lounge 
 in groups upon the terraces ; and the gleam of bayonet 
 from window to window shows that sentinels are pac 
 ing up and down the corridors and antechambers. The 
 first floor is brilliant with the splendors of a court. 
 French taste has tasked itself in adorning the sump 
 tuous suites of apartments; nor are the gilded chapel 
 and splendid theatre forgotten, where Piety and Pleas 
 ure are next-door neighbors, and harmonize together 
 with perfect French bienseance. 
 
 Mingled up with all this regal and military magnifi 
 cence is a world of whimsical and makeshift detail. 
 A great part of the huge edifice is cut up into little 
 chambers and nestling-places for retainers of the court, 
 dependants on retainers, and hangers-on of depend 
 ants. Some are squeezed into narrow entre-sols, those 
 low, dark, intermediate slices of apartments between 
 floors, the inhabitants of which seem shoved in edge 
 wise, like books between narrow shelves; others are 
 perched, like swallows, under the eaves; the high 
 roofs, too, which are as tall and steep as a French 
 cocked hat, have rows of little dormer-windows, tier 
 above tier, just large enough to admit light and air 
 for some dormitory, and to enable its occupant to peep 
 out at the sky. Even to the very ridge of the roof may 
 be seen, here and there, one of these air-holes, with a 
 stove-pipe beside it, to carry off the smoke from the 
 handful of fuel with which its weazen-faced tenant 
 simmers his demi-tasse of coffee.
 
 TUILERIES AND WINDSOR CASTLE 181 
 
 On approaching the palace from the Pont Royal, 
 you take in at a glance all the various strata of inhabit 
 ants : the garreteer in the roof, the retainer in the 
 entre-sol, the courtiers at the casements of the royal 
 apartments; while on the ground-floor a steam of 
 savory odors, and a score or two of cooks, in white 
 caps, bobbing their heads about the windows, betray 
 that scientific and all-important laboratory, the royal 
 kitchen. 
 
 Go into the grand antechamber of the royal apart 
 ments on Sunday, and see the mixture of Old and New 
 France : the old emigres, returned with the Bourbons ; 
 little, withered, spindle-shanked old noblemen, clad in 
 court-dresses, that figured in these saloons before the 
 revolution, and have been carefully treasured up during 
 their exile; with the solitaires and ailes de pigeon of 
 former days, and the court-swords strutting out be 
 hind, like pins stuck through dry beetles. See them 
 haunting the scenes of their former splendor, in hopes 
 of a restitution of estates, like ghosts haunting the 
 vicinity of buried treasure ; while around them you see 
 Young France, grown up in the fighting school of 
 Napoleon, equipped en militaire: tall, hardy, frank, 
 vigorous, sunburnt, fierce-whiskered; with tramping 
 boots, towering crests, and glittering breastplates. 
 
 It is incredible the number of ancient and hereditary 
 feeders on royalty said to be housed in this establish 
 ment. Indeed, all the royal palaces abound with noble 
 families returned from exile, and who have nestling- 
 places allotted them while they await the restoration 
 of their estates, or the much-talked-of law, indemnity. 
 Some of them have fine quarters, but poor living. 
 Some families have but five or six hundred francs a 
 year, and all their retinue consists of a servant-woman. 
 With all this, they maintain their old aristocratical 
 hauteur, look down with vast contempt upon the opu 
 lent families which have risen since the revolution;
 
 182 SKETCHES IN PARIS 
 
 stigmatize them all as parvenus or upstarts, and refuse 
 to visit them. 
 
 In regarding the exterior of the Tuileries, with all 
 its outward signs of internal populousness, I have often 
 thought what a rare sight it would be to see it sud 
 denly unroofed, and all its nooks and corners laid 
 open to the day. It would be like turning up the stump 
 of an old tree, and dislodging the world of grubs and 
 ants and beetles lodged beneath. Indeed, there is 
 a scandalous anecdote current, that, in the time of one 
 of the petty plots, when petards were exploded under 
 the windows of the Tuileries, the police made a sud 
 den investigation of the palace at four o'clock in the 
 morning, when a scene of the most whimsical con 
 fusion ensued. Hosts of supernumerary inhabitants 
 were found foisted into the huge edifice: every rat- 
 hole had its occupant; and places which had been 
 considered as tenanted only by spiders, were found 
 crowded with a surreptitious population. It is added, 
 that many ludicrous accidents occurred; great scam 
 pering and slamming of doors, and whisking away in 
 night-gowns and slippers; and several persons, who 
 were found by accident in their neighbors' chambers, 
 evinced indubitable astonishment at the circumstance. 
 
 As I have fancied I could read the French character 
 in the national palace of the Tuileries, so I have pic 
 tured to myself some of the traits of John Bull in his 
 royal abode of Windsor Castle. The Tuileries, out 
 wardly a peaceful palace, is in effect a swaggering 
 military hold; while the old castle, on the contrary, 
 in spite of its bullying look, is completely under petti 
 coat government. Every corner and nook is built up 
 into some snug, cosy nestling-place, some " procreant 
 cradle," not tenanted by meagre expectants or whis 
 kered warriors, but by sleek placemen; knowing real- 
 izers of present pay and present pudding; who seem 
 placed there not to kill and destroy, but to breed and
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 183 
 
 multiply. Nursery-maids and children shine with rosy 
 faces at the windows, and swarm about the courts and 
 terraces. The very soldiery have a pacific look, and, 
 when off duty, may be seen loitering about the place 
 with the nursery-maids; not making love to them in 
 the gay gallant style of the French soldiery, but with 
 infinite bonhommie aiding them to take care of the 
 broods of children. 
 
 Though the old castle is in decay, everything about 
 it thrives ; the very crevices of the walls are tenanted 
 by swallows, rooks, and pigeons, all sure of quiet 
 lodgment ; the ivy strikes its roots deep in the fissures, 
 and flourishes about the mouldering tower. 1 Thus it 
 is with honest John: according to his own account, 
 he is ever going to ruin, yet everything that lives on 
 him thrives and waxes fat. He would fain be a soldier, 
 and swagger like his neighbors; but his domestic, 
 quiet-loving, uxorious nature continually gets the 
 upper hand ; and though he may mount his helmet and 
 gird on his sword, yet he is apt to sink into the plod 
 ding, painstaking father of a family, with a troop of 
 children at his heels, and his womenkind hanging on 
 each arm. 
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 
 
 I have spoken heretofore with some levity of the 
 contrast that exists between the English and French 
 character; but it deserves more serious consideration. 
 They are the two great nations of modern times most 
 diametrically opposed, and most worthy of each other's 
 rivalry; essentially distinct in their characters, excel 
 ling in opposite qualities, and reflecting lustre on each 
 other by their very opposition. In nothing is this con 
 trast more strikingly evinced than in their military 
 
 1 The above sketch was written before the thorough repairs 
 and magnificent additions made of late years to Windsor Castle.
 
 1 84 SKETCHES IN PARIS 
 
 conduct. For ages have they been contending, and for 
 ages have they crowded each other's history with acts 
 of splendid heroism. Take the battle of Waterloo, 
 for instance, the last and most memorable trial of their 
 rival prowess. Nothing could surpass the brilliant 
 daring on the one side, and the steadfast enduring on 
 the other. The French cavalry broke like waves on the 
 compact squares of English infantry. They were seen 
 galloping round those serried walls of men, seeking in 
 vain for an entrance ; tossing their arms in the air, in 
 the heat of their enthusiasm, and braving the whole 
 front of battle. The British troops, on the other hand, 
 forbidden to move or fire, stood firm and enduring. 
 Their columns were ripped up by canonry ; whole rows 
 were swept down at a shot ; the survivors closed their 
 ranks, and stood firm. In this way many columns 
 stood through the pelting of the iron tempest without 
 firing a shot, without any action to stir their blood or 
 excite their spirits. Death thinned their ranks, but 
 could not shake their souls. 
 
 A beautiful instance of the quick and generous im 
 pulses to which the French are prone is given in the 
 case of a French cavalier, in the hottest of the action, 
 charging furiously upon a British officer, but, perceiv 
 ing in the moment of assault that his adversary had 
 lost his sword-arm, dropping the point of his sabre, 
 and courteously riding on. Peace be with that gener 
 ous warrior, whatever were his fate! If he went down 
 in the storm of battle, with the foundering fortunes 
 of his chieftain, may the turf of Waterloo grow green 
 above his grave ! and happier far would be the fate 
 of such a spirit to sink amidst the tempest, unconscious 
 of defeat, than to survive and mourn over the blighted 
 laurels of his country. 
 
 In this way the two armies fought through a long 
 and bloody day, the French with enthusiastic valor, 
 the English with cool, inflexible courage, until Fate,
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 185 
 
 as if to leave the question of superiority still undecided 
 between two such adversaries, brought up the Prus 
 sians to decide the fortunes of the field. 
 
 It was several years afterward that I visited the 
 field of Waterloo. The ploughshare had been busy 
 with its oblivious labors, and the frequent harvest had 
 nearly obliterated the vestiges of war. Still the black 
 ened ruins of Hoguemont stood, a monumental pile 
 to mark the violence of this vehement struggle. Its 
 broken walls, pierced by bullets and shattered by ex 
 plosions, showed the deadly strife that had taken place 
 within, when Gaul and Briton, hemmed in between 
 narrow walls, hand to hand and foot to foot, fought 
 from garden to court-yard, from court-yard to cham 
 ber, with intense and concentrated rivalship. Columns 
 of smoke towered from this vortex of battle as from 
 a volcano : " it was," said my guide, " like a little hell 
 upon earth." Not far off, two or three broad spots 
 of rank, unwholesome green still marked the places 
 where these rival warriors, after their fierce and fitful 
 struggle, slept quietly together in the lap of their com 
 mon mother earth. Over all the rest of the field peace 
 had resumed its sway. The thoughtless whistle of the 
 peasant floated on the air instead of the trumpet's 
 clangor; the team slowly labored up the hill-side once 
 shaken by the hoofs of rushing squadrons; and wide 
 fields of corn waved peacefully over the soldiers' grave, 
 as summer seas dimple over the place where the tall 
 ship lies buried. 
 
 To the foregoing desultory notes on the French mili 
 tary character, let me append a few traits which I 
 picked up verbally in one of the French provinces. 
 They may have already appeared in print, but I have 
 never met with them. 
 
 At the breaking out of the revolution, when so many 
 of the old families emigrated, a descendant of the
 
 186 SKETCHES IN PARIS 
 
 great Turenne, by the name of De Latour D'Auvergne, 
 refused to accompany his relations, and entered into 
 the republican army. He served in all the campaigns 
 of the revolution, distinguished himself by his valor, 
 his accomplishments, and his generous spirit, and might 
 have risen to fortune and to the highest honors. He 
 refused, however, all rank in the army above that of 
 captain, and would receive no recompense for his 
 achievements but a sword of honor. Napoleon, in 
 testimony of his merits, gave him the title of Premier 
 Grenadier de France, (First Grenadier of France,) 
 which was the only title he would ever bear. He was 
 killed in Germany at the battle of Neuburg. To honor 
 his memory, his place was always retained in his regi 
 ment as if he still occupied it; and whenever the regi 
 ment was mustered, and the name of De Latour 
 D'Auvergne was called out, the reply was : " Dead on 
 the field of honor ! " 
 
 PARIS AT THE RESTORATION 
 
 Paris presented a singular aspect just after the down 
 fall of Napoleon and the restoration of the Bourbons. 
 It was filled with a restless, roaming population, a 
 dark, sallow race, with fierce moustaches, black cravats, 
 and feverish, menacing looks, men suddenly thrown 
 out of employ by the return of peace; officers cut 
 short in their career, and cast loose with scanty means, 
 many of them in utter indigence, upon the world ; the 
 broken elements of armies. They haunted the places 
 of public resort, like restless, unhappy spirits, taking 
 no pleasure; hanging about like lowering clouds that 
 linger after a storm, and giving a singular air of gloom 
 to this otherwise gay metropolis. 
 
 The vaunted courtesy of the old school, the smooth 
 urbanity that prevailed in former days of settled gov-
 
 PARIS AT THE RESTORATION 187 
 
 ernment and long-established aristocracy, had disap 
 peared amidst the savage republicanism of the revo 
 lution and the military furor of the empire; recent 
 reverses had stung the national vanity to the quick, 
 and English travellers, who crowded to Paris on the 
 return of peace, expecting to meet with a gay, good- 
 humored, complaisant populace, such as existed in the 
 time of the " Sentimental Journey," were surprised at 
 finding them irritable and fractious, quick at fancying 
 affronts, and not unapt to offer insults. They accord 
 ingly inveighed with heat and bitterness at the rude 
 ness they experienced in the French metropolis; yet 
 what better had they to expect ? Had Charles II. been 
 reinstated in his kingdom by the valor of French 
 troops ; had he been wheeled triumphantly to London 
 over the trampled bodies and trampled standards of 
 England's bravest sons ; had a French general dictated 
 to the English capital, and a French army been quar 
 tered in Hyde Park ; had Paris poured forth its motley 
 population, and the wealthy bourgeoisie of every 
 French trading town swarmed to London, crowding 
 its squares, filling its streets with their equipages, 
 thronging its fashionable hotels and places of amuse 
 ments, elbowing its impoverished nobility out of their 
 palaces and opera-boxes, and looking down on the 
 humiliated inhabitants as a conquered people; in such 
 a reverse of the case, what degree of courtesy would 
 the populace of London have been apt to exercise to 
 ward their visitors ? * 
 
 On the contrary, I have always admired the degree 
 of magnanimity exhibited by the French on the occu 
 pation of their capital by the English. When we con 
 sider the military ambition of this nation, its love of 
 
 1 The above remarks were suggested by a conversation with the 
 late Mr. Canning, whom the author met in Paris, and who ex 
 pressed himself in the most liberal way concerning the magnanim 
 ity of the French on the occupation of their capital by strangers.
 
 i88 SKETCHES IN PARIS 
 
 glory, the splendid height to which its renown in arms 
 had recently been carried, and, with these, the tremen 
 dous reverses it had just undergone, its armies shat 
 tered, annihilated, its capital captured, garrisoned, and 
 overrun, and that too by its ancient rival, the English, 
 toward whom it had cherished for centuries a jealous 
 and almost religious hostility, could we have wondered 
 if the tiger-spirit of this fiery people had broken out 
 in bloody feuds and deadly quarrels, and that they had 
 sought to rid themselves in any way of their invaders? 
 But it is cowardly nations only, those who dare not 
 wield the sword, that revenge themselves with the lurk 
 ing dagger. There were no assassinations in Paris. 
 The French had fought valiantly, desperately, in the 
 field; but, when valor was no longer of avail, they 
 submitted, like gallant men, to a fate they could not 
 withstand. Some instances of insult from the popu 
 lace were experienced by their English visitors; some 
 personal rencontres which led to duels did take place; 
 but these smacked of open and honorable hostility. No 
 instances of lurking and perfidious revenge occurred; 
 and the British soldier patrolled the streets of Paris 
 safe from treacherous assault. 
 
 If the English met with harshness and repulse in 
 social intercourse, it was in some degree a proof that 
 the people are more sincere than has been represented. 
 The emigrants who had just returned were not yet re 
 instated. Society was constituted of those who had 
 flourished under the late regime, the newly ennobled, 
 the recently enriched, who felt their prosperity and 
 their consequence endangered by this change of things. 
 The broken-down officer, who saw his glory tarnished, 
 his fortune ruined, his occupation gone, could not be 
 expected to look with complacency upon the authors 
 of his downfall. The English visitor, flushed with 
 health and wealth and victory, could little enter into 
 the feelings of the blighted warrior, scarred with a
 
 PARIS AT THE RESTORATION 189 
 
 hundred battles, an exile from the camp, broken in con 
 stitution by the wars, impoverished by the peace, and 
 cast back, a needy stranger in the splendid but captured 
 metropolis of his country. 
 
 Oh ! who can tell what heroes feel 
 When all but life and honor's lost! 
 
 And here let me notice the conduct of the French 
 soldiery on the dismemberment of the army of the 
 Loire, when two hundred thousand men were suddenly 
 thrown out of employ; men who had been brought 
 up to the camp, and scarce knew any other home. Few 
 in civil, peaceful life are aware of the severe trial to 
 the feelings that takes place on the dissolution of a 
 regiment. There is a fraternity in arms. The com 
 munity of dangers, hardships, enjoyments; the par 
 ticipation in battles and victories; the companionship 
 in adventures, at a time of life when men's feelings 
 are most fresh, susceptible, and ardent; all these bind 
 the members of a regiment strongly together. To 
 them the regiment is friends, family, home. They 
 identify themselves with its fortunes, its glories, its 
 disgraces. Imagine this romantic tie suddenly dis 
 solved ; the regiment broken up ; the occupation of its 
 members gone; their military pride mortified; the 
 career of glory closed behind them ; that of obscurity, 
 dependence, want, neglect, perhaps beggary, before 
 them. Such was the case with the soldiers of the army 
 of the Loire. They were sent off in squads, with offi 
 cers, to the principal towns, where they were to be dis 
 armed and discharged. In this way they passed 
 through the country with arms in their hands, often 
 exposed to slights and scoffs, to hunger and various 
 hardships and privations ; but they conducted them 
 selves magnanimously, without any of those outbreaks 
 of violence and wrong that so often attend the di- 
 memberment of armies,
 
 190 SKETCHES IN PARIS 
 
 The few years that have elapsed since the time above 
 alluded to have already had their effect. The proud 
 and angry spirits which then roamed about Paris un 
 employed have cooled down and found occupation. 
 The national character begins to recover its old chan 
 nels, though worn deeper by recent torrents. The 
 natural urbanity of the French begins to find its way, 
 like oil, to the surface, though there still remains a 
 degree of roughness and bluntness of manner, partly 
 real, and partly affected, by such as imagine it to in 
 dicate force and frankness. The events of the last 
 thirty years have rendered the French a more reflect 
 ing people. They have acquired greater independence 
 of mind and strength of judgment, together with a por 
 tion of that prudence which results from experiencing 
 the dangerous consequences of excesses. However that 
 period may have been stained by crimes and filled with 
 extravagances, the French have certainly come out of 
 it a greater nation than before. One of their own 
 philosophers observes, that in one or two generations 
 the nation will probably combine the ease and elegance 
 of the old character with force and solidity. They 
 were light, he says, before the revolution ; then wild 
 and savage; they have become more thoughtful and 
 reflective. It is only old Frenchmen, nowadays, that 
 are gay and trivial; the young are very serious 
 personages. 
 
 P. S. In the course of a morning's walk, about 
 the time the above remarks were written, I observed 
 the Duke of Wellington, who was on a brief visit to 
 Paris. He was alone, simply attired in a blue frock, 
 with an umbrella under his arm and his hat drawn over 
 his eyes, and sauntering across the Place Vendome, 
 close by the column of Napoleon. He gave a glance 
 up at the column as he passed, and continued his loiter 
 ing way up the Rue de la Paix ; stopping occasionally
 
 A CONTENTED MAN 191 
 
 to gaze in at the shop-windows ; elbowed now and then 
 by other gazers, who little suspected that the quiet, loung 
 ing individual they were jostling so unceremoniously 
 was the conqueror who had twice entered their capital 
 victoriously, had controlled the destinies of the nation, 
 and eclipsed the glory of the military idol at the base of 
 whose column he was thus negligently sauntering. 
 
 Some years afterwards I was at an evening's enter 
 tainment given by the duke at Apsley House, to Wil 
 liam IV. The duke had manifested his admiration of 
 his great adversary by having portraits of him in dif 
 ferent parts of the house. At the bottom of the grand 
 staircase stood the colossal statue of the Emperor, by 
 Canova. It was of marble, in the antique style, with 
 one arm partly extended, holding a figure of victory. 
 Over this arm the ladies, in tripping up-stairs to the 
 ball, had thrown their shawls. It was a singular office 
 for the statue of Napoleon to perform in the mansion 
 of the Duke of Wellington ! 
 
 Imperial Caesar dead, and turned to clay, etc., etc. 
 
 A CONTENTED MAN 
 
 IN the garden of the Tuileries there is a sunny corner 
 under the wall of a terrace which fronts the south. 
 Along the wall is a range of benches commanding a 
 view of the walks and avenues of the garden. This 
 genial nook is a place of great resort in the latter part 
 of autumn, and in fine days in winter, as it seems to 
 retain the flavor of departed summer. On a calm, 
 bright morning, it is quite alive with nursery-maids 
 and their playful little charges. Hither also resort a 
 number of ancient ladies and gentlemen, who, with 
 laudable thrift in small pleasures and small expenses,
 
 192 A CONTENTED MAN 
 
 for which the French are to be noted, come here to 
 enjoy sunshine and save firewood. Here may often 
 be seen some cavalier of the old school, when the sun 
 beams have warmed his blood into something like a 
 glow, fluttering about like a frost-bitten moth thawed 
 before the fire, putting forth a feeble show of gallantry 
 among the antiquated dames, and now and then eying 
 the buxom nursery-maids with what might almost be 
 mistaken for an air of libertinism. 
 
 Among the habitual frequenters of this place I had 
 often remarked an old gentleman whose dress was de 
 cidedly anti-revolutional. He wore the three-cornered 
 cocked hat of the ancien regime; his hair was frizzed 
 over each ear into ailes de pigeon, a style strongly savor 
 ing of Bourbonism ; and a queue stuck out behind, the 
 loyalty of which was not to be disputed. His dress, 
 though ancient, had an air of decayed gentility, and I 
 observed that he took his snuff out of an elegant though 
 old-fashioned gold box. He appeared to be the most 
 popular man on the walk. He had a compliment for 
 every old lady, he kissed every child, and he patted 
 every little dog on the head ; for children and little 
 dogs are very important members of society in France. 
 I must observe, however, that he seldom kissed a child 
 without, at the same time, pinching the nursery-maid's 
 cheek; a Frenchman of the old school never forgets 
 his devoirs to the sex. 
 
 I had taken a liking to this old gentleman. There 
 was an habitual expression of benevolence in his face, 
 which I have very frequently remarked in these relics 
 of the politer days of France. The constant inter 
 change of those thousand little courtesies which im 
 perceptibly sweeten life, has a happy effect upon the 
 features, and spreads a mellow evening charm over 
 the wrinkles of old age. 
 
 Where there is a favorable predisposition, one soon 
 forms a kind of tacit intimacy by often meeting on the
 
 A CONTENTED MAN 193 
 
 same walks. Once or twice I accommodated him with 
 a bench, after which we touched hats on passing each 
 other; at length we got so far as to take a pinch of 
 snuff together out of his box, which is equivalent to 
 eating salt together in the East; from that time our 
 acquaintance was established. 
 
 I now became his frequent companion in his morn 
 ing promenades, and derived much amusement from 
 his good-humored remarks on men and manners. One 
 morning, as we were strolling through an alley of the 
 Tuileries, with the autumnal breeze whirling the yel 
 low leaves about our path, my companion fell into a 
 peculiarly communicative vein, and gave me several 
 particulars of his history. He had once been wealthy, 
 and possessed of a fine estate in the country and a noble 
 hotel in Paris; but the revolution, which effected so 
 many disastrous changes, stripped him of everything. 
 He was secretly denounced by his own steward during 
 a sanguinary period of the revolution, and a number 
 of the bloodhounds of the Convention were sent to 
 arrest him. He received private intelligence of their 
 approach in time to effect his escape. He landed in 
 England without money or friends, but considered 
 himself singularly fortunate in having his head upon 
 his shoulders, several of his neighbors having been 
 guillotined as a punishment for being rich. 
 
 When he reached London he had but a louis in his 
 pocket, and no prospect of getting another. He ate 
 a solitary dinner on beefsteak, and was almost poisoned 
 by port wine, which from its color he had mistaken 
 for claret. The dingy look of the chop-house, and of 
 the little mahogany-colored box in which he ate his 
 dinner, contrasted sadly with the gay saloons of Paris. 
 Everything looked gloomy and disheartening. Pov 
 erty stared him in the face; he turned over the few 
 shillings he had of change ; did not know what was to 
 become of him ; and went to the theatre ! 
 
 13
 
 194 A CONTENTED MAN 
 
 He took his seat in the pit, listened attentively to a 
 tragedy of which he did not understand a word, and 
 which seemed made up of fighting, and stabbing, and 
 scene-shifting, and began to feel his spirits sinking 
 within him ; when, casting his eyes into the orchestra, 
 what was his surprise to recognize an old friend and 
 neighbor in the very act of extorting music from a 
 huge violoncello. 
 
 As soon as the evening's performance was over he 
 tapped his friend on the shoulder; they kissed each 
 other on each cheek, and the musician took him home, 
 and shared his lodgings with him. He had learned 
 music as an accomplishment; by his friend's advice 
 he now turned to it as a means of support. He pro 
 cured a violin, offered himself for the orchestra, was 
 received, and again considered himself one of the most 
 fortunate men upon earth. 
 
 Here, therefore, he lived for many years during the 
 ascendency of the terrible Napoleon. He found 
 several emigrants living like himself, by the exercise 
 of their talents. They associated together, talked of 
 France and of old times, and endeavored to keep up a 
 semblance of Parisian life in the centre of London. 
 
 They dined at a miserable cheap French restaurateur 
 in the neighborhood of Leicester Square, where they 
 were served with a caricature of French cookery. 
 They took their promenade in St. James's Park, and 
 endeavored to fancy it the Tuileries; in short, they 
 made shift to accommodate themselves to everything 
 but an English Sunday. Indeed, the old gentleman 
 seemed to have nothing to say against the English, 
 whom he affirmed to be braves gens; and he mingled 
 so much among them, that at the end of twenty years 
 he could speak their language almost well enough to 
 be understood. 
 
 The downfall of Napoleon was another epoch in his 
 life. He had considered himself a fortunate man to
 
 A CONTENTED MAN 195 
 
 make his escape penniless out of France, and he con 
 sidered himself fortunate to be able to return penniless 
 into it. It is true that he found his Parisian hotel had 
 passed through several hands during the vicissitudes 
 of the times, so as to be beyond the reach of recovery ; 
 but then he had been noticed benignantly by govern 
 ment, and had a pension of several hundred francs, 
 upon which, with careful management, he lived inde 
 pendently, and, as far as I could judge, happily. 
 
 As his once splendid hotel was now occupied as a 
 hotel garni, he hired a small chamber in the attic; it 
 was but, as he said, changing his bedroom up two pair 
 of stairs, he was still in his own house. His room 
 was decorated with pictures of several beauties of 
 former times, with whom he professed to have been 
 on favorable terms ; among them was a favorite opera- 
 dancer, who had been the admiration of Paris at the 
 breaking out of the revolution. She had been a prote 
 gee of my friend, and one of the few of his youthful 
 favorites who had survived the lapse of time and its 
 various vicissitudes. They had renewed their acquain 
 tance, and she now and then visited him; but the 
 beautiful Psyche, once the fashion of the day and the 
 idol of the parterre, was now a shrivelled, little old 
 woman, warped in the back, and with a hooked nose. 
 
 The old gentleman was a devout attendant upon 
 levees; he was most zealous in his loyalty, and could 
 not speak of the royal family without a burst of en 
 thusiasm, for he still felt towards them as his com 
 panions in exile. As to his poverty he made light of 
 it, and indeed had a good-humored way of consoling 
 himself for every cross and privation. If he had lost 
 his chateau in the country, he had half a dozen royal 
 palaces, as it were, at his command. He had Versailles 
 and St. Cloud for his country resorts, and the shady 
 alleys of the Tuileries and the Luxembourg for his 
 town recreation. Thus all his promenades and relaxa-
 
 196 A CONTENTED MAN 
 
 tions were magnificent, yet cost nothing. When I 
 walk through these fine gardens, said he, I have only 
 to fancy myself the owner of them, and they are mine. 
 All these gay crowds are my visitors, and I defy the 
 grand seignior himself to display a greater variety of 
 beauty. Nay, what is better, I have not the trouble of 
 entertaining them. My estate is a perfect Sans Souci, 
 where every one does as he pleases, and no one troubles 
 the owner. All Paris is my theatre, and presents me 
 with a continual spectacle. I have a table spread for 
 me in every street, and thousands of waiters ready to 
 fly at my bidding. When my servants have waited 
 upon me I pay them, discharge them, and there 's an 
 end; I have no fears of their wronging or pilfering 
 me when my back is turned. Upon the whole, said the 
 old gentleman, with a smile of infinite good-humor, 
 when I think upon the various risks I have run, and 
 the manner in which I have escaped them, when I 
 recollect all that I have suffered, and consider all 
 that I at present enjoy, I cannot but look upon myself 
 as a man of singular good fortune. 
 
 Such was the brief history of this practical philoso 
 pher, and it is a picture of many a Frenchman ruined 
 by the revolution. The French appear to have a 
 greater facility than most men in accommodating them 
 selves to the reverses of life, and of extracting honey 
 out of the bitter things of this world. The first shock 
 of calamity is apt to overwhelm them ; but when it is 
 once past, their natural buoyancy of feeling soon brings 
 them to the surface. This may be called the result of 
 levity of character, but it answers the end of rec 
 onciling us to misfortune, and if it be not true phi 
 losophy, it is something almost as efficacious. Ever 
 since I have heard the story of my little Frenchman, 
 I have treasured it up in my heart; and I thank my 
 stars I have at length found, what I had long con 
 sidered as not to be found on earth ; a contented 
 man.
 
 A CONTENTED MAN 197 
 
 P. S. There is no calculating on human happi 
 ness. Since writing the foregoing, the law of indem 
 nity has been passed, and my friend restored to a great 
 part of his fortune. I was absent from Paris at the 
 time, but on my return hastened to congratulate him. 
 I found him magnificently lodged on the first floor of 
 his hotel. I was ushered, by a servant in livery, 
 through splendid saloons, to a cabinet richly furnished, 
 where I found my little Frenchman reclining on a 
 couch. He received me with his usual cordiality; but 
 I saw the gayety and benevolence of his countenance 
 had fled ; he had an eye full of care and anxiety. 
 
 I congratulated him on his good fortune. " Good 
 fortune?" echoed he; "bah! I have been plundered 
 of a princely fortune, and they give me a pittance as 
 an indemnity." 
 
 Alas! I found my late poor and contented friend 
 one of the richest and most miserable men in Paris. 
 Instead of rejoicing in the ample competency restored 
 to him, he is daily repining at the superfluity withheld. 
 He no longer wanders in happy idleness about Paris, 
 but is a repining attendant in the antechambers of 
 ministers. His loyalty has evaporated with his gayety ; 
 he screws his mouth when the Bourbons are mentioned, 
 and even shrugs his shoulders when he hears the 
 praises of the king. In a word, he is one of the many 
 philosophers undone by the law of indemnity ; and his 
 case is desperate, for I doubt whether even another re 
 verse of fortune, which should restore him to poverty, 
 could make him again a happy man.
 
 198 BROEK: OR, THE DUTCH PARADISE 
 BROEK: 
 
 OR, THE DUTCH PARADISE 
 
 IT has long been a matter of discussion and controversy 
 among the pious and the learned, as to the situation of 
 the terrestrial paradise whence our first parents were 
 exiled. This question has been put to rest by certain 
 of the faithful in Holland, who have decided in favor 
 of the village of BROEK, about six miles from Amster 
 dam. It may not, they observe, correspond in all re 
 spects to the description of the garden of Eden, handed 
 down from days of yore, but it comes nearer to their 
 ideas of a perfect paradise than any other place on 
 earth. 
 
 This eulogium induced me to make some inquiries 
 as to this favored spot, in the course of a sojourn at 
 the city of Amsterdam; and the information I pro 
 cured fully justified the enthusiastic praises I had 
 heard. The village of Broek is situated in Waterland, 
 in the midst of the greenest and richest pastures of 
 Holland, I may say, of Europe. These pastures are 
 the source of its wealth; for it is famous for its dai 
 ries, and for those oval cheeses which regale and per 
 fume the whole civilized world. The population con 
 sists of about six hundred persons, comprising several 
 families which have inhabited the place since time im 
 memorial, and have waxed rich on the products of 
 their meadows. They keep all their wealth among 
 themselves, intermarrying, and keeping all strangers at 
 a wary distance. They are a " hard money " people, 
 and remarkable for turning the penny the right way. 
 It is said to have been an old rule, established by one 
 of the primitive financiers and legislators of Broek,
 
 BROEK: OR, THE DUTCH PARADISE 199 
 
 that no one should leave the village with more than six 
 guilders in his pocket, or return with less than ten; 
 a shrewd regulation, well worthy the attention of 
 modern political economists, who are so anxious to 
 fix the balance of trade. 
 
 What, however, renders Broek so perfect an elysium 
 in the eyes of all true Hollanders is the matchless 
 height to which the spirit of cleanliness is carried 
 there. It amounts almost to a religion among the in 
 habitants, who pass the greater part of their time rub 
 bing and scrubbing, and painting and varnishing ; each 
 housewife vies with her neighbor in her devotion to 
 the scrubbing-brush, as zealous Catholics do in their 
 devotion to the cross ; and it is said, a notable house 
 wife of the place in days of yore is held in pious 
 remembrance, and almost canonized as a saint, for 
 having died of pure exhaustion and chagrin, in an 
 ineffectual attempt to scour a black man white. 
 
 These particulars awakened my ardent curiosity to 
 see a place which I pictured to myself the very foun 
 tain-head of certain hereditary habits and customs 
 prevalent among the descendants of the original Dutch 
 settlers of my native State. I accordingly lost no time 
 in performing a pilgrimage to Broek. 
 
 Before I reached the place, I beheld symptoms of 
 the tranquil character of its inhabitants. A little 
 clump-built boat was in full sail along the lazy bosom 
 of a canal, but its sail consisted of the blades of two 
 paddles stood on end, while the navigator sat steering 
 with a third paddle in the stern, crouched down like a 
 toad, with a slouched hat drawn over his eyes. I pre 
 sumed him to be some nautical lover, on the way to his 
 mistress. After proceeding a little farther, I came in 
 sight of the harbor or port of destination of this 
 drowsy navigator. This was the Broeken-Meer, an ar 
 tificial basin, or sheet of olive-green water, tranquil as 
 a mill-pond. On this the village of Broek is situated,
 
 200 BROEK: OR, THE DUTCH PARADISE 
 
 and the borders are laboriously decorated with flower 
 beds, box-trees clipped into all kinds of ingenious 
 shapes and fancies, and little " lust " houses or 
 pavilions. 
 
 I alighted outside of the village, for no horse nor 
 vehicle is permitted to enter its precincts, lest it should 
 cause defilement of the well-scoured pavements. Shak 
 ing the dust off my feet, therefore, I prepared to enter, 
 with due reverence and circumspection, this sanctum 
 sanctorum of Dutch cleanliness. I entered by a nar 
 row street, paved with yellow bricks, laid edgewise, 
 and so clean that one might eat from them. Indeed, 
 they were actually worn deep, not by the tread of feet, 
 but by the friction of the scrubbing-brush. 
 
 The houses were built of wood, and all appeared 
 to have been freshly painted, of green, yellow, and 
 other bright colors. They were separated from each 
 other by gardens and orchards, and stood at some lit 
 tle distance from the street, with wide areas or court 
 yards, paved in mosaic, with variegated stones, polished 
 by frequent rubbing. The areas were divided from the 
 street by curiously wrought railings, or balustrades, 
 of iron, surmounted with brass and copper balls, 
 scoured into dazzling effulgence. The very trunks 
 of the trees in front of the houses were by the same 
 process made to look as if they had been varnished. 
 The porches, doors, and window-frames of the houses 
 were of exotic woods, curiously carved, and polished 
 like costly furniture. The front-doors are never 
 opened, excepting on christenings, marriages, or 
 funerals; on all ordinary occasions, visitors enter by 
 the back-door. In former times, persons when ad 
 mitted had to put on slippers, but this oriental cere 
 mony is no longer insisted upon. 
 
 A poor-devil Frenchman, who attended upon me as 
 cicerone, boasted with some degree of exultation of a 
 triumph of his. countrymen over the stern regulations
 
 BROEK: OR, THE DUTCH PARADISE 201 
 
 of the place. During the time that Holland was over 
 run by the armies of the French republic, a French 
 general, surrounded by his whole etat major, who had 
 come from Amsterdam to view the wonders of Broek, 
 applied for admission at one of these tabooed portals. 
 The reply was, that the owner never received any one 
 who did not come introduced by some friend. " Very 
 well," said the general, " take my compliments to your 
 master, and tell him I will return here to-morrow with 
 a company of soldiers, pour parler raison avec mon 
 ami Hollanders." Terrified at the idea of having a 
 company of soldiers billeted upon him, the owner threw 
 open his house, entertained the general and his retinue 
 with unwonted hospitality, though it is said it cost the 
 family a month's scrubbing and scouring to restore 
 all things to exact order after this military invasion. 
 My vagabond informant seemed to consider this one 
 of the greatest victories of the republic. 
 
 I walked about the place in mute wonder and ad 
 miration. A dead stillness prevailed around, like that 
 in the deserted streets of Pompeii. No sign of life 
 was to be seen, excepting now and then a hand, and a 
 long pipe, and an occasional puff of smoke, out of the 
 window of some " lust-haus " overhanging a miniature 
 canal; and on approaching a little nearer, the periph 
 ery in profile of some robustious burgher. 
 
 Among the grand houses pointed out to me were 
 those of Claes Bakker and Cornelius Bakker, richly 
 carved and gilded, with flower-gardens and clipped 
 shrubberies; and that of the Great Ditmus, who, my 
 poor-devil cicerone informed me in a whisper, was 
 worth two millions; all these were mansions shut up 
 from the world, and only kept to be cleaned. After 
 having been conducted from one wonder to another of 
 the village, I was ushered by my guide into the grounds 
 and gardens of Mynheer Broekker, another mighty 
 cheese-manufacturer, worth eighty thousand guilders
 
 202 BROEK: OR, THE DUTCH PARADISE 
 
 a year. I had repeatedly been struck with the simi 
 larity of all that I had seen in this amphibious little 
 village to the buildings and landscapes on Chinese plat 
 ters and teapots ; but here I found the similarity com 
 plete, for I was told that these gardens were modelled 
 upon Van Bramm's description of those of Yuen min 
 Yuen, in China. Here were serpentine walks, with 
 trellised borders; winding canals, with fanciful 
 Chinese bridges ; flower-beds resembling huge baskets, 
 with the flower of " love lies bleeding " falling over 
 to the ground. But mostly had the fancy of Mynheer 
 Broekker been displayed about a stagnant little lake, 
 on which a corpulent-like pinnace lay at anchor. On 
 the border was a cottage, within which were a wooden 
 man and woman seated at table, and a wooden dog 
 beneath, all the size of life; on pressing a spring, the 
 woman commenced spinning and the dog barked furi 
 ously. On the lake were wooden swans, painted to the 
 life; some floating, others on the nest among the 
 rushes; while a wooden sportsman, crouched among 
 the bushes, was preparing his gun to take deadly aim. 
 In another part of the garden was a dominie in his 
 clerical robes, with wig, pipe, and cocked hat; and 
 mandarins with nodding heads, amid red lions, green 
 tigers, and blue hares. Last of all, the heathen deities, 
 in wood and plaster, male and female, naked and bare 
 faced as usual, and seeming to stare with wonder at 
 finding themselves in such strange company. 
 
 My shabby French guide, while he pointed out all 
 these mechanical marvels of the garden, was anxious 
 to let me see that he had too polite a taste to be pleased 
 by them. At every new nick-nack he would screw 
 down his mouth, shrug up his shoulders, take a pinch 
 of snuff, and exclaim : " Ma foi, Monsieur ces Hol 
 land ais sont forts pour ces betises-la! " 
 
 To attempt to gain admission to any of these stately 
 abodes was out of the question, having no company of
 
 MILKING TIME BROEK
 
 BROEK: OR, THE DUTCH PARADISE 203 
 
 soldiers to enforce a solicitation. I was fortunate 
 enough, however, through the aid of my guide, to 
 make my way into the kitchen of the illustrious Dit- 
 mus, and I question whether the parlor would have 
 proved more worthy of observation. The cook, a 
 little wiry, hook-nosed woman, worn thin by incessant 
 action and friction, was bustling about among her 
 kettles and saucepans, with the scullion at her heels, 
 both clattering in wooden shoes, which were as clean 
 and white as the milk-pails; rows of vessels, of brass 
 and copper, regiments of pewter dishes and portly por 
 ringers, gave resplendent evidence of the intensity of 
 their cleanliness; the very trammels and hangers in 
 the fireplace were highly scoured, and the burnished 
 face of the good Saint Nicholas shone forth from the 
 iron plate of the chimney-back. 
 
 Among the decorations of the kitchen was a printed 
 sheet of wood-cuts, representing the various holiday 
 customs of Holland, with explanatory rhymes. Here 
 I was delighted to recognize the jollities of New- 
 Year's day, the festivities of Paas and Pinkster, and 
 all the other merrymakings handed down in my native 
 place from the earliest times of New Amsterdam, and 
 which had been such bright spots in the year in my 
 childhood. I eagerly made myself master of this 
 precious document for a trifling consideration, and 
 bore it off as a memento of the place; though I ques 
 tion if, in so doing, I did not carry off with me the 
 whole current literature of Broek. 
 
 I must not omit to mention that this village is the 
 paradise of cows as well as men; indeed, you would 
 almost suppose the cow to be as much an object of wor 
 ship here, as the bull was among the ancient Egyptians ; 
 and well does she merit it, for she is in fact the pa 
 troness of the place. The same scrupulous cleanliness, 
 however, which pervades everything else, is manifested 
 in the treatment of this venerated animal. She is not
 
 204 BROEK: OR, THE DUTCH PARADISE 
 
 permitted to perambulate the place; but in winter, 
 when she forsakes the rich pasture, a well-built house 
 is provided for her, well painted, and maintained in 
 the most perfect order. Her stall is of ample dimen 
 sions; the floor is scrubbed and polished; her hide is 
 daily curried and brushed and sponged to her heart's 
 content, and her tail is daintily tucked up to the ceil 
 ing, and decorated with a ribbon ! 
 
 On my way back through the village, I passed the 
 house of the prediger, or preacher; a very comfortable 
 mansion, which led me to augur well of the state of 
 religion in the village. On inquiry, I was told that for 
 a long time the inhabitants lived in a great state of in 
 difference as to religious matters; it was in vain that 
 their preachers endeavored to arouse their thoughts 
 as to a future state ; the joys of heaven, as commonly 
 depicted, were but little to their taste. At length a dom 
 inie appeared among them who struck out in a different 
 vein. He depicted the New Jerusalem as a place all 
 smooth and level, with beautiful dykes and ditches and 
 canals, and houses all shining with paint and varnish 
 and glazed tiles, and where there should never come 
 horse, nor ass, nor cat, nor dog, nor anything that 
 could make noise or dirt; but there should be nothing 
 but rubbing and scrubbing, and washing and painting, 
 and gilding and varnishing, for ever and ever, amen! 
 Since that time the good housewives of Broek have all 
 turned their faces Zionward.
 
 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 205 
 
 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 
 
 A LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW 
 
 FOUND AMONG THE KNICKERBOCKER PAPERS AT 
 WOLFERT'S ROOST 
 
 WHOEVER has visited the ancient and renowned vil 
 lage of Communipaw may have noticed an old stone 
 building, of most ruinous and sinister appearance. The 
 doors and window-shutters are ready to drop from 
 their hinges; old clothes are stuffed in the broken 
 panes of glass, while legions of half-starved dogs prowl 
 about the premises, and rush out and bark at every 
 passer-by, for your beggarly house in a village is most 
 apt to swarm with profligate and ill-conditioned dogs. 
 What adds to the sinister appearance of this mansion 
 is a tall frame in front, not a little resembling a gal 
 lows, and which looks as if waiting to accommodate 
 some of the inhabitants with a well-merited airing. 
 It is not a gallows, however, but an ancient sign-post; 
 for this dwelling in the golden days of Communipaw 
 was one of the most orderly and peaceful of village 
 taverns, where public affairs were talked and smoked 
 over. In fact, it was in this very building that Oloffe 
 the Dreamer and his companions concerted that great 
 voyage of discovery and colonization in which they 
 explored Buttermilk Channel, were nearly ship 
 wrecked in the strait of Hell Gate, and finally landed 
 on the island of Manhattan, and founded the great city 
 of New Amsterdam. 
 
 Even after the province had been cruelly wrested 
 from the sway of their High Mightinesses by the com 
 bined forces of 'the British and the Yankees, this tavern
 
 2o6 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 
 
 continued its ancient loyalty. It is true, the head of 
 the Prince of Orange disappeared from the sign, a 
 strange bird being painted over it, with the explanatory 
 legend of " DIE WILDE CANS/' or, The Wild Goose ; 
 but this all the world knew to be a sly riddle of the 
 landlord, the worthy Teunis Van Gieson, a knowing 
 man, in a small way, who laid his finger beside his 
 nose and winked, when any one studied the significa 
 tion of his sign, and observed that his goose was hatch 
 ing, but would join the flock whenever they flew over 
 the water; an enigma which was the perpetual recrea 
 tion and delight of the loyal but fat-headed burghers 
 of Communipaw. 
 
 Under the sway of this patriotic, though discreet 
 and quiet publican, the tavern continued to flourish in 
 primeval tranquillity, and was the resort of true- 
 hearted Nederlanders, from all parts of Pavonia; who 
 met here quietly and secretly, to smoke and drink the 
 downfall of Briton and Yankee, and success to Admiral 
 Van Tromp. 
 
 The only drawback on the comfort of the establish 
 ment was a nephew of mine host, a sister's son, Yan 
 Yost Vanderscamp by name, and a real scamp by 
 nature. This unlucky whipster showed an early pro 
 pensity to mischief, which he gratified in a small way 
 by playing tricks upon the frequenters of the Wild 
 Goose, putting gunpowder in their pipes, or squibs 
 in their pockets, and astonishing them with an ex 
 plosion, while they sat nodding around the fireplace 
 in the bar-room; and if perchance a worthy burgher 
 from some distant part of Pavonia lingered until dark 
 over his potation, it was odds but young Vanderscamp 
 would slip a brier under his horse's tail, as he mounted, 
 and send him clattering along the road, in neck-or- 
 nothing style, to the infinite astonishment and dis 
 comfiture of the rider. 
 
 It may be wondered at, that mine host of the Wild
 
 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 207 
 
 Goose did not turn such a graceless varlet out of doors ; 
 but Teunis Van Gieson was an easy-tempered man, 
 and, having no child of his own, looked upon his 
 nephew with almost parental indulgence. His patience 
 and good-nature were doomed to be tried by another 
 inmate of his mansion. This was a cross-grained cur 
 mudgeon of a negro, named Pluto, who was a kind of 
 enigma in Communipaw. Where he came from, no 
 body knew. He was found one morning, after a storm, 
 cast like a sea-monster on the strand, in front of the 
 Wild Goose, and lay there, more dead than alive. The 
 neighbors gathered round, and speculated on this pro 
 duction of the deep; whether it were fish or flesh, or 
 a compound of both, commonly yclept a merman. The 
 kind-hearted Teunis Van Gieson, seeing that he wore 
 the human form, took him into his house, and warmed 
 him into life. By degrees, he showed signs of intelli 
 gence, and even uttered sounds very much like lan 
 guage, but which no one in Communipaw could under 
 stand. Some thought him a negro just from Guinea, 
 who had either fallen overboard, or escaped from a 
 slave-ship. Nothing, however, could ever draw from 
 him any account of his origin. When questioned on 
 the subject, he merely pointed to Gibbet Island, a small 
 rocky islet which lies in the open bay, just opposite 
 Communipaw, as if that were his native place, though 
 everybody knew it had never been inhabited. 
 
 In the process of time, he acquired something of 
 the Dutch language; that is to say, he learnt all its 
 vocabulary of oaths and maledictions, with just words 
 sufficient to string them together. " Donder en blick- 
 sem!" (thunder and lightning) was the gentlest of 
 his ejaculations. For years he kept about the Wild 
 Goose, more like one of those familiar spirits, or 
 household goblins, we read of, than like a human being. 
 He acknowledged allegiance to no one, but performed 
 various domestic offices, when it suited his humor;
 
 208 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 
 
 waiting occasionally on the guests, grooming the 
 horses, cutting wood, drawing water; and all this 
 without being ordered. Lay any command on him, 
 and the stubborn sea-urchin was sure to rebel. He 
 was never so much at home, however, as when on the 
 water, plying about in skiff or canoe, entirely alone, 
 fishing, crabbing, or grabbing for oysters, and would 
 bring home quantities for the larder of the Wild Goose, 
 which he would throw down at the kitchen-door, with 
 a growl. No wind nor weather deterred him from 
 launching forth on his favorite element : indeed, the 
 wilder the weather, the more he seemed to enjoy it. 
 If a storm was brewing, he was sure to put off from 
 shore; and would be seen far out in the bay, his light 
 skiff dancing like a feather on the waves, when sea and 
 sky were in a turmoil, and the stoutest ships were fain 
 to lower their sails. Sometimes on such occasions he 
 would be absent for days together. How he weathered 
 the tempest, and how and where he subsisted, no one 
 could divine, nor did any one venture to ask, for all 
 had an almost superstitious awe of him. Some of the 
 Communipaw oystermen declared they had more than 
 once seen him suddenly disappear, canoe and all, as if 
 plunged beneath the waves, and after a while come 
 up again, in quite a different part of the bay ; whence 
 they concluded that he could live under water like that 
 notable species of wild duck commonly called the hell- 
 diver. All began to consider him in the light of a foul- 
 weather bird, like the Mother Carey's, chicken, or 
 stormy petrel; and whenever they saw him putting 
 far out in his skiff, in cloudy weather, made up their 
 minds for a storm. 
 
 The only being for whom he seemed to have any 
 liking was Yan Yost Vanderscamp, and him he liked 
 for his very wickedness. He in a manner took the boy 
 under his tutelage, prompted him to all kinds of mis 
 chief, aided him in every wild harum-scarum freak,
 
 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 209 
 
 until the lad became the complete scapegrace of the 
 village, a pest to his uncle and to every one else. Nor 
 were his pranks confined to the land; he soon learned 
 to accompany old Pluto on the water. Together these 
 worthies would cruise about the broad bay, and all the 
 neighboring straits and rivers ; poking around in skiffs 
 and canoes; robbing the set nets of the fishermen; 
 landing on remote coasts, and laying waste orchards 
 and water-melon patches ; in short, carrying on a com 
 plete system of piracy, on a small scale. Piloted by 
 Pluto, the youthful Vanderscamp soon became ac 
 quainted with all the bays, rivers, creeks, and inlets of 
 the watery world around him; could navigate from 
 the Hook to Spiting Devil on the darkest night, and 
 learned to set even the terrors of Hell Gate at defiance. 
 
 At length negro and boy suddenly disappeared, and 
 days and weeks elapsed, but without tidings of them. 
 Some said they must have run away and gone to sea; 
 others jocosely hinted that old Pluto, being no other 
 than his namesake in disguise, had spirited away the 
 boy to the nether regions. All, however, agreed in 
 one thing, that the village was well rid of them. 
 
 In the process of time, the good Teunis Van Gieson 
 slept with his fathers, and the tavern remained shut 
 up, waiting for a claimant, for the next heir was Yan 
 Yost Vanderscamp, and he had not been heard of for 
 years. At length, one day, a boat was seen pulling for 
 shore, from a long, black, rakish-looking schooner, 
 that lay at anchor in the bay. The boat's crew seemed 
 worthy of the craft from which they debarked. Never 
 had such a set of noisy, roistering, swaggering varlets 
 landed in peaceful Communipaw. They were out 
 landish in garb and demeanor, and were headed by a 
 rough, burly, bully ruffian, with fiery whiskers, a cop 
 per nose, a scar across his face, and a great Flaunder- 
 ish beaver slouched on one side of his head, in whom, 
 to their dismay, the quiet inhabitants were made to 
 
 J 4
 
 210 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 
 
 recognize their early pest, Yan Yost Vanderscamp. 
 The rear of this hopeful gang was brought up by old 
 Pluto, who had lost an eye, grown grizzly-headed, and 
 looked more like a devil than ever. Vanderscamp re 
 newed his acquaintance with the old burghers, much 
 against their will, and in a manner not at all to their 
 taste. He slapped them familiarly on the back, gave 
 them an iron grip of the hand, and was hail-fellow- 
 well-met. According to his own account, he had been 
 all the world over, had made money by bags full, had 
 ships in every sea, and now meant to turn the Wild 
 Goose into a country-seat, where he and his comrades, 
 all rich merchants from foreign parts, might enjoy 
 themselves in the interval of their voyages. 
 
 Sure enough, in a little while there was a complete 
 metamorphose of the Wild Goose. From being a 
 quiet, peaceful Dutch public house, it became a most 
 riotous, uproarious private dwelling; a complete ren 
 dezvous for boisterous men of the seas, who came 
 here to have what they called a " blow-out " on dry 
 land, and might be seen at all hours, lounging about 
 the door, or lolling out of the windows, swearing 
 among themselves, and cracking rough jokes on every 
 passer-by. The house was fitted up, too, in so strange 
 a manner: hammocks slung to the walls, instead of 
 bedsteads ; odd kinds of furniture, of foreign fashion ; 
 bamboo couches, Spanish chairs ; pistols, cutlasses, and 
 blunderbusses, suspended on every peg; silver cruci 
 fixes on the mantel-pieces, silver candlesticks and por 
 ringers on the tables, contrasting oddly with the pewter 
 and Delft ware of the original establishment. And 
 then the strange amusements of these sea-monsters ! 
 Pitching Spanish dollars, instead of quoits; firing 
 blunderbusses out of the window ; shooting at a mark, 
 or at any unhappy dog, or cat, or pig, or barn-door 
 fowl, that might happen to come within reach. 
 
 The only being who seemed to relish their rough
 
 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 211 
 
 waggery was old Pluto; and yet he led but a dog's life 
 of it, for they practised all kinds of manual jokes upon 
 him, kicked him about like a foot-ball, shook him by 
 his grizzly mop of wool, and never spoke to him with 
 out coupling a curse, by way of adjective, to his name, 
 and consigning him to the infernal regions. The old 
 fellow, however, seemed to like them the better the 
 more they cursed him, though his utmost expression 
 of pleasure never amounted to more than the growl 
 of a petted bear, when his ears are rubbed. 
 
 Old Pluto was the ministering spirit at the orgies of 
 the Wild Goose; and such orgies as took place there! 
 Such drinking, singing, whooping, swearing; with an 
 occasional interlude of quarrelling and fighting. The 
 noisier grew the revel, the more old Pluto plied the 
 potations, until the guests would become frantic in 
 their merriment, smashing everything to pieces, and 
 throwing the house out of the windows. Sometimes, 
 after a drinking bout, they sallied forth and scoured the 
 village, to the dismay of the worthy burghers, who 
 gathered their women within doors, and would have 
 shut up the house. Vanderscamp, however, was not 
 to be rebuffed. He insisted on renewing acquaintance 
 with his old neighbors, and on introducing his friends, 
 the merchants, to their families ; swore he was on the 
 lookout for a wife, and meant, before he stopped, to 
 find husbands for all their daughters. So, will-ye, 
 nill-ye, sociable he was; swaggered about their best 
 parlors, with his hat on one side of his head; sat on 
 the good-wife's nicely waxed mahogany table, kick 
 ing his heels against the carved and polished legs; 
 kissed and tousled the young vrouws; and, if they 
 frowned and pouted, gave them a gold rosary, or a 
 sparkling cross, to put them in good-humor again. 
 
 Sometimes nothing would satisfy him, but he must 
 have some of his old neighbors to dinner at the Wild 
 Goose. There was no refusing him, for he had the
 
 212 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 
 
 complete upper hand of the community, and the peace 
 ful burghers all stood in awe of him. But what a 
 time would the quiet, worthy men have, among these 
 rake-hells, who would delight to astound them with the 
 most extravagant gunpowder tales, embroidered with 
 all kinds of foreign oaths, clink the can with them, 
 pledge them in deep potations, bawl drinking-songs in 
 their ears, and occasionally fire pistols over their heads, 
 or under the table, and then laugh in their faces, and 
 ask them how they liked the smell of gunpowder. 
 
 Thus was the little village of Communipaw for a 
 time like the unfortunate wight possessed with devils ; 
 until Vanderscamp and his brother-merchants would 
 sail on another trading voyage, when the Wild Goose 
 would be shut up, and everything relapse into quiet, 
 only to be disturbed by his next visitation. 
 
 The mystery of all these proceedings gradually 
 dawned upon the tardy intellects of Communipaw. 
 These were the times of the notorious Captain Kidd, 
 when the American harbors were the resorts of pi 
 ratical adventurers of all kinds, who, under pretext of 
 mercantile voyages, scoured the West Indies, made 
 plundering descents upon the Spanish Main, visited 
 even the remote Indian Seas, and then came to dispose 
 of their booty, have their revels, and fit out new ex 
 peditions in the English colonies. 
 
 Vanderscamp had served in this hopeful school, and, 
 having risen to importance among the buccaneers, had 
 pitched upon his native village and early home, as a 
 quiet, out-of-the-way, unsuspected place, where he and 
 his comrades, while anchored at New York, might 
 have their feasts, and concert their plans, without 
 molestation. 
 
 At length the attention of the British government 
 was called to these piratical enterprises, that were 
 becoming so frequent and outrageous. Vigorous 
 measures were taken to check and punish them.
 
 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 213 
 
 Several of the most noted freebooters were caught and 
 executed, and three of Vanderscamp's chosen com 
 rades, the most riotous swashbucklers of the Wild 
 Goose, were hanged in chains on Gibbet Island, in full 
 sight of their favorite resort. As to Vanderscamp 
 himself, he and his man Pluto again disappeared, and 
 it was hoped by the people of Communipaw that he had 
 fallen in some foreign brawl, or been swung on some 
 foreign gallows. 
 
 For a time, therefore, the tranquillity of the village 
 was restored; the worthy Dutchmen once more 
 smoked their pipes in peace, eying with peculiar com 
 placency their old pests and terrors, the pirates, dan 
 gling and drying in the sun, on Gibbet Island. 
 
 This perfect calm was doomed at length to be ruffled. 
 The fiery persecution of the pirates gradually subsided. 
 Justice was satisfied with the examples that had been 
 made, and there was no more talk of Kidd, and the 
 other heroes of like kidney. On a calm summer even 
 ing, a boat, somewhat heavily laden, was seen pulling 
 into Communipaw. What was the surprise and dis 
 quiet of the inhabitants to see Yan Yost Vanderscamp 
 seated at the helm, and his man Pluto tugging at the 
 oar! Vanderscamp, however, was apparently an al 
 tered man. He brought home with him a wife, who 
 seemed to be a shrew, and to have the upper hand of 
 him. He no longer was the swaggering, bully ruffian, 
 but affected the regular merchant, and talked of retir 
 ing from business, and settling down quietly, to pass 
 the rest of his days in his native place. 
 
 The Wild Goose mansion was again opened, but 
 with diminished splendor, and no riot. It is true, 
 Vanderscamp had frequent nautical visitors, and the 
 sound of revelry was occasionally overheard in his 
 house; but everything seemed to be done under the 
 rose, and old Pluto was the only servant that officiated 
 at these orgies. The visitors, indeed, were by no
 
 214 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 
 
 means of the turbulent stamp of their predecessors; 
 but quiet, mysterious traders, full of nods, and winks, 
 and hieroglyphic signs, with whom, to use their cant 
 phrase, " everything was smug." Their ships came to 
 anchor at night, in the lower bay; and, on a private 
 signal, Vanderscamp would launch his boat, and ac 
 companied solely by his man Pluto, would make them 
 mysterious visits. Sometimes boats pulled in at night, 
 in front of the Wild Goose, and various articles of 
 merchandise were landed in the dark, and spirited 
 away, nobody knew whither. One of the more curious 
 of the inhabitants kept watch, and caught a glimpse 
 of the features of some of these night visitors, by the 
 casual glance of a lantern, and declared that he recog 
 nized more than one of the freebooting frequenters 
 of the Wild Goose, in former times; whence he con 
 cluded that Vanderscamp was at his old game, and 
 that this mysterious merchandise was nothing more nor 
 less than piratical plunder. The more charitable 
 opinion, however, was, that Vanderscamp and his com 
 rades, having been driven from their old line of busi 
 ness by the " oppressions of government," had resorted 
 to smuggling to make both ends meet. 
 
 Be that as it may, I come now to the extraordinary 
 fact which is the butt-end of this story. It happened, 
 late one night, that Yan Yost Vanderscamp was re 
 turning across the broad bay, in his light skiff, rowed 
 by his man Pluto. He had been carousing on board of 
 a vessel, newly arrived, and was somewhat obfuscated 
 in intellect, by the liquor he had imbibed. It was a still, 
 sultry night; a heavy mass of lurid clouds was rising 
 in the west, with the low muttering of distant thunder. 
 Vanderscamp called on Pluto to pull lustily, that they 
 might get home before the gathering storm. The old 
 negro made no reply, but shaped his course so as to 
 skirt the rocky shores of Gibbet Island. A faint creak 
 ing overhead caused Vanderscamp to cast up his eyes,
 
 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 215 
 
 when, to his horror, he beheld the bodies of his three 
 pot companions and brothers in iniquity dangling in 
 the moonlight, their rags fluttering, and their chains 
 creaking, as they were slowly swung backward and 
 forward by the rising breeze. 
 
 " What do you mean, you blockhead ! " cried Van- 
 derscamp, "by pulling so close to the island?" 
 
 " I thought you 'd be glad to see your old friends 
 once more," growled the negro ; " you were never 
 afraid of a living man, what do you fear from the 
 dead?" 
 
 " Who 's afraid ? " hiccoughed Vanderscamp, partly 
 heated by liquor, partly nettled by the jeer of the 
 negro ; " who 's afraid ? Hang me, but I would be 
 glad to see them once more, alive or dead, at the Wild 
 Goose. Come, my lads in the wind ! " continued he, 
 taking a draught, and flourishing the bottle above his 
 head, " here 's fair weather to you in the other world ; 
 and if you should be walking the rounds to-night, odds 
 fish ! but I '11 be happy if you will drop in to supper." 
 
 A dismal creaking was the only reply. The wind 
 blew loud and shrill, and as it whistled round the gal 
 lows, and among the bones, sounded as if they were 
 laughing and gibbering in the air. Old Pluto chuckled 
 to himself, and now pulled for home. The storm burst 
 over the voyagers, while they were yet far from shore. 
 The rain fell in torrents, the thunder crashed and 
 pealed, and the lightning kept up an incessant blaze. It 
 was stark midnight before they landed at Communipaw. 
 
 Dripping and shivering, Vanderscamp crawled 
 homeward. He was completely sobered by the storm, 
 the water soaked from without having diluted and 
 cooled the liquor within. Arrived at the Wild Goose, 
 he knocked timidly and dubiously at the door; for he 
 dreaded the reception he was to experience from his 
 wife. He had reason to do so. She met him at the 
 threshold, in a precious ill-humor.
 
 216 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 
 
 " Is this a time," said she, " to keep people out of 
 their beds, and to bring home company, to turn the 
 house upside down ? " 
 
 " Company? " said Vanderscamp, meekly, " I have 
 brought no company with me, wife." 
 
 " No, indeed ! they have got here before you, but 
 by your invitation ; and blessed-looking company they 
 are, truly ! " 
 
 Vanderscamp's knees smote together. " For the 
 love of heaven, where are they, wife? " 
 
 "Where? why in the blue room, up-stairs, mak 
 ing themselves as much at home as if the house were 
 their own." 
 
 Vanderscamp made a desperate effort, scrambled 
 up to the room, and threw open the door. Sure 
 enough, there at a table, on which burned a light as 
 blue as brimstone, sat the three guests from Gibbet 
 Island, with halters round their necks, and bobbing 
 their cups together, as if they were hob-or-nobbing, 
 and trolling the old Dutch freebooter's glee, since 
 translated into English : 
 
 For three merry lads be we, 
 And three merry lads be we ; 
 I on the land, and thou on the sand, 
 And Jack on the gallows-tree. 
 
 Vanderscamp saw and heard no more. Starting 
 back with horror, he missed his footing on the landing- 
 place, and fell from the top of the stairs to the bottom. 
 He was taken up speechless, and, either from the fall 
 or the fright, was buried in the yard of the little Dutch 
 church at Bergen, on the following Sunday. 
 
 From that day forward the fate of the Wild Goose 
 was sealed. It was pronounced a haunted house, and 
 avoided accordingly. No one inhabited it but Vander 
 scamp's shrew of a widow and old Pluto, and they 
 were considered but little better than its hobgoblin
 
 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 217 
 
 visitors. Pluto grew more and more haggard and 
 morose, and looked more like an imp of darkness 
 than a human being. He spoke to no one, but went 
 about muttering to himself; or, as some hinted, talk 
 ing with the devil, who, though unseen, was ever at 
 his elbow. Now and then he was seen pulling about 
 the bay alone in his skiff, in dark weather, or at the 
 approach of nightfall ; nobody could tell why, unless 
 on an errand to invite more guests from the gallows. 
 Indeed, it was affirmed that the Wild Goose still con 
 tinued to be a house of entertainment for such guests, 
 and that on stormy nights the blue chamber was oc 
 casionally illuminated, and sounds of diabolical merri 
 ment were overheard, mingling with the howling of 
 the tempest. Some treated these as idle stories, until 
 on one such night, it was about the time of the equi 
 nox, there was a horrible uproar in the Wild Goose, 
 that could not be mistaken. It was not so much the 
 sound of revelry, however, as strife, with two or three 
 piercing shrieks, that pervaded every part of the vil 
 lage. Nevertheless, no one thought of hastening to 
 the spot. On the contrary, the honest burghers of 
 Communipaw drew their nightcaps over their ears, and 
 buried their heads under the bedclothes, at the thoughts 
 of Vanderscamp and his gallows companions. 
 
 The next morning, some of the bolder and more 
 curious undertook to reconnoitre. All was quiet and 
 lifeless at the Wild Goose. The door yawned wide 
 open, and had evidently been open all night, for the 
 storm had beaten into the house. Gathering more 
 courage from the silence and apparent desertion, they 
 gradually ventured over the threshold. The house had 
 indeed the air of having been possessed by devils. 
 Everything was topsy-turvy; trunks had been broken 
 open, and chests of drawers and corner cupboards 
 turned inside out, as in a time of general sack and 
 pillage; but the most woful sight was the widow of
 
 218 GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 
 
 Yan Yost Vanderscamp extended a corpse on the floor 
 of the blue chamber, with the marks of a deadly gripe 
 on the windpipe. 
 
 All now was conjecture and dismay at Communi- 
 paw; and the disappearance of old Pluto, who was 
 nowhere to be found, gave rise to all kinds of wild 
 surmises. Some suggested that the negro had be 
 trayed the house to some of Vanderscamp' s buccaneer 
 ing associates, and that they had decamped together 
 with the booty; others surmised that the negro was 
 nothing more nor less than a devil incarnate, who had 
 now accomplished his ends, and made off with his 
 dues. 
 
 Events, however, vindicated the negro from this 
 last imputation. His skiff was picked up, drifting 
 about the bay, bottom upward, as if wrecked in a 
 tempest; and his body was found, shortly afterward, 
 by some Communipaw fishermen, stranded among the 
 rocks of Gibbet Island, near the foot of the pirates' 
 gallows. The fishermen shook their heads, and ob 
 served that old Pluto had ventured once too often to 
 invite Guests from Gibbet Island.
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 219 
 
 THE EARLY EXPERIENCES OF 
 RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 NOTED DOWN FROM HIS CONVERSATIONS: BY 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 1 
 
 " I AM a Kentuckian by residence and choice, but a Vir 
 ginian by birth. The cause of my first leaving the 
 ' Ancient Dominion,' and emigrating to Kentucky, 
 was a jackass I You stare, but have a little patience, 
 and I '11 soon show you how it came to pass. My 
 father, who was one of the old Virginian families, re 
 sided in Richmond. He was a widower, and his do 
 mestic affairs were managed by a housekeeper of the 
 old school, such as used to administer the concerns of 
 opulent Virginian households. She was a dignitary 
 that almost rivalled my father in importance, and 
 seemed to think everything belonged to her; in fact, 
 she was so considerate in her economy, and so careful 
 of expense, as sometimes to vex my father, who would 
 swear she was disgracing him by her meanness. She 
 always appeared with that ancient insignia of house 
 keeping trust and authority, a great bunch of keys 
 jingling at her girdle. She superintended the arrange 
 ments of the table at every meal, and saw that the 
 dishes were all placed according to her primitive 
 notions of symmetry. In the evening she took her 
 stand and served out tea with a mingled respectfulness 
 
 1 Ralph Ringwood, though a fictitious name, is a real personage, 
 the late Governor Duval of Florida. I have given some anec 
 dotes of his early and eccentric career, in, as nearly as I can recol 
 lect, the very words in which he related them. They certainly 
 afford strong temptations to the embellishments of fiction; but I 
 thought them so strikingly characteristic of the individual, and of 
 the scenes and society into which his peculiar humors carried him, 
 that I preferred giving them in their original simplicity.
 
 220 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 and pride of station truly exemplary. Her great am 
 bition was to have everything in order, and that the 
 establishment under her sway should be cited as a 
 model of good housekeeping. If anything went 
 wrong, poor old Barbara would take it to heart, and 
 sit in her room and cry, until a few chapters in the 
 Bible would quiet her spirits, and make all calm again. 
 The Bible, in fact, was her constant resort in time of 
 trouble. She opened it indiscriminately, and whether 
 she chanced among the Lamentations of Jeremiah, the 
 Canticles of Solomon, or the rough enumeration of the 
 tribes in Deuteronomy, a chapter was a chapter, 
 and operated like balm to her soul. Such was our good 
 old housekeeper Barbara; who was destined, unwit 
 tingly, to have a most important effect upon my 
 destiny. 
 
 " It came to pass, during the days of my juvenility, 
 while I was yet what is termed ' an unlucky boy,' that 
 a gentleman of our neighborhood, a great advocate for 
 experiments and improvements of all kinds, took it 
 into his head that it would be an immense public ad 
 vantage to introduce a breed of mules, and accordingly 
 imported three jacks to stock the neighborhood. This 
 in a part of the country where the people cared for 
 nothing but blood horses ! Why, sir, they would have 
 considered their mares disgraced, and their whole stud 
 dishonored, by such a misalliance. The whole matter 
 was a town-talk, and a town-scandal. The worthy 
 amalgamator of quadrupeds found himself in a dis 
 mal scrape; so he backed out in time, abjured the 
 whole doctrine of amalgamation, and turned his jacks 
 loose to shift for themselves upon the town common. 
 There they used to run about and lead an idle, good- 
 for-nothing, holiday life, the happiest animals in the 
 country. 
 
 " It so happened that my way to school lay across 
 the common. The first time that I saw one of these
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 221 
 
 animals, it set up a braying and frightened me con 
 foundedly. However, I soon got over my fright, and 
 seeing that it had something of a horse look, my Vir 
 ginian love for anything of the equestrian species pre 
 dominated, and I determined to back it. I accordingly 
 applied at a grocer's shop, procured a cord that had 
 been round a loaf of sugar, and made a kind of halter ; 
 then, summoning some of my schoolfellows, we drove 
 master Jack about the common until we hemmed him 
 in an angle of a ' worm-fence.' After some difficulty, 
 we fixed the halter round his muzzle, and I mounted. 
 Up flew his heels, away I went over his head, and off 
 he scampered. However, I was on my legs in a twin 
 kling, gave chase, caught him, and remounted. By dint 
 of repeated tumbles I soon learned to stick to his back, 
 so that he could no more cast me than he could his 
 own skin. From that time, master Jack and his com 
 panions had a scampering life of it, for we all rode 
 them between school hours, and on holiday afternoons; 
 and. you may be sure schoolboys' nags are never per 
 mitted to suffer the grass to grow under their feet. 
 They soon became so knowing, that they took to their 
 heels at sight of a schoolboy; and we were generally 
 much longer in chasing than we were in riding them. 
 
 " Sunday approached, on which I projected an 
 equestrian excursion on one of these long-eared steeds. 
 As I knew the jacks would be in great demand on Sun 
 day morning, I secured one over night, and conducted 
 him home, to be ready for an early outset. But where 
 was I to quarter him for the night? I could not put 
 him in the stable ; our old black groom George was as 
 absolute in that domain as Barbara was within doors, 
 and would have thought his stable, his horses, and him 
 self disgraced by the introduction of a jackass. I 
 recollected the smoke-house, an out-building ap 
 pended to all Virginian establishments, for the smok 
 ing of hams and other kinds of meat. So I got the
 
 222 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 key, put master Jack in, locked the door, returned the 
 key to its place, and went to bed, intending to release 
 my prisoner at an early hour, before any of the family 
 were awake. I was so tired, however, by the exertions 
 I had made in catching the donkey, that I fell into a 
 sound sleep, and the morning broke without my 
 waking. 
 
 " Not so with Dame Barbara, the housekeeper. As 
 usual, to use her own phrase, ' she was up before the 
 crow put his shoes on,' and bustled about to get things 
 in order for breakfast. Her first resort was to the 
 smoke-house. Scarce had she opened the door, when 
 master Jack, tired of his confinement, and glad to be 
 released from darkness, gave a loud bray, and rushed 
 forth. Down dropped old Barbara; the animal tram 
 pled over her, and made off for the common. Poor 
 Barbara! She had never before seen a donkey; and 
 having read in the Bible that the Devil went about like 
 a roaring lion, seeking whom he might devour, she 
 took it for granted that this was Beelzebub himself. 
 The kitchen was soon in a hubbub; the servants hur 
 ried to the spot. There lay old Barbara in fits; as 
 fast as she got out of one, the thoughts of the Devil 
 came over her, and she fell into another, for the good 
 soul was devoutly superstitious. 
 
 " As ill luck would have it, among those attracted 
 by the noise, was a little cursed, fidgety, crabbed uncle 
 of mine; one of those uneasy spirits that cannot rest 
 quietly in their beds in the morning, but must be up 
 early, to bother the household. He was only a kind 
 of half-uncle, after all, for he had married my father's 
 sister; yet he assumed great authority on the strength 
 of this left-handed relationship, and was a universal 
 intermeddler and family pest. This prying little busy 
 body soon ferreted out the truth of the story, and dis 
 covered, by hook and by crook, that I was at the bot 
 tom of the affair, and had locked up the donkey in
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 223 
 
 the smoke-house. He stopped to inquire no farther, 
 for he was one of those testy curmudgeons with whom 
 unlucky boys are always in the wrong. Leaving old 
 Barbara to wrestle in imagination with the Devil, he 
 made for my bedchamber, where I still lay wrapped 
 in rosy slumbers, little dreaming of the mischief I 
 had done, and the storm about to break over me. 
 
 " In an instant I was awakened by a shower of 
 thwacks, and started up in wild amazement. I de 
 manded the meaning of this attack, but received no 
 other reply than that I had murdered the housekeeper ; 
 while my uncle continued thwacking away during my 
 confusion. I seized a poker, and put myself on the 
 defensive. I was a stout boy for my years, while my 
 uncle was a little wiffet of a man ; one that in Ken 
 tucky we would not call even an ' individual ' ; noth 
 ing more than a remote circumstance.' I soon, there 
 fore, brought him to a parley, and learned the whole 
 extent of the charge brought against me. I confessed 
 to the donkey and the smoke-house, but pleaded not 
 guilty of the murder of the housekeeper. I soon found 
 out that old Barbara was still alive. She continued 
 under the doctor's hands, however, for several days; 
 and whenever she had an ill turn, my uncle would seek 
 to give me another flogging. I appealed to my father, 
 but got no redress. I was considered an ' unlucky 
 boy,' prone to all kinds of mischief; so that prepos 
 sessions were against me, in all cases of appeal. 
 
 " I felt stung to the soul at all this. I had been 
 beaten, degraded, and treated with slighting when I 
 complained. I lost my usual good spirits and good- 
 humor; and, being out of temper with everybody, 
 fancied everybody out of temper with me. A certain 
 wild, roving spirit of freedom, which I believe is as 
 inherent in me as it is in the partridge, was brought 
 into sudden activity by the checks and restraints I 
 suffered. ' I '11 go from home/ thought I, ' and shift
 
 224 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 for myself.' Perhaps this notion was quickened by 
 the rage for emigrating to Kentucky which was at that 
 time prevalent in Virginia. I had heard such stories 
 of the romantic beauties of the country, of the abun 
 dance of game of all kinds, and of the glorious inde 
 pendent life of the hunters who ranged its noble forests, 
 and lived by the rifle, that I was as much agog to get 
 there as boys who live in seaports are to launch them 
 selves among the wonders and adventures of the ocean. 
 
 " After a time, old Barbara got better in mind and 
 body, and matters were explained to her; and she 
 became gradually convinced that it was not the Devil 
 she had encountered. When she heard how harshly 
 I- had been treated on her account, the good old soul 
 was extremely grieved, and spoke warmly to my father 
 in my behalf. He had himself remarked the change 
 in my behavior, and thought punishment might have 
 been carried too far. He sought, therefore, to have 
 some conversation with me, and to soothe my feelings ; 
 but it was too late. I frankly told him the course of 
 mortification that I had experienced, and the fixed de 
 termination I had made to go from home. 
 
 " ' And where do you mean to go ? ' 
 
 " ' To Kentucky.' ' 
 
 " ' To Kentucky ! Why, you know nobody there.' 
 
 " ' No matter; I can soon make acquaintances.' 
 
 " ' And what will you do when you get there ? ' 
 
 "'Hunt!' 
 
 " My father gave a long, low whistle, and looked in 
 my face with a serio-comic expression. I was not far 
 in my teens, and to talk of setting off" alone for Ken 
 tucky, to turn hunter, seemed doubtless the idle prattle 
 of a boy. He was little aware of the dogged resolu 
 tion of my character; and his smile of incredulity but 
 fixed me more obstinately in my purpose. I assured 
 him I was serious in what I said, and would certainly 
 set off for Kentucky in the spring.
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 225 
 
 " Month after month passed away. My father now 
 and then adverted slightly to what had passed between 
 us ; doubtless for the purpose of sounding me. I always 
 expressed the same grave and fixed determination. By 
 degrees he spoke to me more directly on the subject, 
 endeavoring earnestly but kindly to dissuade me. My 
 only reply was, ' I had made up my mind.' 
 
 " Accordingly, as soon as the spring had fairly 
 opened, I sought him one day in his study, and in 
 formed him I was about to set out for Kentucky, and 
 had come to take my leave. He made no objection, 
 for he had exhausted persuasion and remonstrance, 
 and doubtless thought it best to give way to my humor, 
 trusting that a little rough experience would soon bring 
 me home again. I asked money for my journey. He 
 went to a chest, took out a long green silk purse, well 
 filled, and laid it on the table. I now asked for a horse 
 and servant. 
 
 " ' A horse ! ' said my father, sneeringly, ' why, you 
 would not go a mile without racing him, and breaking 
 your neck; and as to a servant, you cannot take care 
 of yourself, much less of him.' 
 
 " ' How am I to travel, then ? ' 
 
 " ' Why, I suppose you are man enough to travel on 
 foot.' 
 
 " He spoke jestingly, little thinking I would take 
 him at his word; but I was thoroughly piqued in 
 respect to my enterprise ; so I pocketed the purse, went 
 to my room, tied up three or four shirts in a pocket- 
 handkerchief, put a dirk in my bosom, girt a couple of 
 pistols round my waist, and felt like a knight-errant 
 armed cap-a-pie, and ready to rove the world in quest 
 of adventures. 
 
 " My sister (I had but one) hung round me and 
 wept, and entreated me to stay. I felt my heart swell 
 in my throat; but I gulped it back to its place, and 
 straightened myself up: I would not suffer myself to
 
 226 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 cry. I at length disengaged myself from her, and got 
 to the door. 
 
 " ' When will you come back ? ' cried she. 
 
 " ' Never, by heavens ! ' cried I, ' until I come back 
 a member of Congress from Kentucky. I am deter 
 mined to show that I am not the tail-end of the family.' 
 
 " Such was my first outset from home. You may 
 suppose what a greenhorn I was, and how little I knew 
 of the world I was launching into. 
 
 " I do not recollect any incident of importance until 
 I reached the borders of Pennsylvania. I had stopped 
 at an inn to get some refreshment ; as I was eating in 
 a back-room, I overheard two men in the bar-room 
 conjecture who and what I could be. One determined, 
 at length, that I was a runaway apprentice, and ought 
 to be stopped, to which the other assented. When I 
 had finished my meal, and paid for it, I went out at 
 the back-door, lest I should be stopped by my super 
 visors. Scorning, however, to steal off like a culprit, 
 I walked round to the front of the house. One of the 
 men advanced to the front-door. He wore his hat on 
 one side, and had a consequential air that nettled me. 
 
 " ' Where are you going, youngster? ' demanded he. 
 
 " ' That 's none of your business ! ' replied I, rather 
 pertly. 
 
 " ' Yes, but it is though ! You have run away from 
 home, and must give an account of yourself.' 
 
 " He advanced to seize me, when I drew forth a 
 pistol. ' If you advance another step, I '11 shoot you ! ' 
 
 " He sprang back as if he had trodden upon a rattle 
 snake, and his hat fell off in the movement. 
 
 " ' Let him alone ! ' cried his companion ; ' he 's a 
 foolish, mad-headed boy, and don't know what he 's 
 about. He '11 shoot you, you may rely on it.' 
 
 " He did not need any caution in the matter ; he was 
 afraid even to pick up his hat; so I pushed forward 
 on my way without molestation. This incident, how-
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 227 
 
 ever, had its effect upon me. I became fearful of 
 sleeping in any house at night, lest I should be stopped. 
 I took my meals in the houses, in the course of the 
 day, but would turn aside at night into some wood or 
 ravine, make a fire, and sleep before it. This I con 
 sidered was true hunter's style, and I wished to inure 
 myself to it. 
 
 " At length I arrived at Brownsville, leg-weary and 
 wayworn, and in a shabby plight, as you may suppose, 
 having been ' camping out ' for some nights past. I 
 applied at some of the inferior inns, but could gain no 
 admission. I was regarded for a moment with a dubi 
 ous eye, and then informed they did not receive foot- 
 passengers. At last I went boldly to the principal inn. 
 The landlord appeared as unwilling as the rest to re 
 ceive a vagrant boy beneath his roof; but his wife 
 interfered in the midst of his excuses, and, half elbow 
 ing him aside, 
 
 " ' Where are you going, my lad ? ' said she. 
 'To Kentucky.' 
 
 " ' What are you going there for? ' 
 ' To hunt.' 
 
 " She looked earnestly at me for a moment or two. 
 * Have you a mother living? ' said she at length. 
 
 " ' No, madam ; she has been dead for some time.' 
 
 " ' I thought so ! ' cried she, warmly. ' I knew if 
 you had a mother living, you would not be here.' From 
 that moment the good woman treated me with a 
 mother's kindness. 
 
 " I remained several days beneath her roof, recover 
 ing from the fatigue of my journey. While here, I 
 purchased a rifle, and practised daily at a mark, to pre 
 pare myself for a hunter's life. When sufficiently re 
 cruited in strength, I took leave of my kind host and 
 hostess, and resumed my journey. 
 
 " At Wheeling I embarked in a flat-bottomed family 
 boat, technically called a broad-horn, a prime river
 
 228 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 conveyance in those days. In this ark for two weeks 
 I floated down the Ohio. The river was as yet in all 
 its wild beauty. Its loftiest trees had not been thinned 
 out. The forest overhung the water's edge, and was 
 occasionally skirted by immense canebrakes. Wild 
 animals of all kinds abounded. We heard them rush 
 ing through the thickets and plashing in the water. 
 Deer and bears would frequently swim across the river ; 
 others would come down to the bank, and gaze at the 
 boat as it passed. I was incessantly on the alert with 
 my rifle; but, somehow or other, the game was never 
 within shot. Sometimes I got a chance to land and 
 try my skill on shore. I shot squirrels, and small birds, 
 and even wild turkeys; but though I caught glimpses 
 of deer bounding away through the woods, I never 
 could get a fair shot at them. 
 
 " In this way we glided in our broad-horn past 
 Cincinnati, the ' Queen of the West,' as she is now 
 called, then a mere group of log-cabins; and the site 
 of the bustling city of Louisville, then designated by 
 a solitary house. As I said before, the Ohio was as yet 
 a wild river; all was forest, forest, forest! Near the 
 confluence of Green River with the Ohio I landed, bade 
 adieu to the broad-horn, and struck for the interior of 
 Kentucky. I had no precise plan; my only idea was 
 to make for one of the wildest parts of the country. 
 I had relatives in Lexington and other settled places, to 
 whom I thought it probable my father would write 
 concerning me; so, as I was full of manhood and 
 independence, and resolutely bent on making my way 
 in the world without assistance or control, I resolved 
 to keep clear of them all. 
 
 " In the course of my first day's trudge I shot a 
 wild turkey, and slung it on my back for provisions. 
 The forest was open and clear from underwood. I 
 saw deer in abundance, but always running, running. 
 It seemed to me as if these animals never stood still.
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 229 
 
 " At length I came to where a gang of half-starved 
 wolves were feasting on the carcass of a deer which 
 they had run down, and snarling and snapping, and 
 fighting like so many dogs. They were all so ravenous 
 and intent upon their prey that they did not notice 
 me, and I had time to make my observations. One, 
 larger and fiercer than the rest, seemed to claim the 
 larger share, and to keep the others in awe. If any 
 one came too near him while eating, he would fly off, 
 seize and shake him, and then return to his repast. 
 ' This,' thought I, 'must be the captain; if I can kill 
 him, I shall defeat the whole army.' I accordingly 
 took aim, fired, and down dropped the old fellow. He 
 might be only shamming dead; so I loaded and put 
 a second ball through him. He never budged ; all the 
 rest ran off, and my victory was complete. 
 
 " It would not be easy to describe my triumphant 
 feelings on this great achievement. I marched on with 
 renovated spirit, regarding myself as absolute lord of 
 the forest. As night drew near, I prepared for camping. 
 My first care was to collect dry wood and make a roar 
 ing fire to cook and sleep by, and to frighten off wolves, 
 and bears, and panthers. I then began to pluck my 
 turkey for supper. I had camped out several times in 
 the early part of my expedition ; but that was in com 
 paratively more settled and civilized regions, where 
 there were no wild animals of consequence in the 
 forest. This was my first camping out in the real wil 
 derness, and I was soon made sensible of the loneliness 
 and wildness of my situation. 
 
 " In a little while a concert of wolves commenced ; 
 there might have been a dozen or two, but it seemed 
 to me as if there were thousands. I never heard such 
 howling and whining. Having prepared my turkey, 
 I divided it into two parts, thrust two sticks into one 
 of the halves, and planted them on end before the 
 fire, the hunter's mode of roasting. The smell of
 
 230 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 roast meat quickened the appetites of the wolves, and 
 their concert became truly infernal. They seemed to 
 be all around me, but I could only now and then get 
 a glimpse of one of them, as he came within the glare 
 of the light. 
 
 " I did not much care for the wolves, who I knew 
 to be a cowardly race, but I had heard terrible stories 
 of panthers, and began to fear their stealthy prowlings 
 in the surrounding darkness. I was thirsty, and heard 
 a brook bubbling and tinkling along at no great dis 
 tance, but absolutely dared not go there, lest some 
 panther might lie in wait and spring upon me. By and 
 by a deer whistled. I had never heard one before, 
 and thought it must be a panther. I now felt uneasy 
 lest he might climb the trees, crawl along the branches 
 overhead, and plump down upon me; so I kept my 
 eyes fixed on the branches, until my head ached. I 
 more than once thought I saw fiery eyes glaring down 
 from among the leaves. At length I thought of my 
 supper, and turned to see if my half turkey was cooked. 
 In crowding so near the fire, I had pressed the meat 
 into the flames, and it was consumed. I had nothing 
 to do but toast the other half, and take better care of 
 it. On that half I made my supper, without salt or 
 bread. I was still so possessed with the dread of pan 
 thers, that I could not close my eyes all night, but lay 
 watching the trees until daybreak, when all my fears 
 were dispelled with the darkness; and as I saw the 
 morning sun sparkling down through the branches 
 of the trees, I smiled to think how I suffered myself 
 to be dismayed by sounds and shadows; but I was a 
 young woodsman, and a stranger in Kentucky. 
 
 " Having breakfasted on the remainder of my tur 
 key and slaked my thirst at the bubbling stream, with 
 out farther dread of panthers, I resumed my wayfaring 
 with buoyant feelings. I again saw deer, but, as usual, 
 running, running ! I tried in vain to get a shot at them,
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 231 
 
 and began to fear I never should. I was gazing with 
 vexation after a herd in full scamper, when I was 
 startled by a human voice. Turning round, I saw a 
 man at a short distance from me in a hunting-dress. 
 
 " ' What are you after, my lad ? ' cried he. 
 
 " ' Those deer,' replied I, pettishly ; ' but it seems 
 as if they never stand still.' 
 
 " Upon that he burst out laughing. ' Where are 
 you from ? ' said he. 
 
 " ' From Richmond.' 
 
 "'What! In old Virginny?' 
 
 " ' The same.' 
 
 " * And how on earth did you get here ? ' 
 
 " ' I landed at Green River from a broad-horn.' 
 
 " ' And where are your companions ? ' 
 
 " ' I have none.' 
 
 "'What? all alone!' 
 
 " ' Yes.' 
 
 " * Where are you going? ' 
 
 " ' Anywhere.' 
 
 " * And what have you come here for ? ' 
 
 " ' To hunt.' 
 
 " ' Well,' said he, laughingly, ' you '11 make a real 
 hunter ; there 's no mistaking that ! 
 
 " ' Have you killed anything? ' 
 
 " ' Nothing but a turkey ; I can't get within shot of 
 a deer; they are always running.' 
 
 " ' Oh, I '11 tell you the secret of that. You 're al 
 ways pushing forward, and starting the deer at a dis 
 tance, and gazing at those that are scampering; but 
 you must step as slow and silent and cautious as a 
 cat, and keep your eyes close around you, and lurk from 
 tree to tree, if you wish to get a chance at deer. But 
 come, go home with me. My name is Bill Smithers; 
 I live not far off : stay with me a little while, and I '11 
 teach you how to hunt.' 
 
 " I gladly accepted the invitation of honest Bill
 
 232 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 Smithers. We soon reached his habitation ; a mere 
 log-hut, with a square hole for a window, and a chim 
 ney made of sticks and clay. Here he lived, with a 
 wife and child. He had ' girdled ' the trees for an 
 acre or two around, preparatory to clearing a space 
 for corn and potatoes. In the mean time he main 
 tained his family entirely by his rifle, and I soon found 
 him to be a first-rate huntsman. Under his tutelage 
 I received my first effective lessons in ' woodcraft.' 
 
 " The more I knew of a hunter's life, the more I 
 relished it. The country, too, which had been the 
 promised land of my boyhood, did not, like most prom 
 ised lands, disappoint me. No wilderness could be 
 more beautiful than this part of Kentucky in those 
 times. The forests were open and spacious, with noble 
 trees, some of which looked as if they had stood for 
 centuries. There were beautiful prairies, too, diversi 
 fied with groves and clumps of trees, which looked like 
 vast parks, and in which you could see the deer run 
 ning, at a great distance. In the proper season, these 
 prairies would be covered in many places with wild 
 strawberries, where your horse's hoofs would be dyed 
 to the fetlock. I thought there could not be another 
 place in the world equal to Kentucky, and I think 
 so still. 
 
 " After I had passed ten or twelve days with Bill 
 Smithers, I thought it time to shift my quarters, for 
 his house was scarce large enough for his own family, 
 and I had no idea of being an encumbrance to any one. 
 I accordingly made up my bundle, shouldered my rifle, 
 took a friendly leave of Smithers and his wife, and set 
 out in quest of a Nimrod of the wilderness, one John 
 Miller, who lived alone, nearly forty miles off, and 
 who I hoped would be well pleased to have a hunting 
 companion. 
 
 " I soon found out that one of the most important 
 items in woodcraft, in a new country, was the skill to
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 233 
 
 find one's way in the wilderness. There were no 
 regular roads in the forests, but they were cut up and 
 perplexed by paths leading in all directions. Some of 
 these were made by the cattle of the settlers, and were 
 called ' stock-tracks,' but others had been made by the 
 immense droves of buffaloes which roamed about the 
 country from the flood until recent times. These were 
 called buffalo-tracks, and traversed Kentucky from end 
 to end, like highways. Traces of them may still be 
 seen in uncultivated parts, or deeply worn in the rocks 
 where they crossed the mountains. I was a young 
 woodsman, and sorely puzzled to distinguish one kind 
 of track from the other, or to make out my course 
 through this tangled labyrinth. While thus perplexed, 
 I heard a distant roaring and rushing sound ; a gloom 
 stole over the forest. On looking up, when I could 
 catch a stray glimpse of the sky, I beheld the clouds 
 rolled up like balls, the lower part as black as ink. 
 There was now and then an explosion, like a burst of 
 cannonry afar off, and the crash of a falling tree. I 
 had heard of hurricanes in the woods, and surmised 
 that one was at hand. It soon came crashing its way, 
 the forest writhing, and twisting, and groaning before 
 it. The hurricane did not extend far on either side, 
 but in a manner ploughed a furrow through the wood 
 land, snapping off or uprooting trees that had stood 
 for centuries, and filling the air with whirling branches. 
 I was directly in its course, and took my stand behind 
 an immense poplar, six feet in diameter. It bore for 
 a time the full fury of the blast, but at length began 
 to yield. Seeing it falling, I scrambled nimbly round 
 the trunk like a squirrel. Down it went, bearing down 
 another tree with it. I crept under the trunk as a 
 shelter, and was protected from other trees which fell 
 around me, but was sore all over, from the twigs and 
 branches driven against me by the blast. 
 
 " This was the only incident of consequence that
 
 234 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 occurred on my way to John Miller's, where I arrived 
 on the following day, and was received by the veteran 
 with the rough kindness of a backwoodsman. He was 
 a gray-haired man, hardy and weather-beaten, with a 
 blue wart, like a great bead, over one eye, whence he 
 was nicknamed by the hunters, ' Blue-bead Miller.' 
 He had been in these parts from the earliest settle 
 ments, and had signalized himself in the hard conflicts 
 with the Indians, which gained Kentucky the appella 
 tion of ' the Bloody Ground.' In one of these rights 
 he had had an arm broken; in another he had nar 
 rowly escaped, when hotly pursued, by jumping from a 
 precipice thirty feet high into a river. 
 
 " Miller willingly received me into his house as an 
 inmate, and seemed pleased with the idea of making 
 a hunter of me. His dwelling was a small log-house, 
 with a loft or garret of boards, so that there was ample 
 room for both of us. Under his instruction, I soon 
 made a tolerable proficiency in hunting. My first ex 
 ploit of any consequence was killing a bear. I was 
 hunting in company with two brothers, when we came 
 upon the track of Bruin, in a wood where there was 
 an undergrowth of canes and grape-vines. He was 
 scrambling up a tree, when I shot him through the 
 breast ; he fell to the ground, and lay motionless. The 
 brothers sent in their dog, who seized the bear by the 
 throat. Bruin raised one arm, and gave the dog a 
 hug that crushed his ribs. One yell, and all was over. 
 I don't know which was first dead, the dog or the bear. 
 The two brothers sat down and cried like children over 
 their unfortunate dog. Yet they were mere rough 
 huntsmen, almost as wild and untamable as Indians; 
 but they were fine fellows. 
 
 " By degrees I became known, and somewhat of a 
 favorite among the hunters of the neighborhood ; that 
 is to say, men who lived within a circle of thirty or 
 forty miles, and came occasionally to see John Miller,
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 235 
 
 who was a patriarch among them. They lived widely 
 apart, in log-huts and wigwams, almost with the sim 
 plicity of Indians, and wellnigh as destitute of the 
 comforts and inventions of civilized life. They seldom 
 saw each other ; weeks, and even months would elapse, 
 without their visiting. When they did meet, it was 
 very much after the manner of Indians ; loitering about 
 all day, without having much to say, but becoming 
 communicative as evening advanced, and sitting up 
 half the night before the fire, telling hunting-stories, 
 and terrible tales of the fights of the Bloody Ground. 
 
 " Sometimes several would join in a distant hunting 
 expedition, or rather campaign. Expeditions of this 
 kind lasted from November until April, during which 
 we laid up our stock of summer provisions. We shifted 
 our hunting-camps from place to place, according as 
 we found the game. They were generally pitched 
 near a run of water, and close by a canebrake, to screen 
 us from the wind. One side of our lodge was open 
 towards the fire. Our horses were hoppled and turned 
 loose in the canebrakes, with bells round their necks. 
 One of the party stayed at home to watch the camp, 
 prepare the meals, and keep off the wolves ; the others 
 hunted. When a hunter killed a deer at a distance 
 from the camp, he would open it and take out the 
 entrails; then, climbing a sapling, he would bend 
 it down, tie the deer to the top, and let it spring up 
 again, so as to suspend the carcass out of reach of the 
 wolves. At night he would return to the camp, and 
 give an account of his luck. The next morning early 
 he would get a horse out of the canebrake and bring 
 home his game. That day he would stay at home to 
 cut up the carcass, while the others hunted. 
 
 " Our days were thus spent in silent and lonely oc 
 cupations. It was only at night that we would gather 
 together before the fire, and be sociable. I was a 
 novice, and used to listen with open eyes and ears to
 
 236 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 the strange and wild stories told by the old hunters, 
 and believed everything I heard. Some of their stories 
 bordered upon the supernatural. They believed that 
 their rifles might be spellbound, so as not to be able 
 to kill a buffalo, even at arm's length. This supersti 
 tion they had derived from the Indians, who often 
 think the white hunters have laid a spell upon their 
 rifles. Miller partook of this superstition, and used 
 to tell of his rifle's having a spell upon it ; but it often 
 seemed to me to be a shuffling way of accounting for 
 a bad shot. If a hunter grossly missed his aim, he 
 would ask, ' Who shot last with his rifle ? ' and 
 hint that he must have charmed it. The sure mode 
 to disenchant the gun was to shoot a silver bullet out 
 of it. 
 
 " By the opening of spring we would generally have 
 quantities of bear's meat and venison salted, dried, 
 and smoked, and numerous packs of skins. We would 
 then make the best of our way home from our distant 
 hunting-grounds, transporting our spoils, sometimes in 
 canoes along the rivers, sometimes on horseback over 
 land, and our return would often be celebrated by 
 feasting and dancing, in true backwoods style. I have 
 given you some idea of our hunting; let me now give 
 you a sketch of our frolicking. 
 
 " It was on our return from a winter's hunting in 
 the neighborhood of Green River, when we received 
 notice that there was to be a grand frolic at Bob 
 Mosely's, to greet the hunters. This Bob Mosely was 
 a prime fellow throughout the country. He was an 
 indifferent hunter, it is true, and rather lazy, to boot; 
 but then he could play the fiddle, and that was enough 
 to make him of consequence. There was no other man 
 within a hundred miles that could play the fiddle, so 
 there was no having a regular frolic without Bob 
 Mosely. The hunters, therefore, were always ready 
 to give him a share of their game in exchange for his
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 237 
 
 music, and Bob was always ready to get up a carousal 
 whenever there was a party returning from a hunting 
 expedition. The present frolic was to take place at 
 Bob Mosely's own house, which was on the Pigeon- 
 Roost Fork of the Muddy, which is a branch of Rough 
 Creek, which is a branch of Green River. 
 
 " Everybody was agog for the revel at Bob Mosely's ; 
 and as all the fashion of the neighborhood was to be 
 there, I thought I must brush up for the occasion. 
 My leathern hunting-dress, which was the only one I 
 had, was somewhat the worse for wear, it is true, and 
 considerably japanned with blood and grease; but I 
 was up to hunting expedients. Getting into a periogue, 
 I paddled off to a part of the Green River where there 
 was sand and clay, that might serve for soap; then, 
 taking off my dress, I scrubbed and scoured it, until 
 I thought it looked very well. I then put it on the 
 end of a stick, and hung it out of the periogue to dry, 
 while I stretched myself very comfortably on the green 
 bank of the river. Unluckily a flaw struck the periogue, 
 and tipped over the stick ; down went my dress to the 
 bottom of the river, and I never saw it more. Here 
 was I, left almost in a state of nature. I managed to 
 make a kind of Robinson Crusoe garb of undressed 
 skins, with the hair on, which enabled me to get home 
 with decency ; but my dream of gayety and fashion 
 was at an end; for how could I think of figuring in 
 high life at the Pigeon-Roost, equipped like a mere 
 Orson ? 
 
 " Old Miller, who really began to take some pride 
 in me, was confounded when he understood that I did 
 not intend to go to Bob Mosely's ; but when I told him 
 my misfortune, and that I had no dress, 'By the 
 powers,' cried he, ' but you shall go, and you shall be 
 the best dressed and the best mounted lad there ! ' 
 
 " He immediately set to work to cut out and make 
 up a hunting-shirt, of dressed deer-skin, gayly fringed
 
 238 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 at the shoulders, and leggins of the same, fringed from 
 hip to heel. He then made me a rakish raccoon-cap, 
 with a flaunting tail to it, mounted me on his best 
 horse; and I may say, without vanity, that I was one 
 of the smartest fellows that figured on that occasion 
 at the Pigeon-Roost Fork of the Muddy. 
 
 " It was no small occasion, either, let me tell you. 
 Bob Mosely's house was a tolerably large bark shanty, 
 with a clapboard roof; and there were assembled all 
 the young hunters and pretty girls of the country for 
 many a mile round. The young men were in their 
 best hunting-dresses, but not one could compare with 
 mine; and my raccoon-cap, with its flowing tail, was 
 the admiration of everybody. The girls were mostly 
 in doe-skin dresses; for there was no spinning and 
 weaving as yet in the woods, nor any need of it. I 
 never saw girls that seemed to me better dressed, and 
 I was somewhat of a judge, having seen fashions at 
 Richmond. We had a hearty dinner, and a merry one ; 
 for there was Jemmy Kiel, famous for raccoon- 
 hunting, and Bob Tarleton, and Wesley Pigman, and 
 Joe Taylor, and several other prime fellows for a frolic, 
 that made all ring again, and laughed that you might 
 have heard them a mile. 
 
 " After dinner we began dancing, and were hard at 
 it when, about three o'clock in the afternoon, there 
 was a new arrival the two daughters of old Simon 
 Schultz; two young ladies that affected fashion and 
 late hours. Their arrival had nearly put an end to all 
 our merriment. I must go a little round about in my 
 story to explain to you how that happened. 
 
 " As old Schultz, the father, was one day looking 
 in the canebrakes for his cattle, he came upon the track 
 of horses. He knew they were none of his, and that 
 none of his neighbors had horses about that place. 
 They must be stray horses, or must belong to some 
 traveller who had lost his way, as the track led no-
 
 239 
 
 where. He accordingly followed it up, until he came 
 to an unlucky peddler, with two or three packhorses, 
 who had been bewildered among the cattle-tracks, and 
 had wandered for two or three days among woods and 
 canebrakes, until he was almost famished. 
 
 " Old Schultz brought him to his house, fed him 
 on venison, bear's meat, and hominy, and at the end 
 of a week put him in prime condition. The peddler 
 could not sufficiently express his thankfulness, and 
 when about to depart, inquired what he had to pay. 
 Old Schultz stepped back with surprise. ' Stranger,' 
 said he, ' you have been welcome under my roof. I Ve 
 given you nothing but wild meat and hominy, because 
 I had no better, but have been glad of your company. 
 You are welcome to stay as long as you please; but, 
 by Zounds! if any one offers to pay Simon Schultz 
 for food, he affronts him ! ' So saying, he walked out 
 in a huff. 
 
 " The peddler admired the hospitality of his host, 
 but could not reconcile it to his conscience to go away 
 without making some recompense. There were honest 
 Simon's two daughters, two strapping, red-haired girls. 
 He opened his packs and displayed riches before them 
 of which they had no conception; for in those days 
 there were no country stores in those parts, with their 
 artificial finery and trinketry; and this was the first 
 peddler that had wandered into that part of the wil 
 derness. The girls were for a time completely dazzled, 
 and knew not what to choose; but what caught their 
 eyes most were two looking-glasses, about the size of 
 a dollar, set in gilt tin. They had never seen the like 
 before, having used no other mirror than a pail of 
 water. The peddler presented them these jewels with 
 out the least hesitation; nay, he gallantly hung them 
 round their necks by red ribbons, almost as fine as the 
 glasses themselves. This done, he took his departure, 
 leaving them as much astonished as two princesses in
 
 240 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 a fairy tale, that have received a magic gift from an 
 enchanter. 
 
 " It was with these looking-glasses hung round their 
 necks as lockets, by red ribbons, that old Schultz's 
 daughters made their appearance at three o'clock in 
 the afternoon, at the frolic at Bob Mosely's, on the 
 Pigeon-Roost Fork of the Muddy. 
 
 " By the powers, but it was an event ! Such a 
 thing had never before been seen in Kentucky. Bob 
 Tarleton, a strapping fellow, with a head like a chest 
 nut-burr, and a look like a boar in an apple-orchard, 
 stepped up, caught hold of the looking-glass of one 
 of the girls, and gazing at it for a moment, cried out : 
 ' Joe Taylor, come here ! come here ! I '11 be darn'd 
 if Patty Schultz ain't got a locket that you can see your 
 face in, as clear as in a spring of water ! ' 
 
 "In a twinkling all the young hunters gathered 
 round old Schultz's daughters. I, who knew what 
 looking-glasses were, did not budge. Some of the 
 girls who sat near me were excessively mortified at 
 rinding themselves thus deserted. I heard Peggy Pugh 
 say to Sally Pigman, ' Goodness knows, it 's well 
 Schultz's daughters is got them things round their 
 necks, for it 's the first time the young men crowded 
 round them ! ' 
 
 " I saw immediately the danger of the case. We 
 were a small community, and could not afford to be 
 split up by feuds. So I stepped up to the girls, and 
 whispered to them : ' Polly,' said I, ' those lockets are 
 powerful fine, and become you amazingly, but you 
 don't consider that the country is not advanced enough 
 in these parts for such things. You and I understand 
 these matters, but these people don't. Fine things like 
 these may do very well in the old settlements, but they 
 won't answer at the Pigeon-Roost Fork of the Muddy. 
 You had better lay them aside for the present, or we 
 shall have no peace.'
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 241 
 
 " Polly and her sister luckily saw their error ; they 
 took off the lockets, laid them aside, and harmony was 
 restored; otherwise, I verily believe there would have 
 been an end of our community. Indeed, notwithstand 
 ing the great sacrifice they made on this occasion, I 
 do not think old Schultz's daughters were ever much 
 liked afterwards among the young women. 
 
 " This was the first time that looking-glasses were 
 ever seen in the Green River part of Kentucky. 
 
 " I had now lived some time with old Miller, and 
 had become a tolerably expert hunter. Game, how 
 ever, began to grow scarce. The buffalo had gathered 
 together, as if by universal understanding, and had 
 crossed the Mississippi, never to return. Strangers 
 kept pouring into the country, clearing away the for 
 ests, and building in all directions. The hunters began 
 to grow restive. Jemmy Kiel, the same of whom I 
 have already spoken for his skill in raccoon catching, 
 came to me one day. ' I can't stand this any longer,' 
 said he, ' we 're getting too thick here. Simon Schultz 
 crowds me so that I have no comfort of my life.' 
 
 " ' Why, how you talk ! ' said I ; ' Simon Schultz 
 lives twelve miles off.' 
 
 " ' No matter ; his cattle run with mine, and I 've 
 no idea of living where another man's cattle can run 
 with mine. That 's too close neighborhood ; I want 
 elbow-room. This country, too, is growing too poor 
 to live in ; there 's no game ; so two or three of us have 
 made up our minds to follow the buffalo to the Mis 
 souri, and we should like to have you of the party.' 
 Other hunters of my acquaintance talked in the same 
 manner. This set me thinking ; but the more I thought, 
 the more I was perplexed. I had no one to advise 
 with; old Miller and his associates knew of but one 
 mode of life, and I had no experience in any other, 
 but I had a wider scope of thought. When out hunt 
 ing alone, I used to forget the sport, and sit for hours 
 
 16
 
 242 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 together on the trunk of a tree, with rifle in hand, 
 buried in thought, and debating with myself : ' Shall 
 I go with Jemmy Kiel and his company, or shall I 
 remain here? If I remain here, there will soon be 
 nothing left to hunt. But am I to be a hunter all my 
 life? Have not I something more in me than to be 
 carrying a rifle on my shoulder, day after day, and 
 dodging about after bears, and deer, and other brute 
 beasts ? ' My vanity told me I had ; and I called to 
 mind my boyish boast to my sister, that I would never 
 return home until I returned a member of Congress 
 from Kentucky ; but was this the way to fit myself for 
 such a station ? 
 
 " Various plans passed through my mind, but they 
 were abandoned almost as soon as formed. At length 
 I determined on becoming a lawyer. True it is, I 
 knew almost nothing. I had left school before I had 
 learnt beyond the ' Rule of Three.' ' Never mind/ 
 said I to myself, resolutely, ' I am a terrible fellow for 
 hanging on to anything when I 've once made up my 
 mind ; and if a man has but ordinary capacity, and will 
 set to work with heart and soul, and stick to it, he can 
 do almost anything.' With this maxim, which has 
 been pretty much my main stay throughout life, I 
 fortified myself in my determination to attempt the 
 law. But how was I to set about it? I must quit this 
 forest life, and go to one or other of the towns, where 
 I might be able to study and to attend the courts. This, 
 too, required funds. I examined into the state of my 
 finances. The purse given me by my father had re 
 mained untouched, in the bottom of an old chest up 
 in the loft, for money was scarcely needed in these 
 parts. I had bargained away the skins acquired in 
 hunting, for a horse and various other matters, on 
 which, in case of need, I could raise funds. I there 
 fore thought I could make shift to maintain myself 
 until I was fitted for the bar.
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 243 
 
 " I informed my worthy host and patron, old Miller, 
 of my plan. He shook his head at my turning my 
 back upon the woods when I was in a fair way of 
 making a first-rate hunter; but he made no effort to 
 dissuade me. I accordingly set off in September, on 
 horseback, intending to visit Lexington, Frankfort, and 
 other of the principal towns, in search of a favorable 
 place to prosecute my studies. My choice was made 
 sooner than I expected. I had put up one night at 
 Bardstown, and found, on inquiry, that I could get 
 comfortable board and accommodation in a private 
 family for a dollar and a half a week. I liked the 
 place, and resolved to look no farther. So the next 
 morning I prepared to turn my face homeward, and 
 take my final leave of forest life. 
 
 " I had taken my breakfast, and was waiting for 
 my horse, when, in pacing up and down the piazza, I 
 saw a young girl seated near a window, evidently a 
 visitor. She was very pretty, with auburn hair and 
 blue eyes, and was dressed in white. I had seen noth 
 ing of the kind since I had left Richmond, and at that 
 time I was too much of a boy to be much struck by 
 female charms. She was so delicate and dainty-look 
 ing, so different from the hale, buxom, brown girls of 
 the woods ; and then her white dress ! it was per 
 fectly dazzling! Never was poor youth more taken 
 by surprise and suddenly bewitched. My heart yearned 
 to know her; but how was I to accost her? I had 
 grown wild in the woods, and had none of the habi 
 tudes of polite life. Had she been like Peggy Pugh, 
 or Sally Pigman, or any other of my leathern-dressed 
 belles of the Pigeon-Roost, I should have approached 
 her without dread; nay, had she been as fair as 
 Schultz's daughters, with their looking-glass lockets, 
 I should not have hesitated; but that white dress and 
 those auburn ringlets, and blue eyes, and delicate looks, 
 quite daunted while they fascinated me. I don't know
 
 244 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 what put it into my head, but I thought, all at once, 
 that I would kiss her! It would take a long acquaint 
 ance to arrive at such a boon, but I might seize upon 
 it by sheer robbery. Nobody knew me here. I would 
 just step in, snatch a kiss, mount my horse, and ride 
 off. She would not be the worse for it ; and that kiss 
 oh ! I should die if I did not get it ! 
 
 " I gave no time for the thought to cool, but en 
 tered the house and stepped lightly into the room. She 
 was seated with her back to the door, looking out at 
 the window, and did not hear my approach. I tapped 
 her chair, and as she turned and looked up, I snatched 
 as sweet a kiss as ever was stolen, and vanished in a 
 twinkling. The next moment I was on horseback, 
 galloping homeward, my very ears tingling at what 
 I had done. 
 
 " On my return home I sold my horse and turned 
 everything to cash, and found, with the remains of 
 the paternal purse, that I had nearly four hundred 
 dollars, a little capital which I resolved to manage 
 with the strictest economy. 
 
 " It was hard parting with old Miller, who had been 
 like a father to me; it cost me, too, something of a 
 struggle to give up the free, independent wild-wood 
 life I had hitherto led; but I had marked out my 
 course, and have never been one to flinch or turn back. 
 
 " I footed it sturdily to Bardstown, took possession 
 of the quarters for which I had bargained, shut myself 
 up, and set to work with might and main to study. 
 But what a task I had before me! I had everything 
 to learn; not merely law, but all the elementary 
 branches of knowledge. I read and read for sixteen 
 hours out of the four-and-twenty, but the more I read 
 the more I became aware of my own ignorance, and 
 shed bitter tears over my deficiency. It seemed as if 
 the wilderness of knowledge expanded and grew more 
 perplexed as I advanced. Every height gained only
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 245 
 
 revealed a wider region to be traversed, and nearly 
 filled me with despair. I grew moody, silent, and un 
 social, but studied on doggedly and incessantly. The 
 only person with whom I held any conversation, was 
 the worthy man in whose house I was quartered. He 
 was honest and well-meaning, but perfectly ignorant, 
 and I believe would have liked me much better if I 
 had not been so much addicted to reading. He con 
 sidered all books filled with lies and impositions, and 
 seldom could look into one without finding something 
 to rouse his spleen. Nothing put him into a greater 
 passion than the assertion that the world turned on its 
 own axis every four-and-twenty hours. He swore it 
 was an outrage upon common sense. ' Why, if it did,' 
 said he, ' there would not be a drop of water in the 
 well by morning, and all the milk and cream in the 
 dairy would be turned topsy-turvy ! ' And then to talk 
 of the earth going round the sun ! ' How do they 
 know it ? I 've* seen the sun rise every morning and 
 set every evening for more than thirty years. They 
 must not talk to me about the earth's going round the 
 sun!' 
 
 " At another time he was in a perfect fret at being 
 told the distance between the sun and moon. ' How 
 can any one tell the distance ? ' cried he. ' Who sur 
 veyed it? who carried the chain? By Jupiter! they 
 only talk this way before me to annoy me. But then 
 there 's some people of sense who give in to this cursed 
 humbug! There's Judge Broadnax, now, one of the 
 best lawyers we have ; is n't it surprising he should 
 believe in such stuff? Why, sir, the other day I heard 
 him talk of the distance from a star he called Mars 
 to the sun ! He must have got it out of one or other 
 of those confounded books he 's so fond of reading ; 
 a book some impudent fellow has written, who knew 
 nobody could swear the distance was more or less.' 
 
 " For my own part, feeling my own deficiency in
 
 246 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 scientific lore, I never ventured to unsettle his convic 
 tion that the sun made his daily circuit round the earth ; 
 and for aught I said to the contrary, he lived and died 
 in that belief. 
 
 " I had been about a year at Bardstown, living thus 
 studiously and reclusely, when, as I was one day walk 
 ing the street, I met two young girls, in one of whom 
 I immediately recalled the little beauty whom I had 
 kissed so impudently. She blushed up to the eyes, and 
 so did I; but we both passed on without farther sign 
 of recognition. This second glimpse of her, however, 
 caused an odd fluttering about my heart. I could not 
 get her out of my thoughts for days. She quite inter 
 fered with my studies. I tried to think of her as a 
 mere child, but it would not do; she had improved in 
 beauty, and was tending toward womanhood ; and then 
 I myself was but little better than a stripling. How 
 ever, I did not attempt to seek after her, or even to find 
 out who she was, but returned doggedly to my books. 
 By degrees she faded from my thoughts, or if she did 
 cross them occasionally, it was only to increase my 
 despondency, for I feared that with all my exertions, 
 I should never be able to fit myself for the bar, or 
 enable myself to support a wife. 
 
 " One cold stormy evening I was seated, in dumpish 
 mood, in the bar-room of the inn, looking into the fire 
 and turning over uncomfortable thoughts, when I was 
 accosted by some one who had entered the room with 
 out my perceiving it. I looked up, and saw before me 
 a tall and, as I thought, pompous-looking man, arrayed 
 in small-clothes and knee-buckles, with powdered head, 
 and shoes nicely blacked and polished ; a style of dress 
 unparalleled in those days in that rough country. I 
 took a pique against him from the very portliness of his 
 appearance and stateliness of his manner, and bristled 
 up as he accosted me. He demanded if my name was 
 not Ringwood.
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 247 
 
 " I was startled, for I supposed myself perfectly 
 incog.; but I answered in the affirmative. 
 
 "'Your family, I believe, lives in Richmond.' 
 
 " My gorge began to rise. ' Yes, sir/ replied I, 
 sulkily, ' my family does live in Richmond.' 
 
 " ' And what, may I ask, has brought you into this 
 part of the country ? ' 
 
 " ' Zounds, sir ! ' cried I, starting on my feet, ' what 
 business is it of yours? How dare you to question me 
 in this manner ? ' 
 
 " The entrance of some persons prevented a reply ; 
 but I walked up and down the bar-room, fuming with 
 conscious independence and insulted dignity, while the 
 pompous looking personage, who had thus trespassed 
 upon my spleen, retired without proffering another 
 word. 
 
 " The next day, while seated in my room, some one 
 tapped at the door, and, on being bid to enter, the 
 stranger in the powdered head, small-clothes, and shin 
 ing shoes and buckles, walked in with ceremonious 
 courtesy. 
 
 " My boyish pride was again in arms, but he subdued 
 me. He was formal, but kind and friendly. He knew 
 my family and understood my situation, and the dog 
 ged struggle I was making. A little conversation, 
 when my jealous pride was once put to rest, drew 
 everything from me. He was a lawyer of experience 
 and of extensive practice, and offered at once to take 
 me with him and direct my studies. The offer was too 
 advantageous and gratifying not to be immediately 
 accepted. From that time I began to look up. I was 
 put into a proper track, and was enabled to study to 
 a proper purpose. I made acquaintance, too, with 
 some of the young men of the place who were in the 
 same pursuit, and was encouraged at rinding that I 
 could ' hold my own ' in argument with them. We 
 instituted a debating-club, in which I soon became
 
 248 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 prominent and popular. Men of talents, engaged in 
 other pursuits, joined it, and this diversified our sub 
 jects and put me on various tracks of inquiry. Ladies, 
 too, attended some of our discussions, and this gave 
 them a polite tone and had an influence on the manners 
 of the debaters. My legal patron also may have had a 
 favorable effect in correcting any roughness contracted 
 in my hunter's life. He was calculated to bend me in 
 an opposite direction, for he was of the old school ; 
 quoted ' Chesterfield ' on all occasions, and talked of 
 Sir Charles Grandison, who was his beau ideal. It was 
 Sir Charles Grandison, however, Kentuckyized. 
 
 " I had always been fond of female society. My 
 experience, however, had hitherto been among the 
 rough daughters of the backwoodsmen, and I felt an 
 awe of young ladies in ' store clothes,' delicately 
 brought up. Two or three of the married ladies of 
 Bardstown, who had heard me at the debating-club, 
 determined that I was a genius, and undertook to bring 
 me out. I believe I really improved under their hands, 
 became quiet where I had been shy or sulky, and easy 
 where I had been impudent. 
 
 I called to take tea one evening with one of these 
 ladies, when to my surprise, and somewhat to my con 
 fusion, I found with her the identical blue-eyed little 
 beauty whom I had so audaciously kissed. I was for 
 mally introduced to her, but neither of us betrayed any 
 sign of previous acquaintance, except by blushing to 
 the eyes. While tea was getting ready, the lady of the 
 house went out of the room to give some directions, 
 and left us alone. 
 
 " Heavens and earth, what a situation ! I would 
 have given all the pittance I was worth to have been in 
 the deepest dell of the forest. I felt the necessity of 
 saying something in excuse of my former rudeness, 
 but I could not conjure up an idea, nor utter a word. 
 Every moment matters were growing worse. I felt
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 249 
 
 at one time tempted to do as I had done when I robbed 
 her of the kiss, bolt from the room, and take to 
 flight ; but I was chained to the spot, for I really longed 
 to gain her good will. 
 
 " At length I plucked up courage, on seeing that she 
 was equally confused with myself, and walking desper 
 ately up to her, I exclaimed : 
 
 " ' I have been trying to muster up something to 
 say to you, but I cannot. I feel that I am in a horrible 
 scrape. Do have pity on me, and help me out of it ! ' 
 
 " A smile dimpled about her mouth, and played 
 among the blushes of her cheek. She looked up with 
 a shy but arch glance of the eye, that expressed a 
 volume of comic recollection; we both broke into a 
 laugh, and from that moment all went on well. 
 
 " A few evenings afterward I met her at a dance, 
 and prosecuted the acquaintance. I soon became deeply 
 attached to her, paid my court regularly, and before I 
 was nineteen years of age had engaged myself to marry 
 her. I spoke to her mother, a widow lady, to ask her 
 consent. She seemed to demur ; upon which, with my 
 customary haste, I told her there would be no use in 
 opposing the match, for if her daughter chose to have 
 me, I would take her, in defiance of her family and 
 the whole world. 
 
 " She laughed, and told me I need not give myself 
 any uneasiness; there would be no unreasonable op 
 position. She knew my family, and all about me. 
 The only obstacle was, that I had no means of support 
 ing a wife, and she had nothing to give with her 
 daughter. 
 
 " No matter ; at that moment everything was bright 
 before me. I was in one of my sanguine moods. I 
 feared nothing, doubted nothing. So it was agreed 
 that I should prosecute my studies, obtain a license, 
 and as soon as I should be fairly launched in business, 
 we would be married.
 
 " I now prosecuted my studies with redoubled ardor, 
 and was up to my ears in law, when I received a letter 
 from my father, who had heard of me and my where 
 abouts. He applauded the course I had taken, but ad 
 vised me to lay a foundation of general knowledge, 
 and offered to defray my expenses if I would go to 
 college. I felt the want of a general education, and 
 was staggered with this offer. It militated somewhat 
 against the self-dependent course I had so proudly, or 
 rather conceitedly, marked out for myself, but it would 
 enable me to enter more advantageously upon my legal 
 career. I talked over the matter with the lovely girl 
 to whom I was engaged. She sided in opinion with my 
 father, and talked so disinterestedly, yet tenderly, that 
 if possible, I loved her more than ever. I reluctantly, 
 therefore, agreed to go to college for a couple of years, 
 though it must necessarily postpone our union. 
 
 " Scarcely had I formed this resolution, when her 
 mother was taken ill, and died, leaving her without a 
 protector. This again altered all my plans. I felt as 
 if I could protect her. I gave up all idea of collegiate 
 studies; persuaded myself that by dint of industry and 
 application I might overcome the deficiencies of edu 
 cation, and resolved to take out a license as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 " That very autumn I was admitted to the bar, and 
 within a month afterward was married. We were a 
 young couple, she not much above sixteen, I not 
 quite twenty, and both almost without a dollar in 
 the world. The establishment which we set up was 
 suited to our circumstances: a log-house, with two 
 small rooms; a bed, a table, a half-dozen chairs, a 
 half-dozen knives and forks, a half-dozen spoons; 
 everything by half-dozens; a little Delft ware; every 
 thing in a small way: we were so poor, but then so 
 happy ! 
 
 " We had not been married many days when court
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 251 
 
 was held at a county town, about twenty-five miles 
 distant. It was necessary for me to go there, and put 
 myself in the way of business; but how was I to go? 
 I had expended all my means on our establishment; 
 and then, it was hard parting with my wife so soon 
 after marriage. However, go I must. Money must 
 be made, or we should soon have the wolf at the door. 
 I accordingly borrowed a horse, and borrowed a little 
 cash, and rode off from my door, leaving my wife 
 standing at it, and waving her hand after me. Her 
 last look, so sweet and beaming, went to my heart. I 
 felt as if I could go through fire and water for her. 
 
 " I arrived at the county town on a cool October 
 evening. The inn was crowded, for the court was to 
 commence on the following day. I knew no one, and 
 wondered how I, a stranger and a mere youngster, was 
 to make my way in such a crowd, and to get business. 
 The public room was thronged with the idlers of the 
 country, who gather together on such occasions. There 
 was some drinking going forward, with much noise, 
 and a little altercation. Just as I entered the room, 
 I saw a rough bully of a fellow, who was partly intoxi 
 cated, strike an old man. He came swaggering by me, 
 and elbowed me as he passed. I immediately knocked 
 him down, and kicked him into the street. I needed 
 no better introduction. In a moment I had a dozen 
 rough shakes of the hand and invitations to drink, 
 and found myself quite a personage in this rough 
 assembly. 
 
 " The next morning the court opened. I took my 
 seat among the lawyers, but felt as a mere spectator, 
 not having a suit in progress or prospect, nor having 
 any idea where business was to come from. In the 
 course of the morning, a man was put at the bar 
 charged with passing counterfeit money, and was asked 
 if he was ready for trial. He answered in the nega 
 tive. He had been confined in a place where there
 
 252 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 were no lawyers, and had not had an opportunity of 
 consulting any. He was told to choose counsel from 
 the lawyers present, and to be ready for trial on the 
 following day. He looked round the court, and se 
 lected me. I was thunderstruck. I could not tell why 
 he should make such a choice. I, a beardless youngster, 
 unpractised at the bar, perfectly unknown. I felt diffi 
 dent yet delighted, and could have hugged the rascal. 
 
 " Before leaving the court, he gave me one hundred 
 dollars in a bag, as a retaining fee. I could scarcely 
 believe my senses ; it seemed like a dream. The heavi 
 ness of the fee spoke but lightly in favor of his inno 
 cence, but that was no affair of mine. I was to be 
 advocate, not judge, nor jury. I followed him to jail, 
 and learned from him all the particulars of his case : 
 thence I went to the clerk's office, and took minutes of 
 the indictment. I then examined the law on the sub 
 ject, and prepared my brief in my room. All this oc 
 cupied me until midnight, when I went to bed, and 
 tried to sleep. It was all in vain. Never in my life 
 was I more wide awake. A host of thoughts and 
 fancies kept rushing through my mind; the shower 
 of gold that had so unexpectedly fallen into my lap; 
 the idea of my poor little wife at home, that I was to 
 astonish with my good fortune! But then the awful 
 responsibility I had undertaken ! to speak for the 
 first time in a strange court; the expectations the cul 
 prit had evidently formed of my talents ; all these, and 
 a crowd of similar notions, kept whirling through my 
 mind. I tossed about all night, fearing the morning 
 would find me exhausted and incompetent ; in a word, 
 the day dawned on me, a miserable fellow ! 
 
 " I got up feverish and nervous. I walked out be 
 fore breakfast, striving to collect my thoughts, and 
 tranquillize my feelings. It was a bright morning; 
 the air was pure and frosty. I bathed my forehead 
 and my hands in a beautiful running stream; but I
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 253 
 
 could not allay the fever heat that raged within. I 
 returned to breakfast, but could not eat. A single cup 
 of coffee formed my repast. It was time to go to 
 court, and I went there with a throbbing heart. I 
 believe if it had not been for the thoughts of my little 
 wife, in her lonely log-house, I should have given back 
 to the man his hundred dollars, and relinquished the 
 cause. I took my seat, looking, I am convinced, more 
 like a culprit than the rogue I was to defend. 
 
 " When the time came for me to speak, my heart 
 died within me. I rose embarrassed and dismayed, and 
 stammered in opening my cause. I went on from bad 
 to worse, and felt as if I was going down hill. Just 
 then the public prosecutor, a man of talents, but some 
 what rough in his practice, made a sarcastic remark 
 on something I had said. It was like an electric spark, 
 and ran tingling through every vein in my body. In 
 an instant my diffidence was gone. My whole spirit 
 was in arms. I answered with promptness and bitter 
 ness, for I felt the cruelty of such an attack upon a 
 novice in my situation. The public prosecutor made 
 a kind of apology ; this, from a man of his redoubted 
 powers, was a vast concession. I renewed my argu 
 ment with a fearless glow; carried the case through 
 triumphantly, and the man was acquitted. 
 
 " This was the making of me. Everybody was curi 
 ous to know who this new lawyer was, that had thus 
 suddenly risen among them, and bearded the attorney- 
 general at the very outset. The story of my debut at 
 the inn, on the preceding evening, when I had knocked 
 down a bully, and kicked him out of doors, for strik 
 ing an old man, was circulated, with favorable exag 
 gerations. Even my very beardless chin and juvenile 
 countenance were in my favor, for people gave me 
 far more credit than I really deserved. The chance 
 business which occurs in our country courts came 
 thronging upon me. I was repeatedly employed in
 
 254 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 
 
 other causes; and by Saturday night, when the court 
 closed, and I had paid my bill at the inn, I found my 
 self with a hundred and fifty dollars in silver, three 
 hundred dollars in notes, and a horse that I afterward 
 sold for two hundred dollars more. 
 
 " Never did miser gloat on his money with more 
 delight. I locked the door of my room, piled the 
 money in a heap upon the table, walked round it, sat 
 with my elbows on the table and my chin upon my 
 hands, and gazed upon it. Was I thinking of the 
 money? No! I was thinking of my little wife at 
 home. Another sleepless night ensued; but what a 
 night of golden fancies and splendid air-castles! As 
 soon as morning dawned, I was up, mounted the bor 
 rowed horse with which I had come to court, and led 
 the other, which I had received as a fee. All the way 
 I was delighting myself with the thoughts of the 
 surprise I had in store for my little wife; for both 
 of us had expected nothing but that I should spend 
 all the money I had borrowed, and should return in 
 debt. 
 
 " Our meeting was joyous, as you may suppose, but 
 I played the part of the Indian hunter, who, when he 
 returns from the chase, never for a time speaks of his 
 success. She had prepared a snug little rustic meal for 
 me, and while it was getting ready, I seated myself at 
 an old-fashioned desk in one corner, and began to 
 count over my money and put it away. She came to 
 me before I had finished and asked who I had col 
 lected the money for. 
 
 " ' For myself, to be sure/ replied I, with affected 
 coolness ; ' I made it at court.' 
 
 " She looked me for a moment in the face, incredu 
 lously. I tried to keep my countenance, and to play 
 Indian, but it would not do. My muscles began to 
 twitch ; my feelings all at once gave way. I caught her 
 in my arms; laughed, cried, and danced about the
 
 EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD 255 
 
 room, like a crazy man. From that time forward, we 
 never wanted for money. 
 
 " I had not been long in successful practice, when I 
 was surprised one day by a visit from my woodland 
 patron, old Miller. The tidings of my prosperity had 
 reached him in the wilderness, and he had walked one 
 hundred and fifty miles on foot to see me. By that 
 time I had improved my domestic establishment, and 
 had all things comfortable about me. He looked 
 around him with a wondering eye, at what he con 
 sidered luxuries and superfluities; but supposed they 
 were all right, in my altered circumstances. He said 
 he did not know, upon the whole, but that I acted for 
 the best. It is true, if game had continued plenty, it 
 would have been a folly for me to quit a hunter's life; 
 but hunting was pretty nigh done up in Kentucky. 
 The buffalo had gone to Missouri ; the elk were nearly 
 gone also ; deer, too, were growing scarce ; they might 
 last out his time, as he was growing old, but they were 
 not worth setting up life upon. He had once lived 
 on the borders of Virginia. Game grew scarce there; 
 he followed it up across Kentucky, and now it was 
 again giving him the slip ; but he was too old to follow 
 it farther. 
 
 " He remained with us three days. My wife did 
 everything in her power to make him comfortable; 
 but at the end of that time he said he must be off again 
 to the woods. He was tired of the village, and of 
 having so many people about him. He accordingly 
 returned to the wilderness, and to hunting life. But I 
 fear he did not make a good end of it; for I under 
 stand that a few years before his death, he married 
 Sukey Thomas, who lived at the White Oak Run."
 
 THE SEMINOLES 
 
 THE SEMINOLES 
 
 FROM the time of the chimerical cruisings of Old 
 Ponce de Leon in search of the Fountain of Youth; 
 the avaricious expedition of Pamphilo de Narvaez 
 in quest of gold; and the chivalrous enterprise of 
 Hernando de Soto, to discover and conquer a second 
 Mexico, the natives of Florida have been continually 
 subjected to the invasions and encroachments of white 
 men. They had resisted them perseveringly but fruit 
 lessly, and are now battling amidst swamps and mo 
 rasses, for the last foothold of their native soil, with 
 all the ferocity of despair. Can we wonder at the bit 
 terness of a hostility that has been handed down from 
 father to son for upward of three centuries, and exas 
 perated by the wrongs and miseries of each succeeding 
 generation ! The very name of the savages with whom 
 we are righting, betokens their fallen and homeless 
 condition. Formed of the wrecks of once powerful 
 tribes, and driven from their ancient seats of pros 
 perity and dominion, they are known by the name of 
 the Seminoles, or " Wanderers." 
 
 Bartram, who travelled through Florida in the latter 
 part of the last century, speaks of passing through a 
 great extent of ancient Indian fields, now silent and 
 deserted, overgrown with forests, orange groves, and 
 rank vegetation, the sight of the ancient Alachua, the 
 capital of a famous and powerful tribe, who in days 
 of old could assemble thousands at bull-play and other 
 athletic exercises " over these then happy fields and 
 green plains." " Almost every step we take," adds he, 
 " over these fertile heights, discovers the remains and 
 traces of ancient human habitations and cultivation."
 
 THE SEMINOLES 257 
 
 We are told that about the year 1763, when Florida 
 was ceded by the Spaniards to the English, the Indians 
 generally retired from the towns and the neighborhood 
 of the whites, and burying themselves in the deep 
 forests, intricate swamps and hommocks, and vast 
 savannahs of the interior, devoted themselves to a pas 
 toral life, and the rearing of horses and cattle. These 
 are the people that received the name of the Seminoles, 
 or Wanderers, which they still retain. 
 
 Bartram gives a pleasing picture of them at the time 
 he visited them in their wilderness, where their dis 
 tance from the abodes of the white man gave them a 
 transient quiet and security. " This handful of people," 
 says he, " possesses a vast territory, all East and the 
 greatest part of West Florida, which being naturally 
 cut and divided into thousands of islets, knolls, and 
 eminences, by the innumerable rivers, lakes, swamps, 
 vast savannahs, and ponds, form so many secure re 
 treats and temporary dwelling-places that effectually 
 guard them from any sudden invasions or attacks 
 from their enemies; and being such a swampy, hom- 
 mocky country, furnishes such a plenty and variety 
 of supplies for the nourishment of varieties of animals, 
 that I can venture to assert, that no part of the globe 
 so abounds with wild game, or creatures fit for the 
 food of man. 
 
 " Thus they enjoy a superabundance of the neces 
 saries and conveniences of life, with the security of 
 person and property, the two great concerns of man 
 kind. The hides of deer, bears, tigers, and wolves, 
 together with honey, wax, and other productions of 
 the country, purchase their clothing equipage and 
 domestic utensils from the whites. They seem to be 
 free from want or desires. No cruel enemy to dread ; 
 nothing to give them disquietude, but the gradual en 
 croachments of the white people. Thus contented and 
 undisturbed, they appear as blithe and free as the birds 
 
 17
 
 258 THE SEMINOLES 
 
 of the air, and like them as volatile and active, tune 
 ful and vociferous. The visage, action, and deport 
 ment of the Seminoles form the most striking picture 
 of happiness in this life; joy, contentment, love, and 
 friendship, without guile or affectation, seem inherent 
 in them, or predominant in their vital principle, for it 
 leaves them with but the last breath of life. . . . They 
 are fond of games and gambling, and amuse them 
 selves like children, in relating extravagant stories, to 
 cause surprise and mirth." * 
 
 The same writer gives an engaging picture of his 
 treatment by these savages: 
 
 " Soon after entering the forests, we were met in 
 the path by a small company of Indians, smiling and 
 beckoning to us long before we joined them. This was 
 a family of Talahasochte, who had been out on a hunt 
 and were returning home loaded with barbacued meat, 
 hides, and honey. Their company consisted of the 
 man, his wife and children, well mounted on fine 
 horses, with a number of pack-horses. The man 
 offered us a fawn-skin of honey, which I accepted, and 
 at parting presented him with some fish-hooks, sewing- 
 needles, etc. 
 
 " On our return to camp in the evening, we were 
 saluted by a party of young Indian warriors, who had 
 pitched their tents on a green eminence near the lake, 
 at a small distance from our camp, under a little grove 
 of oaks and palms. This company consisted of seven 
 young Seminoles, under the conduct of a young prince 
 or chief of Talahasochte, a town southward in the 
 Isthmus. They were all dressed and painted with 
 singular elegance, and richly ornamented with silver 
 plates, chains, etc., after the Seminole mode, with wav 
 ing plumes of feathers on their crests. On our coming 
 up to them, they arose and shook hands ; we alighted, 
 and sat a while with them by their cheerful fire. 
 
 1 Bartram's Travels in North America.
 
 THE SEMINOLES 259 
 
 " The young prince informed our chief that he was 
 in pursuit of a young fellow who had fled from the 
 town, carrying off with him one of his favorite young 
 wives. He said, merrily, he would have the ears of 
 both of them before he returned. He was rather 
 above the middle stature, and the most perfect human 
 figure I ever saw; of an amiable, engaging counte 
 nance, air, and deportment; free and familiar in con 
 versation, yet retaining a becoming gracefulness and 
 dignity. We arose, took leave of them, and crossed 
 a little vale, covered with a charming green turf, al 
 ready illuminated by the soft light of the full moon. 
 
 " Soon after joining our companions at camp, our 
 neighbors, the prince and his associates, paid us a visit. 
 We treated them with the best fare we had, having 
 till this time preserved our spirituous liquors. They 
 left us with perfect cordiality and cheerfulness, wish 
 ing us a good repose, and retired to their own camp. 
 Having a band of music with them, consisting of a 
 drum, flutes, and a rattle-gourd, they entertained 
 us during the night with their music, vocal and 
 instrumental. 
 
 " There is a languishing softness and melancholy air 
 in the Indian convivial songs, especially of the amorous 
 class, irresistibly moving attention, and exquisitely 
 pleasing, especially in their solitary recesses, when all 
 Nature is silent." 
 
 Travellers who have been among them, in more re 
 cent times, before they had embarked in their present 
 desperate struggle, represent them in much the same 
 light; as leading a pleasant, indolent life, in a climate 
 that required little shelter or clothing, and where the 
 spontaneous fruits of the earth furnished subsistence 
 without toil. A cleanly race, delighting in bathing, 
 passing much of their time under the shade of their 
 trees, with heaps of oranges and other fine fruits for 
 their refreshment; talking, laughing, dancing, and
 
 2<5o THE SEMINOLES 
 
 sleeping. Every chief had a fan hanging to his side, 
 made of feathers of the wild turkey, the beautiful pink- 
 colored crane, or the scarlet flamingo. With this he 
 would sit and fan himself with great stateliness, while 
 the young people danced before him. The women 
 joined in the dances with the men, excepting the war- 
 dances. They wore strings of tortoise-shells and peb 
 bles round their legs, which rattled in cadence to the 
 music. They were treated with more attention among 
 the Seminoles than among most Indian tribes. 
 
 ORIGIN OF THE WHITE, THE RED, AND 
 THE BLACK MEN 
 
 A SEMINOLE TRADITION 
 
 When the Floridas were erected into a territory of 
 the United States, one of the earliest cares of the 
 Governor, William P. Duval, was directed to the in 
 struction and civilization of the natives. For this 
 purpose he called a meeting of the chiefs, in which he 
 informed them of the wish of their Great Father at 
 Washington that they should have schools and teach 
 ers among them, and that their children should be in 
 structed like the children of white men. The chiefs 
 listened with their customary silence and decorum to 
 a long speech, setting forth the advantages that would 
 accrue to them from this 'measure, and when he had 
 concluded, begged the interval of a day to deliberate 
 on it. 
 
 On the following day, a solemn convocation was 
 held, at which one of the chiefs addressed the Gov 
 ernor in the name of all the rest. " My brother," said 
 he, " we have been thinking over the proposition of our 
 Great Father at Washington, to send teachers and set 
 up schools among us. We are very thankful for the
 
 WHITE, RED, AND BLACK MEN 261 
 
 interest he takes in our welfare; but after much de 
 liberation have concluded to decline his offer. What 
 will do very well for white men, will not do for red 
 men. I know you white men say we all come from the 
 same father and mother, but you are mistaken. We 
 have a tradition handed down from our forefathers, 
 and we believe it, that the Great Spirit, when he under 
 took to make men, made the black man; it was his 
 first attempt, and pretty well for a beginning; but he 
 soon saw he had bungled ; so he determined to try his 
 hand again. He did so, and made the red man. He 
 liked him much better than the black man, but still he 
 was not exactly what he wanted. So he tried once 
 more, and made the white man ; and then he was satis 
 fied. You see, therefore, that you were made last, 
 and that is the reason I call you my youngest brother. 
 
 " When the Great Spirit had made the three men, 
 he called them together and showed them three boxes. 
 The first was filled with books, and maps, and papers ; 
 the second with bows and arrows, knives and toma 
 hawks; the third with spades, axes, hoes, and ham 
 mers. ' These, my sons/ said he, ' are the means by 
 which you are to live; choose among them according 
 to your fancy.' 
 
 " The white man, being the favorite, had the first 
 choice. He passed by the box of working-tools with 
 out notice ; but when he came to the weapons for war 
 and hunting, he stopped and looked hard at them. The 
 red man trembled, for he had set his heart upon that 
 box. The white man, however, after looking upon it 
 for a moment, passed on, and chose the box of books 
 and papers. The red man's turn came next, and you 
 may be sure he seized with joy upon the bows and 
 arrows and tomahawks. As to the black man, he had 
 no choice left, but to put up with the box of tools. 
 
 " From this it is clear that the Great Spirit intended 
 the white man should learn to read and write, to
 
 262 THE SEMINOLES 
 
 understand all about the moon and stars, and to make 
 everything, even rum and whiskey. That the red man 
 should be a first-rate hunter, and a mighty warrior, 
 but he was not to learn anything from books, as the 
 Great Spirit had not given him any; nor was he to 
 make rum and whiskey, lest he should kill himself 
 with drinking. As to the black man, as he had noth 
 ing but working-tools, it was clear he was to work for 
 the white and red man, which he has continued to do. 
 
 " We must go according to the wishes of the Great 
 Spirit, or we shall get into trouble. To know how to 
 read and write is very good for white men, but very 
 bad for red men. It makes white men better, but red 
 men worse. Some of the Creeks and Cherokees learnt 
 to read and write, and they are the greatest rascals 
 among all the Indians. They went on to Washington, 
 and said they were going to see their Great Father, to 
 talk about the good of the nation. And when they got 
 there, they all wrote upon a little piece of paper, with 
 out the nation at home knowing anything about it. 
 And the first thing the nation at home knew of the 
 matter, they were called together by the Indian agent, 
 who showed them a little piece of paper, which he told 
 them was a treaty which their brethren had made in 
 their name with their Great Father at Washington. 
 And as they knew not what a treaty was, he held up 
 the little piece of paper, and they looked under it, and 
 lo! it covered a great extent of country, and they 
 found that their brethren, by knowing how to read and 
 write, had sold their houses, and their lands, and the 
 graves of their fathers; and that the white man, by 
 knowing how to read and write, had gained them. 
 Tell our Great Father at Washington, therefore, that 
 we are very sorry we cannot receive teachers among us ; 
 for reading and writing, though very good for white 
 men, is very bad for Indians."
 
 THE CONSPIRACY OF NEAMATHLA 263 
 THE CONSPIRACY OF NEAMATHLA 
 
 AN AUTHENTIC SKETCH 
 
 In the autumn of 1823, Governor Duval, and other 
 commissioners on the part of the United States, con 
 cluded a treaty with the chiefs and warriors of the 
 Florida Indians, by which the latter, for certain con 
 siderations, ceded all claims to the whole territory, 
 excepting a district in the eastern part, to which they 
 were to remove, and within which they were to reside 
 for twenty years. Several of the chiefs signed the 
 treaty with great reluctance ; but none opposed it more 
 strongly than Neamathla, principal chief of the Micka- 
 sookies, a fierce and warlike people, many of them 
 Creeks by origin, who lived about the Mickasookie lake. 
 Neamathla had always been active in those depreda 
 tions on the frontiers of Georgia, which had brought 
 vengeance and ruin on the Seminoles. He was a re 
 markable man; upward of sixty years of age, about 
 six feet high, with a fine eye, and a strongly marked 
 countenance, over which he possessed great command. 
 His hatred of the white men appeared to be mixed with 
 contempt ; on the common people he looked down with 
 infinite scorn. He seemed unwilling to acknowledge 
 any superiority of rank or dignity in Governor Duval, 
 claiming to associate with him on terms of equality, as 
 two great chieftains. Though he had been prevailed 
 upon to sign the treaty, his heart revolted at it. In 
 one of his frank conversations with Governor Duval, 
 he observed : " This country belongs to the red man ; 
 and if I had the number of warriors at my command 
 that this nation once had, I would not leave a white 
 man on my lands. I would exterminate the whole. 
 I can say this to you, for you can understand me ; you 
 are a man; but I would not say it to your people.
 
 264 THE SEMINOLES 
 
 They 'd cry out I was a savage, and would take my 
 life. They cannot appreciate the feelings of a man 
 that loves his country." 
 
 As Florida had but recently been erected into a terri 
 tory, everything as yet was in rude and simple style. 
 The Governor, to make himself acquainted with the 
 Indians, and to be near at hand to keep an eye upon 
 them, fixed his residence at Tallahassee, near the Fowel 
 towns, inhabited by the Mickasookies. His govern 
 ment palace for a time was a mere log-house, and he 
 lived on hunters' fare. The village of Neamathla was 
 but about three miles off, and thither the Governor oc 
 casionally rode, to visit the old chieftain. In one of 
 these visits he found Neamathla seated in his wig 
 wam, in the centre of the village, surrounded by his 
 warriors. The Governor had brought him some liquor 
 as a present, but it mounted quickly into his brain, and 
 rendered him quite boastful and belligerent. The 
 theme ever uppermost in his mind was the treaty with 
 the whites. " It was true," he said, " the red men had 
 made such a treaty, but the white men had not acted 
 up to it. The red men had received none of the money 
 and the cattle that had been promised them ; the treaty, 
 therefore, was at an end, and they did not mean to be 
 bound by it." 
 
 Governor Duval calmly represented to him that the 
 time appointed in the treaty for the payment and de 
 livery of the money and the cattle had not yet arrived. 
 This the old chieftain knew full well, but he chose, for 
 the moment, to pretend ignorance. He kept on drink 
 ing and talking, his voice growing louder and louder, 
 until it resounded all over the village. He held in his 
 hand a long knife, with which he had been rasping 
 tobacco; this he kept flourishing backward and for 
 ward, as he talked, by way of giving effect to his 
 words, brandishing it at times within an inch of the 
 Governor's throat. He concluded his tirade by repeat-
 
 THE CONSPIRACY OF NEAMATHLA 265 
 
 ing that the country belonged to the red men, and that 
 sooner than give it up, his bones and the bones of his 
 people should bleach upon its soil. 
 
 Duval knew that the object of all this bluster was to 
 see whether he could be intimidated. He kept his eye, 
 therefore, fixed steadily on the chief, and the moment 
 he concluded with his menace, seized him by the 
 bosom of his hunting-shirt, and clenching his other 
 fist: 
 
 " I 've heard what you have said," replied he. " You 
 have made a treaty, yet you say your bones shall bleach 
 before you comply with it. As sure as there is a sun 
 in heaven, your bones shall bleach if you do not fulfil 
 every article of that treaty ! I '11 let you know that I 
 am first here, and will see that you do your duty ! " 
 
 Upon this the old chieftain threw himself back, burst 
 into a fit of laughing, and declared that all he had said 
 was in joke. The Governor suspected, however, that 
 there was a grave meaning at the bottom of this 
 jocularity. 
 
 For two months everything went on smoothly; the 
 Indians repaired daily to the log-cabin palace of the 
 Governor at Tallahassee, and appeared perfectly con 
 tented. All at once they ceased their visits, and for 
 three or four days not one was to be seen. Governor 
 Duval began to apprehend that some mischief was 
 brewing. On the evening of the fourth day, a chief 
 named Yellow-Hair, a resolute, intelligent fellow, who 
 had always evinced an attachment for the Governor, 
 entered his cabin about twelve o'clock at night, and in 
 formed him, that between four and five hundred war 
 riors, painted and decorated, were assembled to hold 
 a secret war-talk at Neamathla's town. He had slipped 
 off to give intelligence, at the risk of his life, and has 
 tened back lest his absence should be discovered. 
 
 Governor Duval passed an anxious night after this 
 intelligence. He knew the talent and the daring char-
 
 266 THE SEMINOLES 
 
 acter of Neamathla; he recollected the threats he had 
 thrown out ; he reflected that about eighty white fami 
 lies were scattered widely apart over a great extent of 
 country, and might be swept away at once, should the 
 Indians, as he feared, determine to clear the country. 
 That he did not exaggerate the dangers of the case, 
 has been proved by the horrid scenes of Indian war 
 fare which have since desolated that devoted region. 
 After a night of sleepless cogitation, Duval determined 
 on a measure suited to his prompt and resolute charac 
 ter. Knowing the admiration of the savages for per 
 sonal courage, he determined, by a sudden surprise, 
 to endeavor to overawe and check them. It was haz 
 arding much; but where so many lives were in jeop 
 ardy, he felt bound to incur the hazard. 
 
 Accordingly, on the next morning he set off on 
 horseback, attended merely by a white man who had 
 been reared among the Seminoles, and understood 
 their language and manners, and who acted as inter 
 preter. They struck into an Indian " trail," leading to 
 Neamathla's village. After proceeding about half a 
 mile, Governor Duval informed the interpreter of the 
 object of his expedition. The latter, though a bold 
 man, paused and remonstrated. The Indians among 
 whom they were going were among the most desperate 
 and discontented of the nation. Many of them were 
 veteran warriors, impoverished and exasperated by 
 defeat, and ready to set their lives at any hazard. He 
 said that if they were holding a war-council, it must 
 be with desperate intent, and it would be certain death 
 to intrude among them. 
 
 Duval made light of his apprehensions; he said he 
 was perfectly well acquainted with the Indian charac 
 ter, and should certainly proceed. So saying, he rode 
 on. When within half a mile of the village, the inter 
 preter addressed him again in such a tremulous tone, 
 that Duval turned and looked him in the face. He
 
 THE CONSPIRACY OF NEAMATHLA 267 
 
 was deadly pale, and once more urged the Governor 
 to return, as they would certainly be massacred if they 
 proceeded. 
 
 Duval repeated his determination to go on, but ad 
 vised the other to return, lest his pale face should be 
 tray fear to the Indians, and they might take advan 
 tage of it. The interpreter replied that he would rather 
 die a thousand deaths than have it said he had deserted 
 his leader when in peril. 
 
 Duval then told him he must translate faithfully all 
 he should say to the Indians, without softening a word. 
 The interpreter promised faithfully to do so, adding 
 that he well knew, when they were once in the town, 
 nothing but boldness could save them. 
 
 They now rode into the village and advanced to the 
 council-house. This was rather a group of four 
 houses, forming a square, in the centre of which was 
 a great council-fire. The houses were open in front 
 toward the fire, and closed in the rear. At each corner 
 of the square there was an interval between the houses 
 for ingress and egress. In these houses sat the old 
 men and the chiefs; the young men were gathered 
 round the fire. Neamathla presided at the council, 
 elevated on a higher seat than the rest. 
 
 Governor Duval entered by one of the corner inter 
 vals, and rode boldly into the centre of the square. The 
 young men made way for him; an old man who was 
 speaking, paused in the midst of his harangue. In an 
 instant thirty or forty rifles were cocked and levelled. 
 Never had Duval heard so loud a click of triggers; 
 it seemed to strike to his heart. He gave one glance 
 at the Indians, and turned off with an air of contempt. 
 He did not dare, he says, to look again, lest it might 
 affect his nerves, and on the firmness of his nerves 
 everything depended. 
 
 The chief threw up his arm. The rifles were low 
 ered. Duval breathed more freely; he felt disposed
 
 268 /.; THE SEMINOLES 
 
 to leap from his horse, but restrained himself, and 
 dismounted leisurely. He then walked deliberately up 
 to Neamathla, and demanded, in an authoritative tone, 
 what were his motives for holding that council. The 
 moment he made this demand, the orator sat down. 
 The chief made no reply, but hung his head in apparent 
 confusion. After a moment's pause, Duval proceeded : 
 
 " I am well aware of the meaning of this war- 
 council, and deem it my duty to warn you against pros 
 ecuting the schemes you have been devising. If a 
 single hair of a white man in this country falls to the 
 ground, I will hang you and your chiefs on the trees 
 around your council-house! You cannot pretend to 
 withstand the power of the white men. You are in 
 the palm of the hand of your Great Father at Wash 
 ington, who can crush you like an egg-shell ! You may 
 kill me ; I am but one man ; but recollect, white men 
 are numerous as the leaves on the trees. Remember 
 the fate of your warriors whose bones are whitening 
 in battlefields. Remember your wives and children 
 who perished in swamps. Do you want to provoke 
 more hostilities? Another war with the white men, 
 and there will not be a Seminole left to tell the story 
 of his race." 
 
 Seeing the effect of his words, he concluded by ap 
 pointing a day for the Indians to meet him at St. 
 Marks and give an account of their conduct. He then 
 rode off, without giving them time to recover from 
 their surprise. That night he rode forty miles to Apa- 
 lachicola River, to the tribe of the same name, who 
 were in feud with the Seminoles. They promptly put 
 two hundred and fifty warriors at his disposal, whom 
 he ordered to be at St. Marks at the appointed day. 
 He sent out runners also, and mustered one hundred of 
 the militia to repair to the same place, together with 
 a number of regulars from the army. All his arrange 
 ments were successful.
 
 THE CONSPIRACY OF NEAMATHLA 269 
 
 Having taken these measures, he returned to Talla 
 hassee, to the neighborhood of the conspirators, to 
 show them that he was not afraid. Here he ascer 
 tained, through Yellow-Hair, that nine towns were 
 disaffected, and had been concerned in the conspiracy. 
 He was careful to inform himself, from the same 
 source, of the names of the warriors in each of those 
 towns who were most popular, though poor and desti 
 tute of rank and command. 
 
 When the appointed day was at hand for the meet 
 ing at St. Marks, Governor Duval set off with Nea- 
 mathla, who was at the head of eight or nine hundred 
 warriors, but who feared to venture into the fort with 
 out him. As they entered the fort, and saw troops and 
 militia drawn up there, and a force of Apalachicola 
 soldiers stationed on the opposite bank of the river, 
 they thought they were betrayed, and were about to 
 fly, but Duval assured them they were safe, and that 
 when the talk was over they might go home unmolested. 
 
 A grand talk was now held, in which the late con 
 spiracy was discussed. As he had foreseen, Neamathla 
 and the other old chiefs threw all the blame upon the 
 young men. " Well," replied Duval, " with us white 
 men, when we find a man incompetent to govern those 
 under him, we put him down and appoint another in 
 his place. Now, as you all acknowledge you cannot 
 manage your young men, we must put chiefs over them 
 who can." 
 
 So saying, he deposed Neamathla first, appointing 
 another in his place ; and so on with all the rest, taking 
 care to substitute the warriors who had been pointed 
 out to him as poor and popular ; putting medals round 
 their necks, and investing them with great ceremony. 
 The Indians were surprised and delighted at finding 
 the appointments fall upon the very men they would 
 themselves have chosen, and hailed them with accla 
 mations. The warriors thus unexpectedly elevated to
 
 270 THE COUNT VAN HORN 
 
 command, and clothed with dignity, were secured to 
 the interests of the Governor, and sure to keep an eye 
 on the disaffected. As to the great chief Neamathla, 
 he left the country in disgust, and returned to the 
 Creek Nation, who elected him a chief of one of their 
 towns. Thus by the resolute spirit and prompt sagacity 
 of one man, a dangerous conspiracy was completely 
 defeated. Governor Duval was afterwards enabled to 
 remove the whole nation, through his own personal 
 influence, without the aid of the General Government. 
 
 NOTE. The foregoing anecdotes concerning the 
 Seminoles were gathered in conversation with Gov 
 ernor Duval (the original of Ralph Ringwood). 
 
 THE COUNT VAN HORN 
 
 DURING the minority of Louis XV., while the Duke 
 of Orleans was Regent of France, a young Flemish 
 nobleman, the Count Antoine Joseph Van Horn, made 
 his sudden appearance in Paris, and by his character, 
 conduct, and the subsequent disasters in which he be 
 came involved, created a great sensation in the high 
 circles of the proud aristocracy. He was about twenty- 
 two years of age, tall, finely formed, with a pale, ro 
 mantic countenance, and eyes of remarkable brilliancy 
 and wildness. 
 
 He was of one of the most ancient and highly es 
 teemed families of European nobility, being of the 
 line of the Princes of Horn and Overique, sovereign 
 Counts of Hautekerke, and hereditary Grand Veneurs 
 of the empire. 
 
 The family took its name from the little town and 
 seigneurie of Horn, in Brabant; and was known as 
 early as the eleventh century among the little dynasties
 
 THE COUNT VAN HORN 271 
 
 of the Netherlands, and since that time, by a long line 
 of illustrious generations. At the peace of Utrecht, 
 when the Netherlands passed under subjection to 
 Austria, the house of Van Horn came under the 
 domination of the emperor. At the time we treat of, 
 two of the branches of this ancient house were extinct; 
 the third and only surviving branch was represented 
 by the reigning prince, Maximilian Emanuel Van 
 Horn, twenty-four years of age, who resided in honor 
 able and courtly style on his hereditary domains at 
 Baussigny, in the Netherlands, and his brother the 
 Count Antoine Joseph, who is the subject of this 
 memoir. 
 
 The ancient house of Van Horn, by the intermar 
 riage of its various branches with the noble families 
 of the Continent, had become widely connected and 
 interwoven with the high aristocracy of Europe. The 
 Count Antoine, therefore, could claim relationship to 
 many of the proudest names in Paris. In fact, he 
 was grandson, by the mother's side, of the Prince 
 de Ligne, and even might boast of affinity to the 
 Regent (the Duke of Orleans) himself. There were 
 circumstances, however, connected with his sudden 
 appearance in Paris, and his previous story, that placed 
 him in what is termed " a false position " ; a word of 
 baleful significance in the fashionable vocabulary of 
 France. 
 
 The young Count had been a captain in the service 
 of Austria, but had been cashiered for irregular con 
 duct, and for disrespect to Prince Louis of Baden, 
 commander-in-chief. To check him in his wild career, 
 and bring him to sober reflection, his brother the 
 Prince caused him to be arrested, and sent to the old 
 castle of Van Wert, in the domains of Horn. This 
 was the same castle in which, in former times, John 
 Van Horn, Stadtholder of Gueldres, had imprisoned 
 his father; a circumstance which has furnished Rem-
 
 272 THE COUNT VAN HORN 
 
 brandt with the subject of an admirable painting. The 
 governor of the castle was one Van Wert, grandson of 
 the famous John Van Wert, the hero of many a popular 
 song and legend. It was the intention of the Prince 
 that his brother should be held in honorable durance, 
 for his object was to sober and improve, not to punish 
 and afflict him. Van Wert, however, was a stern, 
 harsh man, of violent passions. He treated the youth 
 in a manner that prisoners and offenders were treated 
 in the strongholds of the robber counts of Germany, 
 in old times; confined him in a dungeon, and inflicted 
 on him such hardships and indignities, that the irritable 
 temperament of the young count was roused to con 
 tinual fury, which ended in insanity. For six months 
 was the unfortunate youth kept in this horrible state, 
 without his brother the Prince being informed of his 
 melancholy condition, or of the cruel treatment to 
 which he was subjected. At length, one day, in a 
 paroxysm of frenzy, the Count knocked down two of 
 his jailers with a beetle, escaped from the castle of Van 
 Wert, and eluded all pursuit; and after roving about 
 in a state of distraction, made his way to Baussigny, 
 and appeared like a spectre before his brother. 
 
 The Prince was shocked at his wretched, emaciated 
 appearance, and his lamentable state of mental aliena 
 tion. He received him with the most compassionate 
 tenderness; lodged him in his own room; appointed 
 three servants to attend and watch over him day and 
 night; and endeavored, by the most soothing and af 
 fectionate assiduity, to atone for the past act of rigor 
 with which he reproached himself. When he learned, 
 however, the manner in which his unfortunate brother 
 had been treated in confinement, and the course of bru 
 talities that had led to his mental malady, he was aroused 
 to indignation. His first step was to cashier Van Wert 
 from his command. That violent man set the Prince 
 at defiance, and attempted to maintain himself in his
 
 THE COUNT VAN HORN 273 
 
 government and his castle, by instigating the peasants, 
 for several leagues round, to revolt. His insurrection 
 might have been formidable against the power of a 
 petty prince; but he was put under the ban of the 
 empire, and seized as a state prisoner. The memory 
 of his grandfather, the oft-sung John Van Wert, 
 alone saved him from a gibbet ; but he was imprisoned 
 in the strong tower of Horn-op-Zee. There he re 
 mained until he was eighty-two years of age, savage, 
 violent, and unconquered to the last; for we are told 
 that he never ceased fighting and thumping, as long 
 as he could close a fist or wield a cudgel. 
 
 In the mean time, a course of kind and gentle treat 
 ment and wholesome regimen, and, above all, the ten 
 der and affectionate assiduity of his brother, the Prince, 
 produced the most salutary effects upon Count Antoine 
 He gradually recovered his reason; but a degree of 
 violence seemed always lurking at the bottom of his 
 character, and he required to be treated with the 
 greatest caution and mildness, for the least con 
 tradiction exasperated him. 
 
 In this state of mental convalescence, he began to 
 find the supervision and restraints of brotherly affec 
 tion insupportable; so he left the Netherlands fur 
 tively, and repaired to Paris, whither, in fact, it is said 
 he was called by motives of interest, to make arrange 
 ments concerning a valuable estate which he inherited 
 from his relative, the Princess d'Epinay. 
 
 On his arrival in Paris, he called upon the Marquis 
 of Crequi, and other of the high nobility with whom 
 he was connected. He was received with great cour 
 tesy; but, as he brought no letters from his elder 
 brother, the Prince, and as various circumstances of 
 his previous history had transpired, they did not receive 
 him into their families, nor introduce him to their 
 ladies. Still they feted him in bachelor style, gave him 
 gay and elegant suppers at their separate apartments, 
 
 18
 
 274 THE COUNT VAN HORN 
 
 and took him to their boxes at the theatres. He was 
 often noticed, too, at the doors of the most fashionable 
 churches, taking his stand among the young men of 
 fashion ; and at such times, his tall, elegant figure, his 
 pale but handsome countenance, and his flashing eyes, 
 distinguished him from among the crowd; and the 
 ladies declared that it was almost impossible to support 
 his ardent gaze. 
 
 The Count did not afflict himself much at his limited 
 circulation in the fastidious circles of the high aristoc 
 racy. He relished society of a wilder and less cere 
 monious cast; and meeting with loose companions to 
 his taste, soon ran into all the excesses of the capital, 
 in that most licentious period. It is said that, in the 
 course of his wild career, he had an intrigue with 
 a lady of quality, a favorite of the Regent, that he 
 was surprised by that Prince in one of his interviews, 
 that sharp words passed between them ; and that the 
 jealousy and vengeance thus awakened, ended only 
 with his life. 
 
 About this time, the famous Mississippi scheme of 
 Law was at its height, or rather it began to threaten 
 that disastrous catastrophe which convulsed the whole 
 financial world. Every effort was making to keep the 
 bubble inflated. The vagrant population of France 
 was swept off from the streets at night, and conveyed 
 to Havre de Grace, to be shipped to the projected col 
 onies; even laboring people and mechanics were thus 
 crimped and spirited away. As Count Antoine was in 
 the habit of sallying forth at night, in disguise, in pur 
 suit of his pleasures, he came near being carried off by 
 a gang of crimps; it seemed, in fact, as if they had 
 been lying in wait for him, as he had experienced very 
 rough treatment at their hands. Complaint was made 
 of his case by his relation, the Marquis de Crequi, who 
 took much interest in the youth; but the Marquis re 
 ceived mysterious intimations not to interfere in the
 
 THE COUNT VAN HORN 275 
 
 matter, but to advise the Count to quit Paris immedi 
 ately: "If he lingers, he is lost!" This has been 
 cited as a proof that vengeance was dogging at the 
 heels of the unfortunate youth, and only watching for 
 an opportunity to destroy him. 
 
 Such opportunity occurred but too soon. Among 
 the loose companions with whom the Count had become 
 intimate, were two who lodged in the same hotel with 
 him. One was a youth only twenty years of age, who 
 passed himself off as the Chevalier d'Etampes, but 
 whose real name was Lestang, the prodigal son of a 
 Flemish banker. The other, named Laurent de Mille, 
 a Piedmontese, was a cashiered captain, and at the 
 time an esquire in the service of the dissolute Princess 
 de Carignan, who kept gambling-tables in her palace. 
 It is probable that gambling propensities had brought 
 these young men together, and that their losses had 
 driven them to desperate measures; certain it is, that 
 all Paris was suddenly astounded by a murder which 
 they were said to have committed. What made the 
 crime more startling, was, that it seemed connected 
 with the great Mississippi scheme, at that time the 
 fruitful source of all kinds of panics and agitations. 
 A Jew, a stock-broker, who dealt largely in shares of 
 the bank of Law, founded on the Mississippi scheme, 
 was the victim. The story of his death is variously 
 related. The darkest account states, that the Jew 
 was decoyed by these young men into an obscure tav 
 ern, under pretext of negotiating with him for bank 
 shares, to the amount of one hundred thousand crowns, 
 which he had with him in his pocket-book. Lestang 
 kept watch upon the stairs. The Count and De Mille 
 entered with the Jew into a chamber. In a little 
 while there were heard cries and struggles from within. 
 A waiter passing by the room, looked in, and seeing 
 the Jew weltering in his blood, shut the door again, 
 double-locked it, and alarmed the house. Lestang
 
 276 THE COUNT VAN HORN 
 
 rushed down stairs, made his way to the hotel, secured 
 his most portable effects, and fled the country. The 
 Count and De Mille endeavored to escape by the 
 window, but were both taken, and conducted to 
 prison. 
 
 A circumstance which occurs in this part of the 
 Count's story, seems to point him out as a fated man. 
 His mother, and his brother, the Prince Van Horn, had 
 received intelligence some time before at Baussigny, of 
 the dissolute life the Count was leading at Paris, and 
 of his losses at play. They dispatched a gentleman of 
 the Prince's household to Paris, to pay the debts of the 
 Count, and persuade him to return to Flanders; or, if 
 he should refuse, to obtain an order from the Regent 
 for him to quit the capital. Unfortunately the gentle 
 man did not arrive at Paris until the day after the 
 murder. 
 
 The news of the Count's arrest and imprisonment, 
 on a charge of murder, caused a violent sensation 
 among the high aristocracy. All those connected with 
 him, who had treated him hitherto with indifference, 
 found their dignity deeply involved in the question of 
 his guilt or innocence. A general convocation was held 
 at the hotel of the Marquis de Crequi, of all the rela 
 tives and allies of the house of Horn. It was an assem 
 blage of the most proud and aristocratic personages of 
 Paris. Inquiries were made into the circumstances of 
 the affair. It was ascertained, beyond a doubt, that 
 the Jew was dead, and that he had been killed by several 
 stabs of a poniard. In escaping by the window, it was 
 said that the Count had fallen, and been immediately 
 taken ; but that De Mille had fled through the streets, 
 pursued by the populace, and had been arrested at some 
 distance from the scene of the murder ; that the Count 
 had declared himself innocent of the death of the Jew, 
 and that he had risked his own life in endeavoring to 
 protect him ; but that De Mille, on being brought back
 
 THE COUNT VAN HORN 277 
 
 to the tavern, confessed to a plot to murder the broker, 
 and rob him of his pocket-book, and inculpated the 
 Count in the crime. 
 
 Another version of the story was, that the Count 
 Van Horn had deposited with the broker bank shares 
 to the amount of eighty-eight thousand livres ; that he 
 had sought him in this tavern, which was one of his 
 resorts, and had demanded the shares; that the Jew 
 had denied the deposit; that a quarrel had ensued, in 
 the course of which the Jew struck the Count in the 
 face; that the latter, transported with rage, had 
 snatched up a knife from a table and wounded the Jew 
 in the shoulder; and that thereupon De Mille, who was 
 present, and who had likewise been defrauded by the 
 broker, fell on him, and despatched him with blows of 
 a poniard, and seized upon his pocket-book; that he 
 had offered to divide the contents of the latter with the 
 Count, pro rata, of what the usurer had defrauded 
 them ; that the latter had refused the proposition with 
 disdain; and that, at a noise of persons approaching, 
 both had attempted to escape from the premises, but 
 had been taken. 
 
 Regard the story in any way they might, appear 
 ances were terribly against the Count, and the noble 
 assemblage was in great consternation. What was to 
 be done to ward off so foul a disgrace and to save their 
 illustrious escutcheons from this murderous stain of 
 blood? Their first attempt was to prevent the affair 
 from going to trial, and their relative from being 
 dragged before a criminal tribunal, on so horrible and 
 degrading a charge. They applied, therefore, to the 
 Regent, to intervene his power, to treat the Count as 
 having acted under an access of his mental malady, and 
 to shut him up in a madhouse. The Regent was deaf 
 to their solicitations. He replied, coldly, that if the 
 Count was a madman, one could not get rid too quickly 
 of madmen who were furious in their insanity. The
 
 278 THE COUNT VAN HORN 
 
 crime was too public and atrocious to be hushed up, 
 or slurred over; justice must take its course. 
 
 Seeing there was no avoiding the humiliating scene 
 of a public trial, the noble relatives of the Count en 
 deavored to predispose the minds of the magistrates 
 before whom he was to be arraigned. They accord 
 ingly made urgent and eloquent representations of the 
 high descent, and noble and powerful connections of 
 the Count ; set forth the circumstances of his early his 
 tory, his mental malady, the nervous irritability to 
 which he was subject, and his extreme sensitiveness to 
 insult or contradiction. By these means they sought 
 to prepare the judges to interpret everything in favor 
 of the Count; and, even if it should prove that he had 
 inflicted the mortal blow on the usurer, to attribute it to 
 access of insanity provoked by insult. 
 
 To give full effect to these representations, the noble 
 conclave determined to bring upon the judges the daz 
 zling rays of the whole assembled aristocracy. Ac 
 cordingly, on the day that the trial took place, the 
 relations of the Count, to the number of fifty-seven 
 persons, of both sexes and of the highest rank, repaired 
 in a body to the Palace of Justice, and took their sta 
 tions in a long corridor which led to the court-room. 
 Here, as the judges entered, they had to pass in review 
 this array of lofty and noble personages, who saluted 
 them mournfully and significantly as they passed. 
 Any one conversant with the stately pride and jealous 
 dignity of the French noblesse of that day, may 
 imagine the extreme state of sensitiveness that pro 
 duced this self-abasement. It was confidently pre 
 sumed, however, by the noble suppliants, that having 
 once brought themselves to this measure, their influence 
 over the tribunal would be irresistible. There was one 
 lady present, however, Madame de Beauffremont, who 
 was affected with the Scottish gift of second sight, and 
 related such dismal and sinister apparitions as passing
 
 THE COUNT VAN HORN 279 
 
 before her eyes, that many of her female companions 
 were rilled with doleful presentiments. 
 
 Unfortunately for the Count, there was another 
 interest at work, more powerful even than the high 
 aristocracy. The infamous but all-potent Abbe Dubois, 
 the grand favorite and bosom counsellor of the Regent, 
 was deeply interested in the scheme of Law and the 
 prosperity of his bank, and of course in the security 
 of the stock-brokers. Indeed, the Regent himself is 
 said to have dipped deep in the Mississippi scheme. 
 Dubois and Law, therefore, exerted their influence 
 to the utmost to have the tragic affair pushed to the 
 extremity of the law, and the murderer of the broker 
 punished in the most signal and appalling manner. 
 Certain it is, the trial was neither long nor intricate. 
 The Count and his fellow-prisoner were equally in 
 culpated in the crime, and both were condemned to 
 a death the most horrible and ignominious to be 
 broken alive on the wheel ! 
 
 As soon as the sentence of the court was made 
 public, all the nobility, in any degree related to the 
 house of Van Horn, went into mourning. Another 
 grand aristocratical assemblage was held, and a peti 
 tion to the Regent, on behalf of the Count, was drawn 
 out and left with the Marquis de Crequi for sig 
 nature. This petition set forth the previous insanity 
 of the Count, and showed that it was an hereditary 
 malady in his family. It stated various circumstances 
 in mitigation of his offence, and implored that his sen 
 tence might be commuted to perpetual imprisonment. 
 
 Upward of fifty names of the highest nobility, be 
 ginning with the Prince de Ligne, and including cardi 
 nals, archbishops, dukes, marquises, etc., together with 
 ladies of equal rank, were signed to this petition. By 
 one of the caprices of human pride and vanity, it 
 became an object of ambition to get enrolled among 
 the illustrious suppliants ; a kind of testimonial of noble
 
 28o THE COUNT VAN HORN 
 
 blood, to prove relationship to a murderer! The Mar 
 quis de Crequi was absolutely besieged by applicants 
 to sign, and had to refer their claims to this singular 
 honor to the Prince de Ligne, the grandfather of the 
 Count. Many who were excluded were highly in 
 censed, and numerous feuds took place. Nay, the 
 affronts thus given to the morbid pride of some aristo- 
 cratical families, passed from generation to generation ; 
 for, fifty years afterward, the Duchess of Mazarin 
 complained of a slight which her father had re 
 ceived from the Marquis de Crequi, which proved 
 to be something connected with the signature of this 
 petition. 
 
 This important document being completed, the illus 
 trious body of petitioners, male and female, on Satur 
 day evening, the eve of Palm Sunday, repaired to the 
 Palais Royal, the residence of the Regent, and were 
 ushered with great ceremony, but profound silence, 
 into his hall of council. They had appointed four of 
 their number as deputies to present the petition, viz. : 
 the Cardinal de Rohan, the Duke de Havre, the Prince 
 de Ligne, and the Marquis de Crequi. After a little 
 while, the deputies were summoned to the cabinet of the 
 Regent. They entered, leaving the assembled petitioners 
 in a state of the greatest anxiety. As time slowly 
 wore away, and the evening advanced, the gloom of 
 the company increased. Several of the ladies prayed 
 devoutly; the good Princess of Armagnac told her 
 beads. 
 
 The petition was received by the Regent with a 
 most unpropitious aspect. " In asking the pardon of 
 the criminal," said he, " you display more zeal for the 
 house of Van Horn than for the service of the king." 
 The noble deputies enforced the petition by every ar 
 gument in their power. They supplicated the Regent 
 to consider that the infamous punishment in question 
 would reach not merely the person of the condemned,
 
 THE COUNT VAN HORN 281 
 
 not merely the house of Van Horn, but also the gene 
 alogies of princely and illustrious families, in whose 
 armorial bearings, might be found quarterings of this 
 dishonored name. 
 
 " Gentlemen," replied the Regent, " it appears to 
 me the disgrace consists in the crime, rather than in the 
 punishment." 
 
 The Prince de Ligne spoke with warmth : " I have 
 in my genealogical standard," said he, " four escutch 
 eons of Van Horn, and of course have four ancestors 
 of that house. I must have them erased and effaced, 
 and there would be so many blank spaces, like holes, 
 in my heraldic ensigns. There is not a sovereign 
 family which would not suffer through the rigor of 
 your Royal Highness; nay, all the world knows that 
 in the thirty-two quarterings of Madame, your mother, 
 there is an escutcheon of Van Horn/' 
 
 " Very well," replied the Regent, " I will share the 
 disgrace with you, gentlemen." 
 
 Seeing that a pardon could not be obtained, the 
 Cardinal de Rohan and the Marquis de Crequi left 
 the cabinet; but the Prince de Ligne and the Duke 
 de Havre remained behind. The honor of their 
 houses,, more than the life of the unhappy Count, was 
 the great object of their solicitude. They now en 
 deavored to obtain a minor grace. They represented, 
 that in the Netherlands and in Germany, there was an 
 important difference in the public mind as to the mode 
 of inflicting the punishment of death upon persons of 
 quality. That decapitation had no influence on the 
 fortunes of the family of the executed, but that the 
 punishment of the wheel was such an infamy, that 
 the uncles, aunts, brothers, and sisters, of the criminal, 
 and his whole family, for three succeeding generations, 
 were excluded from all noble chapters, princely abbeys, 
 sovereign bishoprics, and even Teutonic commanderies 
 of the Order of Malta. They showed how this would
 
 282 THE COUNT VAN HORN 
 
 operate immediately upon the fortunes of a sister of the 
 Count, who was on the point of being received as a 
 canoness into one of the noble chapters. 
 
 While this scene was going on in the cabinet of the 
 Regent, the illustrious assemblage of petitioners re 
 mained in the hall of council, in the most gloomy 
 state of suspense. The reentrance from the cabinet 
 of the Cardinal de Rohan and the Marquis de Crequi, 
 with pale downcast countenances, had struck a chill 
 into every heart. Still they lingered until near mid 
 night, to learn the result of the after application. At 
 length the cabinet conference was at an end. The Re 
 gent came forth and saluted the high personages of 
 the assemblage in a courtly manner. One old lady of 
 quality, Madame de Guyon, whom he had known in 
 his infancy, he kissed on the cheek, calling her his 
 " good aunt." He made a most ceremonious salutation 
 to the stately Marchioness de Crequi, telling her he 
 was charmed to see her at the Palais Royal ; " a com 
 pliment very ill-timed/' said the Marchioness, " con 
 sidering the circumstance which brought me there." 
 He then conducted the ladies to the door of the sec 
 ond saloon, and there dismissed them with the most 
 ceremonious politeness. 
 
 The application of the Prince de Ligne and the 
 Duke de Havre, for a change of the mode of punish 
 ment, had, after much difficulty, been successful. The 
 Regent had promised solemnly to send a letter of com 
 mutation to the attorney-general on Holy Monday, 
 the 25th of March, at five o'clock in the morning. 
 According to the same promise, a scaffold would be 
 arranged in the cloister of the Conciergerie, or prison, 
 where the Count would be beheaded on the same morn 
 ing, immediately after having received absolution. This 
 mitigation of the form of punishment gave but little 
 consolation to the great body of petitioners, who had 
 been anxious for the pardon of the youth; it was
 
 THE COUNT VAN HORN 283 
 
 looked upon as all important, however, by the Prince 
 de Ligne, who, as has been before observed, was 
 exquisitely alive to the dignity of his family. 
 
 The Bishop of Bayeux and the Marquis de Crequi 
 visited the unfortunate youth in prison. He had just 
 received the communion in the chapel of the Concier- 
 gerie, and was kneeling before the altar, listening to a 
 mass for the dead, which was performed at his request. 
 He protested his innocence of any intention to murder 
 the Jew, but did not deign to allude to the accusation 
 of robbery. He made the Bishop and the Marquis 
 promise to see his brother the Prince, and inform him 
 of this his dying asseveration. 
 
 Two other of his relations, the Prince Rebecq- 
 Montmorency and the Marshal Van Isenghien, visited 
 him secretly, and offered him poison, as a means of 
 evading the disgrace of a public execution. On his 
 refusing to take it, they left him with high indigna 
 tion. " Miserable man! " said they, " you are fit only 
 to perish by the hand of the executioner! " 
 
 The Marquis de Crequi sought the executioner of 
 Paris, to bespeak an easy and decent death for the 
 unfortunate youth. " Do not make him suffer," said 
 he ; " uncover no part of him but the neck, and have 
 his body placed in a coffin before you deliver it to his 
 family." The executioner promised all that was re 
 quested, but declined a rouleau of a hundred louis-d'ors 
 which the Marquis would have put into his hand. " I 
 am paid by the King for fulfilling my office," said he ; 
 and added, that he had already refused a like sum, 
 offered by another relation of the Marquis. 
 
 The Marquis de Crequi returned home in a state 
 of deep affliction. There he found a letter from the 
 Duke de St. Simon, the familiar friend of the Regent, 
 repeating the promise of that Prince, that the punish 
 ment of the wheel should be commuted to decapitation. 
 " Imagine," says the Marchioness de Crequi, who in
 
 284 THE COUNT VAN HORN 
 
 her memoirs gives a detailed account of this affair, 
 " imagine what we experienced, and what was our 
 astonishment, our grief, and indignation, when, on 
 Tuesday the 26th of March, an hour after midday, 
 word was brought us that the Count Van Horn had 
 been exposed on the wheel in the Place de Greve, since 
 half -past six in the morning, on the same scaffold with 
 the Piedmontese, De Mille, and that he had been 
 tortured previous to execution ! " 
 
 One more scene of aristocratic pride closed this 
 tragic story. The Marquis de Crequi, on receiving 
 this astounding news, immediately arrayed himself in 
 the uniform of a general officer, with his cordon of 
 nobility on the coat. He ordered six valets to attend 
 him in grand livery, and two of his carriages, each 
 with six horses, to be brought forth. In this sumptu 
 ous state he set off for the Place de Greve, where he 
 had been preceded by the Princes de Ligne, de Rohan, 
 de Croiiy, and the Duke de Havre. 
 
 The Count Van Horn was already dead, and it was 
 believed that the executioner had had the charity to 
 give him the coup de grace, or " death-blow," at eight 
 o'clock in the morning. At five o'clock in the evening, 
 when the Judge Commissary left his post at the Hotel 
 de Ville, these noblemen, with their own hands, aided 
 to detach the mutilated remains of their relation; the 
 Marquis de Crequi placed them in one of his carriages, 
 and bore them off to his hotel, to receive the last sad 
 obsequies. 
 
 The conduct of the Regent in this affair excited gen 
 eral indignation. His needless severity was attributed 
 by some to vindictive jealousy; by others to the per 
 severing machinations of Law and the Abbe Dubois. 
 The house of Van Horn, and the high nobility of 
 Flanders and Germany, considered themselves fla 
 grantly outraged; many schemes of vengeance were 
 talked of, and a hatred engendered against the Regent
 
 DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 285 
 
 that followed him through life, and was wreaked with 
 bitterness upon his memory after his death. 
 
 The following letter is said to have been written 
 to the Regent by the Prince Van Horn, to whom the 
 former had adjudged the confiscated effects of the 
 Count : 
 
 " I do not complain, sir, of the death of my brother, 
 but I complain that your Royal Highness has violated 
 in his person the rights of the kingdom, the nobility, 
 and the nation. I thank you for the confiscation of his 
 effects; but I should think myself as much disgraced 
 as he, should I accept any favor at your hands. / 
 hope that God and the King may render to you as 
 strict justice as you have rendered to my unfortunate 
 brother." 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 
 
 I have heard of spirits walking with aerial bodies, and have 
 been wondered at by others ; but I must only wonder at myself, 
 for, if they be not mad, I 'me come to my own buriall. 
 
 SHIRLEY'S Witty Fairie One 
 
 EVERYBODY has heard of the fate of Don Juan, the 
 famous libertine of Seville, who, for his sins against 
 the fair sex and other minor peccadilloes, was hurried 
 away to the infernal regions. His story has been illus 
 trated in play, in pantomime, and farce, on every stage 
 in Christendom, until at length it has been rendered 
 the theme of the opera of operas, and embalmed to 
 endless duration in the glorious music of Mozart. I 
 well recollect the effect of this story upon my feelings 
 in my boyish days, though represented in grotesque 
 pantomime; the awe with which I contemplated the 
 monumental statue on horseback of the murdered com-
 
 286 DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 
 
 mander, gleaming by pale moonlight in the convent 
 cemetery; how my heart quaked as he bowed his 
 marble head, and accepted the impious invitation of 
 Don Juan ; how each footfall of the statue smote upon 
 my heart, as I heard it approach, step by step, through 
 the echoing corridor, and beheld it enter, and advance, 
 a moving figure of stone, to the supper-table ! But then 
 the convivial scene in the charnel-house, where Don 
 Juan returned the visit of the statue, was offered 
 a banquet of sculls and bones, and on refusing to par 
 take, was hurled into a yawning gulf under a tre 
 mendous shower of fire! These were accumulated 
 horrors enough to shake the nerves of the most 
 pantomime-loving schoolboy. Many have supposed the 
 story of Don Juan a mere fable. I myself thought 
 so once; but "seeing is believing." I have since be 
 held the very scene where it took place, and now to in 
 dulge any doubt on the subject, would be preposterous. 
 
 I was one night perambulating the streets of Seville, 
 in company with a Spanish friend, a curious investi 
 gator of the popular traditions and other good-for- 
 nothing lore of the city, and who was kind enough to 
 imagine he had met, in me, with a congenial spirit. 
 In the course of our rambles, we were passing by a 
 heavy dark gateway, opening into the court-yard of a 
 convent, when he laid his hand upon my arm : 
 " Stop! " said he; " this is the convent of San Fran 
 cisco; there is a story connected with it, which I am 
 sure must be known to you. You cannot but have 
 heard of Don Juan and the marble statue." 
 
 " Undoubtedly," replied I ; "it has been familiar to 
 me from childhood." 
 
 " Well, then, it was in the cemetery of this very con 
 vent that the events took place." 
 
 " Why, you do not mean to say that the story is 
 founded on fact?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly it is. The circumstances of the case
 
 DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 287 
 
 are said to have occurred during the reign of Alfonso 
 XL Don Juan was of the noble family of Tenorio, one 
 of the most illustrious houses of Andalusia. His 
 father, Don Diego Tenorio, was a favorite of the king, 
 and his family ranked among the ve'mtecuatros, or 
 magistrates, of the city. Presuming on his high de 
 scent and powerful connections, Don Juan set no 
 bounds to his excesses : no female, high or low, was 
 sacred from his pursuit; and he soon became the 
 scandal of Seville. One of his most daring outrages 
 was, to penetrate by night into the palace of Don Gon- 
 zalo de Ulloa, Commander of the Order of Calatrava, 
 and attempt to carry off his daughter. The household 
 was alarmed; a scuffle in the dark took place; Don 
 Juan escaped, but the unfortunate commander was 
 found weltering in his blood, and expired without being 
 able to name his murderer. Suspicions attached to 
 Don Juan ; he did not stop to meet the investigations of 
 justice and the vengeance of the powerful family of 
 Ulloa, but fled from Seville, and took refuge with his 
 uncle, Don Pedro Tenorio, at that time ambassador at 
 the court of Naples. Here he remained until the agita 
 tion occasioned by the murder of Don Gonzalo had 
 time to subside ; and the scandal which the affair might 
 cause to both the families of Ulloa and Tenorio had 
 induced them to hush it up. Don Juan, however, con 
 tinued his libertine career at Naples, until at length his 
 excesses forfeited the protection of his uncle the am 
 bassador, and obliged him again to flee. He had made 
 his way back to Seville, trusting that his past misdeeds 
 were forgotten, or rather trusting to his dare-devil 
 spirit and the power of his family, to carry him through 
 all difficulties. 
 
 " It was shortly after his return, and while in the 
 height of his arrogance, that on visiting this very con 
 vent of Francisco, he beheld on a monument the 
 equestrian statue of the murdered commander, who
 
 288 DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 
 
 had been buried within the walls of this sacred edifice, 
 where the family of Ulloa had a chapel. It was on this 
 occasion that Don Juan, in a moment of impious levity, 
 invited the statue to the banquet, the awful catastro 
 phe of which has given such celebrity to his story." 
 
 " And pray how much of this story," said I, " is be 
 lieved in Seville? " 
 
 " The whole of it by the populace, with whom it has 
 been a favorite tradition since time immemorial, and 
 who crowd to the theatres to see it represented in dra 
 mas written long since by Tyrso de Molina, and another 
 of our popular writers. Many in our higher ranks 
 also, accustomed from childhood to this story, would 
 feel somewhat indignant at hearing it treated with con 
 tempt. An attempt has been made to explain the whole, 
 by asserting that, to put an end to the extravagances 
 of Don Juan, and to pacify the family of Ulloa, with 
 out exposing the delinquent to the degrading penalties 
 of justice, he was decoyed into this convent under false 
 pretext, and either plunged into a perpetual dungeon, 
 or privately hurried out of existence; while the story 
 of the statue was circulated by the monks, to account 
 for his sudden disappearance. The populace, however, 
 are not to be cajoled out of a ghost-story by any of 
 these plausible explanations ; and the marble statue still 
 strides the stage, and Don Juan is still plunged into the 
 infernal regions, as an awful warning to all rake-helly 
 youngsters, in like case offending." 
 
 While my companion was relating these anecdotes, 
 we had traversed the exterior court-yard of the con 
 vent, and made our way into a great interior court, 
 partly surrounded by cloisters and dormitories, partly 
 by chapels, and having a large fountain in the centre. 
 The pile had evidently once been extensive and magnifi 
 cent ; but it was for the greater part in ruins. By the 
 light of the stars, and of twinkling lamps placed here 
 and there in the chapels and corridors, I could see that
 
 DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 289 
 
 many of the columns and arches were broken ; the walls 
 were rent and riven; while burnt beams and rafters 
 showed the destructive effects of fire. The whole place 
 had a desolate air; the night breeze rustled through 
 grass and weeds flaunting out of the crevices of the 
 walls, or from the shattered columns; the bat flitted 
 about the vaulted pasages, and the owl hooted from the 
 ruined belfry. Never was any scene more completely 
 fitted for a ghost-story. 
 
 While I was indulging in picturings of the fancy, 
 proper to such a place, the deep chant of the monks 
 from the convent church came swelling upon the ear. 
 " It is the vesper service," said my companion; " fol 
 low me." 
 
 Leading the way across the court of the cloisters, 
 and through one or two ruined passages, he reached 
 the portal of the church, and pushing open a wicket, 
 cut in the folding-doors, we found ourselves in the 
 deep arched vestibule of the sacred edifice. To our 
 left was the choir, forming one end of the church, and 
 having a low vaulted ceiling, which gave it the look of 
 a cavern. About this were ranged the monks, seated 
 on stools, and chanting from immense books placed on 
 music-stands, and having the notes scored in such 
 gigantic characters as to be legible from every part of 
 the choir. A few lights on these music-stands dimly 
 illumined the choir, gleamed on the shaven heads of 
 the monks, and threw their shadows on the walls. They 
 were gross, blue-bearded, bullet-headed men, with bass 
 voices, of deep metallic tone, that reverberated out of 
 the cavernous choir. 
 
 To our right extended the great body of the church. 
 It was spacious and lofty ; some of the side chapels had 
 gilded grates, and were decorated with images and 
 paintings, representing the sufferings of our Saviour. 
 Aloft was a great painting by Murillo, but too much in 
 the dark to be distinguished. The gloom of the whole 
 
 19
 
 290 DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 
 
 church was but faintly relieved by the reflected light 
 from the choir, and the glimmering here and there of 
 a votive lamp before the shrine of the saint. 
 
 As my eye roamed about the shadowy pile, it was 
 struck with the dimly seen figure of a man on horse 
 back, near a distant altar. I touched my companion, 
 and pointed to it : " The spectre statue ! " said I. 
 
 " No," replied he ; " it is the statue of the blessed 
 St. lago; the statue of the commander was in the 
 cemetery of the convent, and was destroyed at the time 
 of the conflagration. But," added he, " as I see you 
 take a proper interest in these kind of stories, come 
 with me to the other end of the church, where our 
 whisperings will not disturb these holy fathers at their 
 devotions, and I will tell you another story, that has 
 been current for some generations in our city, by which 
 you will find that Don Juan is not the only libertine 
 that has been the object of supernatural castigation in 
 Seville." 
 
 I accordingly followed him with noiseless tread to 
 the farther part of the church, where we took our seats 
 on the steps of an altar opposite to the suspicious-look 
 ing figure on horseback, and there, in a low mysterious 
 voice, he related to me the following narrative : 
 
 " There was once in Seville a gay young fellow, Don 
 Manuel de Manara by name, who, having come to a 
 great estate by the death of his father, gave the reins 
 to his passions, and plunged into all kinds of dissipa 
 tion. Like Don Juan, whom he seemed to have taken 
 for a model, he became famous for his enterprises 
 among the fair sex, and was the cause of doors being 
 barred and windows grated with more than usual strict 
 ness. All in vain. No balcony was too high for him 
 to scale : no bolt nor bar was proof against his efforts ; 
 and his very name was a word of terror to all the jeal 
 ous husbands and cautious fathers of Seville. His ex-
 
 DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 291 
 
 ploits extended to country as well as city; and in the 
 village dependent on his castle, scarce a rural beauty 
 was safe from his arts and enterprises. 
 
 " As he was one day ranging the streets of Seville, 
 with several of his dissolute companions, he beheld a 
 procession, about to enter the gate of a convent. In 
 the centre was a young female, arrayed in the dress 
 of a bride ; it was a novice, who, having accomplished 
 her year of probation, was about to take the black veil, 
 and consecrate herself to heaven. The companions of 
 Don Manuel drew back, out of respect to the sacred 
 pageant; but he pressed forward, with his usual im 
 petuosity, to gain a near view of the novice. He al 
 most jostled her, in passing through the portal of the 
 church, when, on her turning round, he beheld the 
 countenance of a beautiful village girl, who had been 
 the object of his ardent pursuit, but who had been 
 spirited secretly out of his reach by her relatives. She 
 recognized him at the same moment, and fainted, but 
 was borne within the grate of the chapel. It was sup 
 posed the agitation of the ceremony and the heat of the 
 throng had overcome her. After some time, the curtain 
 which hung within the grate was drawn up: there 
 stood the novice, pale and trembling, surrounded by the 
 abbess and the nuns. The ceremony proceeded; the 
 crown of flowers was taken from her head, she was 
 shorn of her silken tresses, received the black veil, and 
 went passively through the remainder of the ceremony. 
 
 " Don Manuel de Manara, on the contrary, was 
 roused to fury at the sight of this sacrifice. His pas 
 sion, which had almost faded away in the absence of the 
 object, now glowed with tenfold ardor, being inflamed 
 by the difficulties placed in his way, and piqued by the 
 measures which had been taken to defeat him. Never 
 had the object of his pursuit appeared so lovely and 
 desirable as when within the grate of the convent ; and 
 he swore to have her, in defiance of heaven and earth.
 
 292 DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 
 
 By dint of bribing a female servant of the convent, he 
 contrived to convey letters to her, pleading his passion 
 in the most eloquent and seductive terms. How suc 
 cessful they were, is only matter of conjecture; certain 
 it is, he undertook one night to scale the garden-wall 
 of the convent, either to carry off the nun, or gain ad 
 mission to her cell. Just as he was mounting the wall, 
 he was suddenly plucked back, and a stranger, muffled 
 in a cloak, stood before him. 
 
 " ' Rash man, forbear ! ' cried he : 'is it not enough 
 to have violated all human ties? Wouldst thou steal 
 a bride from heaven ! ' 
 
 " The sword of Don Manuel had been drawn on 
 the instant, and furious at this interruption, he passed 
 it through the body of the stranger, who fell dead at 
 his feet. Hearing approaching footsteps, he fled the 
 fatal spot, and mounting his horse, which was at hand, 
 retreated to his estate in the country, at no great dis 
 tance from Seville. Here he remained throughout the 
 next day, full of horror and remorse, dreading lest he 
 should be known as the murderer of the deceased, and 
 fearing each moment the arrival of the officers of 
 justice. 
 
 " The day passed, however, without molestation ; 
 and, as the evening advanced, unable any longer to en 
 dure this state of uncertainty and apprehension, he 
 ventured back to Seville. Irresistibly his footsteps took 
 the direction of the convent, but he paused and hovered 
 at a distance from the scene of blood. Several persons 
 were gathered round the place, one of whom was busy 
 nailing something against the convent-wall. After a 
 while they dispersed, and one passed near to Don 
 Manuel. The latter addressed him, with hesitating 
 voice. 
 
 " ' Sefior,' said he, ' may I ask the reason of yonder 
 throng ? ' 
 
 " ' A cavalier/ replied the other, * has been murdered.'
 
 DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 293 
 
 " ' Murdered ! ' echoed Don Manuel ; ' and can you 
 tell me his name? ' 
 
 " ' Don Manuel de Manara/ replied the stranger, 
 and passed on. 
 
 " Don Manuel was startled at this mention of his 
 own name, especially when applied to the murdered 
 man. He ventured, when it was entirely deserted, to 
 approach the fatal spot. A small cross had been nailed 
 against the wall, as is customary in Spain, to mark the 
 place where a murder has been committed; and just 
 below it he read, by the twinkling light of a lamp: 
 ' Here was murdered Don Manuel de Manara. Pray 
 to God for his soul ! ' 
 
 " Still more confounded and perplexed by this in 
 scription, he wandered about the streets until the night 
 was far advanced, and all was still and lonely. As he 
 entered the principal square, the light of torches sud 
 denly broke on him, and he beheld a grand funeral 
 procession moving across it. There was a great train 
 of priests, and many persons of dignified appearance, 
 in ancient Spanish dresses, attending as mourners, none 
 of whom he knew. Accosting a servant who followed 
 in the train, he demanded the name of the defunct. 
 
 " ' Don Manuel de Manara,' was the reply ; and it 
 went cold to his heart. He looked, and indeed beheld 
 the armorial bearings of his family emblazoned on the 
 funeral escutcheons. Yet not one of his family was 
 to be seen among the mourners. The mystery was 
 more and more incomprehensible. 
 
 " He followed the procession as it moved on to the 
 cathedral. The bier was deposited before the high 
 altar; the funeral service was commenced, and the 
 grand organ began to peal through the vaulted aisles. 
 
 " Again the youth ventured to question this awful 
 pageant. ' Father,' said he, with trembling voice, to 
 one of the priests, ' who is this you are about to inter ? ' 
 
 " ' Don Manuel de Manara ! ' replied the priest.
 
 294 DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 
 
 " ' Father/ cried Don Manuel, impatiently, ' you are 
 deceived. This is some imposture. Know that Don 
 Manuel de Manara is alive and well, and now stands 
 before you. / am Don Manuel de Manara ! ' 
 
 " * Avaunt, rash youth ! ' cried the priest ; ' know 
 that Don Manuel de Manara is dead ! is dead ! is 
 dead ! and we are all souls from purgatory, his de 
 ceased relatives and ancestors, and others that have 
 been aided by masses from his family, who are per 
 mitted to come here and pray for the repose of his 
 soul!' 
 
 " Don Manuel cast round a fearful glance upon the 
 assemblage, in antiquated Spanish garbs, and recog 
 nized in their pale and ghastly countenances the por 
 traits of many an ancestor that hung in the family 
 picture-gallery. He now lost all self-command, rushed 
 up to the bier, and beheld the counterpart of himself, 
 but in the fixed and livid lineaments of death. Just at 
 that moment the whole choir burst forth with a ' Requi- 
 escat in pace' that shook the vaults of the cathedral. 
 Don Manuel sank senseless on the pavement. He was 
 found there early the next morning by the sacristan, 
 and conveyed to his home. When sufficiently recov 
 ered, he sent for a friar, and made a full confession of 
 all that had happened. 
 
 " ' My son,' said the friar, ' all this is a miracle and 
 a mystery intended for thy conversion and salvation. 
 The corpse thou hast seen was a token that thou hadst 
 died to sin and the world; take warning by it, and 
 henceforth live to righteousness and heaven ! ' 
 
 " Don Manuel did take warning by it. Guided by 
 the counsels of the worthy friar, he disposed of all his 
 temporal affairs; dedicated the greater part of his 
 wealth to pious uses, especially to the performance of 
 masses for souls in purgatory; and finally, entering a 
 convent, became one of the most zealous and exem 
 plary monks in Seville."
 
 DON JUAN: A SPECTRAL RESEARCH 295 
 
 While my companion was relating this story, my 
 eyes wandered, from time to time, about the dusky 
 church. Methought the burly countenances of the 
 monks in the distant choir assumed a pallid, ghastly 
 hue, and their deep metallic voices a sepulchral sound. 
 By the time the story was ended, they had ended their 
 chant; and, extinguishing their lights, glided one by 
 one, like shadows, through a small door in the side of 
 the choir. A deeper gloom prevailed over the church; 
 the figure opposite me on horseback grew more and 
 more spectral ; and I almost expected to see it bow its 
 head. 
 
 " It is time to be off," said my companion, " unless 
 we intend to sup with the statue." 
 
 " I have no relish for such fare nor such company," 
 replied I ; and following my companion, we groped our 
 way through the mouldering cloisters. As we passed 
 by the ruined cemetery, keeping up a casual conversa 
 tion, by way of dispelling the loneliness of the scene, 
 I called to mind the words of the poet : 
 
 The tombs 
 
 And monumental caves of death look cold, 
 And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart ! 
 Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice ; 
 Nay, speak and let me hear thy voice ; 
 Mine own affrights me with its echoes. 
 
 There wanted nothing but the marble statue of the 
 commander, striding along the echoing cloisters, to 
 complete the haunted scene. 
 
 Since that time, I never fail to attend the theatre 
 whenever the story of Don Juan is represented, whether 
 in pantomime or opera. In the sepulchral scene, I feel 
 myself quite at home; and when the statue makes his 
 appearance, I greet him as an old acquaintance. When 
 the audience applaud, I look round upon them with a 
 degree of compassion. " Poor souls ! " I say to myself, 
 "they think they are pleased; they think they enjoy
 
 296 THE ENGULPHED CONVENT 
 
 this piece, and yet they consider the whole as a fiction ! 
 How much more would they enjoy it, if, like me, they 
 knew it to be true and had seen the very place! " 
 
 LEGEND OF THE ENGULPHED 
 CONVENT 
 
 AT the dark and melancholy period when Don Roderick 
 the Goth and his chivalry were overthrown on the 
 banks of the Guadalete, and all Spain was overrun by 
 the Moors, great was the devastation of churches and 
 convents throughout that pious kingdom. The miracu 
 lous fate of one of those holy piles is thus recorded in 
 an authentic legend of those days. 
 
 On the summit of a hill, not very distant from the 
 capital city of Toledo, stood an ancient convent and 
 chapel, dedicated to the invocation of Saint Benedict, 
 and inhabited by a sisterhood of Benedictine nuns. 
 This holy asylum w r as confined to females of noble line 
 age. The younger sisters of the highest families were 
 here given in religious marriage to their Saviour, in 
 order that the portions of their elder sisters might be 
 increased, and they enabled to make suitable matches 
 on earth; or that the family wealth might go undi 
 vided to elder brothers, and the dignity of their ancient 
 houses be protected from decay. The convent was re 
 nowned, therefore, for enshrining within its walls a 
 sisterhood of the purest blood, the most immaculate 
 virtue, and most resplendent beauty, of all Gothic 
 Spain. 
 
 When the Moors overran the kingdom, there was 
 nothing that more excited their hostility, than these 
 virgin asylums. The very sight of a convent-spire was 
 sufficient to set their Moslem blood in a foment, and
 
 THE ENGULPHED CONVENT 297 
 
 they sacked it with as fierce a zeal as though the sack 
 ing of a nunnery were a sure passport to Elysium. 
 
 Tidings of such outrages, committed in various parts 
 of the kingdom, reached this noble sanctuary, and filled 
 it with dismay. The danger came nearer and nearer; 
 the infidel hosts were spreading all over the country; 
 Toledo itself was captured; there was no flying from 
 the convent, and no security within its walls. 
 
 In the midst of this agitation, the alarm was given 
 one day, that a great band of Saracens were spurring 
 across the plain. In an instant the whole convent was 
 a scene of confusion. Some of the nuns wrung their 
 fair hands at the windows; others waved their veils, 
 and uttered shrieks, from the tops of the towers, vainly 
 hoping to draw relief from a country overrun by the 
 foe. The sight of these innocent doves thus fluttering 
 about their dove-cote, but increased the zealot fury of 
 the whiskered Moors. They thundered at the portal, 
 and at every blow the ponderous gates trembled on 
 their hinges. 
 
 The nuns now crowded round the abbess. They had 
 been accustomed to look up to her as all-powerful, and 
 they now implored her protection. The mother abbess 
 looked with a rueful eye upon the treasures of beauty 
 and vestal virtue exposed to such imminent peril. 
 Alas! how was she to protect them from the spoiler! 
 She had, it is true, experienced many signal interposi 
 tions of Providence in her individual favor. Her early 
 days had been passed amid the temptations of a court, 
 where her virtue had been purified by repeated trials, 
 from none of which had she escaped but by miracle. 
 But were miracles never to cease ? Could she hope that 
 the marvellous protection shown to herself, would be 
 extended to a whole sisterhood? There was no other 
 resource. The Moors were at the threshold; a few 
 moments more, and the convent would be at their 
 mercy. Summoning her nuns to follow her, she hur-
 
 298 THE ENGULPHED CONVENT 
 
 ried into the chapel, and throwing herself on her knees 
 before the image of the blessed Mary, " Oh, holy 
 Lady! " exclaimed she, " oh, most pure and immaculate 
 of virgins! thou seest our extremity. The ravager is 
 at the gate, and there is none on earth to help us ! Look 
 down with pity, and grant that the earth may gape and 
 swallow us, rather than that our cloister vows should 
 suffer violation ! " 
 
 The Moors redoubled their assault upon the portal; 
 the gates gave way, with a tremendous crash ; a savage 
 yell of exultation arose; when of a sudden the earth 
 yawned, down sank the convent, with its cloisters, its 
 dormitories, and all its nuns. The chapel tower was 
 the last that sank, the bell ringing forth a peal of 
 triumph in the very teeth of the infidels. 
 
 Forty years had passed and gone, since the period 
 of this miracle. The subjugation of Spain was com 
 plete. The Moors lorded it over city and country ; and 
 such of the Christian population as remained, and were 
 permitted to exercise their religion, did it in humble 
 resignation to the Moslem sway. 
 
 At this time, a Christian cavalier of Cordova, hear 
 ing that a patriotic band of his countrymen had raised 
 the standard of the cross in the mountains of the 
 Asturias, resolved to join them, and unite in breaking 
 the yoke of bondage. Secretly arming himself and 
 caparisoning his steed, he set forth from Cordova, and 
 pursued his course by unfrequented mule-paths, and 
 along the dry channels made by winter torrents. His 
 spirit burned with indignation, whenever, on command 
 ing a view over a long sweeping plain, he beheld the 
 mosque swelling in the distance, and the Arab horse 
 men careering about, as if the rightful lords of the soil. 
 Many a deep-drawn sigh and heavy groan, also, did the 
 good cavalier utter, on passing the ruins of churches 
 and convents desolated by the conquerors.
 
 THE ENGULPHED CONVENT 299 
 
 It was on a sultry midsummer evening, that this 
 wandering cavalier, in skirting a hill thickly covered 
 with forest, heard the faint tones of a vesper-bell 
 sounding melodiously in the air, and seeming to come 
 from the summit of the hill. The cavalier crossed him 
 self with wonder at this unwonted and Christian sound. 
 He supposed it to proceed from one of those humble 
 chapels and hermitages permitted to exist through the 
 indulgence of the Moslem conquerors. Turning his 
 steed up a narrow path of the forest, he sought this 
 sanctuary, in hopes of finding a hospitable shelter for 
 the night. As he advanced, the trees threw a deep 
 gloom around him, and the bat flitted across his path. 
 The bell ceased to toll, and all was silence. 
 
 Presently a choir of female voices came stealing 
 sweetly through the forest, chanting the evening ser 
 vice, to the solemn accompaniment of an organ. The 
 heart of the good cavalier melted at the sound, for it 
 recalled the happier days of his country. Urging for 
 ward his weary steed, he at length arrived at a broad 
 grassy area, on the summit of the hill, surrounded by 
 the forest. Here the melodious voices rose in full 
 chorus, like the swelling of the breeze; but whence 
 they came, he could not tell. Sometimes they were 
 before, sometimes behind him; sometimes in the air, 
 sometimes as if from within the bosom of the earth. 
 At length they died away, and a holy stillness settled 
 on the place. 
 
 The cavalier gazed around with bewildered eye. 
 There was neither chapel nor convent, nor humble her 
 mitage, to be seen; nothing but a moss-grown stone 
 pinnacle, rising out of the centre of the area, sur 
 mounted by a cross. The green sward appeared to 
 have been sacred from the tread of man or beast, and 
 the surrounding trees bent toward the cross, as if in 
 adoration. 
 
 The cavalier felt a sensation of holy awe. He
 
 300 THE ENGULPHED CONVENT 
 
 alighted, and tethered his steed on the skirts of the 
 forest, where he might crop the tender herbage; then 
 approaching the cross, he knelt and poured forth his 
 evening prayers. be fore this relic of the Christian days 
 of Spain. His orisons being concluded, he laid himself 
 down at the foot of the pinnacle, and reclining his 
 head against one of its stones, fell into a deep sleep. 
 
 About midnight he was awakened by the tolling of 
 a bell, and found himself lying before the gate of an 
 ancient convent. A train of nuns passed by, each bear 
 ing a taper. He rose and followed them into the 
 chapel ; in the centre was a bier, on which lay the 
 corpse of an aged nun. The organ performed a solemn 
 requiem, the nuns joining in chorus. When the 
 funeral service was finished, a melodious voice 
 chanted, " Requiescat in pace! " " May she rest in 
 peace ! " The lights immediately vanished ; the whole 
 passed away as a dream ; and the cavalier found him 
 self at the foot of the cross, and beheld, by the faint 
 rays of the rising moon, his steed quietly grazing near 
 him. 
 
 When the day dawned, he descended the hill, and 
 following the course of a small brook, came to a cave, 
 at the entrance of which was seated an ancient man, in 
 hermit's garb, with rosary and cross, and a beard that 
 descended to his girdle. He was one of those holy an 
 chorites permitted by the Moors to live unmolested in 
 the dens and caves, and humble hermitages, and even 
 to practise the rites of their religion. The cavalier, dis 
 mounting, knelt and craved a benediction. He then 
 related all that had befallen him in the night, and be 
 sought the hermit to explain the mystery. 
 
 " What thou hast heard and seen, my son," replied 
 the other, " is but a type and shadow of the woes of 
 Spain." 
 
 He then related the foregoing story of the miracu 
 lous deliverance of the convent.
 
 THE ENGULPHED CONVENT 301 
 
 " Forty years," added the holy man, " have elapsed 
 since this event, yet the bells of that sacred edifice are 
 still heard, from time to time, sounding from under 
 ground, together with the pealing of the organ and the 
 chanting of the choir. The Moors avoid this neighbor 
 hood, as haunted ground, and the whole place, as thou 
 mayest perceive, has become covered with a thick and 
 lonely forest." 
 
 The cavalier listened with wonder to the story. For 
 three days and nights did he keep vigils with the holy 
 man beside the cross ; but nothing more was to be seen 
 of nun or convent. It is supposed that, forty years 
 having elapsed, the natural lives of all the nuns were 
 finished, and the cavalier had beheld the obsequies of 
 the last. Certain it is, that from that time, bell, and 
 organ, and choral chant, have never more been heard. 
 
 The mouldering pinnacle, surmounted by the cross, 
 remains an object of pious pilgrimage. Some say that 
 it anciently stood in front of the convent, but others 
 that it was the spire which remained above ground, 
 when the main body of the building sank, like the top 
 mast of some tall ship that has foundered. These pious 
 believers maintain that the convent is miraculously pre 
 served entire in the centre of the mountain, where, if 
 proper excavations were made, it would be found, with 
 all its treasures, and monuments, and shrines, and 
 relics, and the tombs of its virgin nuns. 
 
 Should any one doubt the truth of this marvellous 
 interposition of the Virgin, to protect the vestal purity 
 of her votaries, let him read the excellent work entitled 
 " Espana Triumphante," written by Fray Antonio de 
 Sancta Maria, a barefoot friar of the Carmelite order, 
 and he will doubt no longer.
 
 302 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 Break, Phantsie, from thy cave of cloud, 
 
 And wave thy purple wings, 
 Now all thy figures are allowed, 
 And various shapes of things. 
 Create of airy forms a stream; 
 
 It must have blood and naught of phlegm; 
 And though it be a walking dream, 
 Yet let it like an odor rise 
 
 To all the senses here, 
 And fall like sleep upon their eyes, 
 Or music on their ear. 
 
 BEN JONSON 
 
 " THERE are more things in heaven and earth than are 
 dreamed of in our philosophy," and among these may 
 be placed that marvel and mystery of the seas, the 
 Island of St. Brandan. Those who have read the his 
 tory of the Canaries, the fortunate islands of the an 
 cients, may remember the wonders told of this enigmat 
 ical island. Occasionally it would be visible from their 
 shores, stretching away in the clear bright west, to all 
 appearance substantial like themselves, and still more 
 beautiful. Expeditions would launch forth from the 
 Canaries to explore this land of promise. For a time 
 its sun-gilt peaks and long, shadowy promontories 
 would remain distinctly visible, but in proportion as 
 the voyagers approached, peak and promontory would 
 gradually fade away until nothing would remain but 
 blue sky above and deep blue water below. Hence this 
 mysterious isle was stigmatized by ancient cosmogra- 
 phers with the name of Aprositus or the Inaccessible. 
 The failure of numerous expeditions sent in quest of it, 
 both in ancient and modern days, have at length caused 
 its very existence to be called in question, and it has 
 been rashly pronounced a mere optical illusion, like the
 
 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 303 
 
 Fata Morgana of the Straits of Messina, or has been 
 classed with those unsubstantial regions known to 
 mariners as Cape Fly Away and the coast of Cloud 
 Land. 
 
 Let us not permit, however, the doubts of worldly- 
 wise sceptics to rob us of all the glorious realms owned 
 by happy credulity in days of yore. Be assured, O 
 reader of easy faith ! thou for whom it is my de 
 light to labor be assured that such an island actually 
 exists, and has from time to time been revealed to the 
 gaze and trodden by the feet of favored mortals. His 
 torians and philosophers may have their doubts, but 
 its existence has been fully attested by that inspired 
 race, the poets; who, being gifted with a kind of sec 
 ond sight, are enabled to discern those mysteries of 
 nature hidden from the eyes of ordinary men. To this 
 gifted race it has ever been a kind of wonder-land. 
 Here once bloomed, and perhaps still blooms, the 
 famous garden of the Hesperides, with its golden fruit. 
 Here, too, the sorceress Armida had her enchanted gar 
 den, in which she held the Christian paladin, Rinaldo, 
 in delicious but inglorious thraldom, as set forth in the 
 immortal lay of Tasso. It was in this island that 
 Sycorax the witch held sway, when the good Prospero 
 and his infant daughter Miranda were wafted to its 
 shores. Who does not know the tale as told in the 
 magic page of Shakspeare? The isle was then 
 
 full of noises, 
 
 Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. 
 
 The island, in fact at different times, has been under 
 the sway of different powers, genii of earth, and air, 
 and ocean, who have made it their shadowy abode. 
 Hither have retired many classic but broken down 
 deities, shorn of almost all their attributes, but who 
 once ruled the poetic world. Here Neptune and Am- 
 phitrite hold a diminished court, sovereigns in exile.
 
 304 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 Their ocean-chariot, almost a wreck, lies bottom up 
 ward in some sea-beaten cavern; their pursy Tritons 
 and haggard Nereids bask listlessly like seals about 
 the rocks. Sometimes those deities assume, it is said, 
 a shadow of their ancient pomp, and glide in state about 
 a summer sea; and then, as some tall Indiaman lies 
 becalmed with idly flapping sail, her drowsy crew may 
 hear the mellow note of the Triton's shell swelling upon 
 the ear as the invisible pageant sweeps by. 
 
 On the shores of this wrondrous isle the kraken 
 heaves its unwieldy bulk and wallows many a rood. 
 Here the sea-serpent, that mighty but much contested 
 reptile, lies coiled up during the intervals of its revela 
 tions to the eyes of true believers. Here even the Fly 
 ing Dutchman finds a port, and casts his anchor, and 
 furls his shadowy sail, and takes a brief repose from 
 his eternal cruisings. 
 
 In the deep bays and harbors of the island lies many 
 a spellbound ship, long since given up as lost by the 
 ruined merchant. Here, too, its crew, long, long be 
 wailed in vain, lie sleeping from age to age in mossy 
 grottoes, or wander about in pleasing oblivion of all 
 things. Here in caverns are garnered up the priceless 
 treasures lost in the ocean. Here sparkles in vain the 
 diamond and flames the carbuncle. Here are piled up 
 rich bales of Oriental silks, boxes of pearls, and piles 
 of golden ingots. 
 
 Such are some of the marvels related of this island, 
 which may serve to throw light upon the following 
 legend, of unquestionable truth, which I recommend to 
 the implicit belief of the reader.
 
 ADALANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 305 
 THE ADALANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. BRANDAN 
 
 In the early part of the fifteenth century, when Prince 
 Henry of Portugal, of worthy memory, was pushing 
 the career of discovery along the western coast of 
 Africa, and the world was resounding with reports of 
 golden regions on the mainland, and new-found islands 
 in the ocean, there arrived at Lisbon an old bewildered 
 pilot of the seas, who had been driven by tempests, he 
 knew not whither, and raved about an island far in the 
 deep, upon which he had landed, and which he had 
 found peopled with Christians, and adorned with noble 
 cities. 
 
 The inhabitants, he said, having never before been 
 visited by a ship, gathered round, and regarded him 
 with surprise. They told him they were descendants 
 of a band of Christians, who fled from Spain when 
 that country was conquered by the Moslems. They 
 were curious about the state of their fatherland, and 
 grieved to hear that the Moslems still held possession 
 of the kingdom of Granada. They would have taken 
 the old navigator to church, to convince him of their 
 orthodoxy; but, either through lack of devotion, or 
 lack of faith in their words, he declined their invitation, 
 and preferred to return on board of his ship. He was 
 properly punished. A furious storm arose, drove him 
 from his anchorage, hurried him out to sea, and he 
 saw no more of the unknown island. 
 
 This strange story caused great marvel in Lisbon 
 and elsewhere. Those versed in history remembered 
 to have read, in an ancient chronicle, that, at the time 
 of the conquest of Spain, in the eighth century, when 
 the blessed cross was cast down, and the crescent 
 erected in its place, and when Christian churches were
 
 3 o6 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 turned into Moslem mosques, seven bishops, at the head 
 of seven bands of pious exiles, had fled from the pe 
 ninsula, and embarked in quest of some ocean island, or 
 distant land, where they might found seven Christian 
 cities, and enjoy their faith unmolested. 
 
 The fate of these saints errant had hitherto remained 
 a mystery, and their story had faded from memory; 
 the report of the old tempest-tossed pilot, however, re 
 vived this long- forgotten theme ; and it was determined 
 by the pious and enthusiastic, that the island thus ac 
 cidentally discovered was the identical place of refuge 
 whither the wandering bishops had been guided by a 
 protecting Providence, and where they had folded their 
 flocks. 
 
 This most excitable of worlds has always some dar 
 ling object of chimerical enterprise ; the " Island of the 
 Seven Cities " now awakened as much interest and 
 longing among zealous Christians as has the renowned 
 city of Timbuctoo among adventurous travellers, or 
 the Northeast passage among hardy navigators; and 
 it was a frequent prayer of the devout, that these scat 
 tered and lost portions of the Christian family might 
 be discovered and reunited to the great body of 
 Christendom. 
 
 No one, however, entered into the matter with half 
 the zeal of Don Fernando de Ulmo, a young cavalier 
 of high standing in the Portuguese court, and of most 
 sanguine and romantic temperament. He had recently 
 come to his estate, and had run the round of all kinds 
 of pleasures and excitements when this new theme of 
 popular talk and wonder presented itself. The Island 
 of the Seven Cities became now the constant subject of 
 his thoughts by day, and his dreams by night ; it even 
 rivalled his passion for a beautiful girl, one of the 
 greatest belles of Lisbon, to whom he was betrothed. 
 At length his imagination became so inflamed on the 
 subject, that he determined to fit out an expedition, at
 
 ADALANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 307 
 
 his own expense, and set sail in quest of this sainted 
 island. It could not be a cruise of any great extent; 
 for, according to the calculations of the tempest-tossed 
 pilot, it must be somewhere in the latitude of the 
 Canaries ; which at that time, when the new world was 
 as yet undiscovered, formed the frontier of ocean en 
 terprise. Don Fernando applied to the crown for 
 countenance and protection. As he was a favorite at 
 court, the usual patronage was readily extended to him ; 
 that is to say, he received a commission from the king, 
 Don loam II., constituting him Adalantado, or mili 
 tary governor, of any country he might discover, with 
 the single proviso, that he should bear all the expenses 
 of the discovery, and pay a tenth of the profits to the 
 crown. 
 
 Don Fernando now set to work in the true spirit of 
 a projector. He sold acre after acre of solid land, and 
 invested the proceeds in ships, guns, ammunition, and 
 sea-stores. Even his old family mansion in Lisbon was 
 mortgaged without scruple, for he looked forward to 
 a palace in one of the Seven Cities, of which he was 
 to be Adalantado. This was the age of nautical 
 romance, when the thoughts of all speculative dreamers 
 were turned to the ocean. The scheme of Don Fer 
 nando, therefore, drew adventurers of every kind. The 
 merchant promised himself new marts of opulent 
 traffic ; the soldier hoped to sack and plunder some one 
 or other of those Seven Cities; even the fat monk 
 shook off the sleep and sloth of the cloister, to join in 
 a crusade which promised such increase to the posses 
 sions of the Church. 
 
 One person alone regarded the whole project with 
 sovereign contempt and growling hostility. This was 
 Don Ramiro Alvarez, the father of the beautiful Sera- 
 fina, to whom Don Fernando was betrothed. He was 
 one of those perverse, matter-of-fact old men, who 
 are prone to oppose everything speculative and ro-
 
 308 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 mantic. He had no faith in the Island of the Seven 
 Cities; regarded the projected cruise as a crack- 
 brained freak; looked with angry eye and internal 
 heart-burning on the conduct of his intended son-in- 
 law, chaffering away solid lands for lands in the moon ; 
 and scoffingly dubbed him Adalantado of Cloud Land. 
 In fact, he had never really relished the intended 
 match, to which his consent had been slowly extorted 
 by the tears and entreaties of his daughter. It is true 
 he could have no reasonable objections to the youth, for 
 Don Fernando was the very flower of Portuguese 
 chivalry. No one could excel him at the tilting match, 
 or the riding at the ring; none was more bold and 
 dexterous in the bull fight; none composed more gal 
 lant madrigals in praise of his lady's charms, or sang 
 them with sweeter tones to the accompaniment of her 
 guitar; nor could any one handle the castanets and 
 dance the bolero with more captivating grace. All 
 these admirable qualities and endowments, however, 
 though they had been sufficient to win the heart of 
 Serafma, were nothing in the eyes of her unreasonable 
 father. Oh Cupid, god of Love ! why will fathers al 
 ways be so unreasonable? 
 
 The engagement to Serafina had threatened at first 
 to throw an obstacle in the way of the expedition of 
 Don Fernando, and for a time perplexed him in the ex 
 treme. He was passionately attached to the young 
 lady; but he was also passionately bent on this ro 
 mantic enterprise. How should he reconcile the two 
 passionate inclinations? A simple and obvious ar 
 rangement at length presented itself, marry Sera 
 fina, enjoy a portion of the honeymoon at once, and 
 defer the rest until his return from the discovery of the 
 Seven Cities ! 
 
 He hastened to make known this most excellent ar 
 rangement to Don Ramiro, when the long-smothered 
 wrath of the old cavalier burst forth. He reproached
 
 ADALANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 309 
 
 him with being the dupe of wandering vagabonds and 
 wild schemers, and with squandering all his real posses 
 sions, in pursuit of empty bubbles. Don Fernando was 
 too sanguine a projector, and too young a man, to listen 
 tamely to such language. He acted with what is tech 
 nically called " becoming spirit." A high quarrel en 
 sued; Don Ramiro pronounced him a madman, and 
 forbade all farther intercourse with his daughter until 
 he should give proof of returning sanity by abandon 
 ing this madcap enterprise ; while Don Fernando flung 
 out of the house, more bent than ever on the expedition, 
 from the idea of triumphing over the incredulity of the 
 graybeard, when he should return successful. Don 
 Ramiro's heart misgave him. Who knows, thought 
 he, but this crack-brained visionary may persuade my 
 daughter to elope with him, and share his throne in 
 this unknown paradise of fools? If I could only keep 
 her safe until his ships are fairly out at sea ! 
 
 He repaired to her apartment, represented to her 
 the sanguine, unsteady character of her lover and the 
 chimerical value of his schemes, and urged the pro 
 priety of suspending all intercourse with him until he 
 should recover from his present hallucination. She 
 bowed her head as if in filial acquiescence, whereupon 
 he folded her to his bosom with parental fondness and 
 kissed away a tear that was stealing over her cheek, but 
 as he left the chamber quietly turned the key on the 
 lock ; for though he was a fond father and had a high 
 opinion of the submissive temper of his child, he had a 
 still higher opinion of the conservative virtues of lock 
 and key, and determined to trust to them until the 
 caravels should sail. Whether the damsel had been 
 in any wise shaken in her faith as to the schemes of her 
 lover by her father's eloquence, tradition does not say ; 
 but certain it is, that, the moment she heard the key 
 turn in the lock, she became a firm believer in the Island 
 of the Seven Cities.
 
 310 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 The door was locked; but her will was unconfined. 
 A window of the chamber opened into one of those 
 stone balconies, secured by iron bars, which project 
 like huge cages from Portuguese and Spanish houses. 
 Within this balcony the beautiful Serafina had her birds 
 and flowers, and here she was accustomed to sit on 
 moonlight nights as in a bower, and touch her guitar 
 and sing like a wakeful nightingale. From this bal 
 cony an intercourse was now maintained between the 
 lovers, against which the lock and key of Don Ramiro 
 were of no avail. All day would Fernando be occu 
 pied hurrying the equipments of his ships, but evening 
 found him in sweet discourse beneath his lady's 
 window. 
 
 At length the preparations were completed. Two 
 gallant caravels lay at anchor in the Tagus ready to 
 sail at sunrise. Late at night by the pale light of a 
 waning moon the lover had his last interview. The 
 beautiful Serafina was sad at heart and full of dark 
 forebodings; her lover full of hope and confidence. 
 " A few short months," said he, " and I shall return 
 in triumph. Thy father will then blush at his incre 
 dulity, and hasten to welcome to his house the Adalan- 
 tado of the Seven Cities." 
 
 The gentle lady shook her head. It was not on this 
 point she felt distrust. She was a thorough believer 
 in the Island of the Seven Cities, and so sure of the 
 success of the enterprise that she might have been 
 tempted to join it had not the balcony been high and 
 the grating strong. Other considerations induced that 
 dubious shaking of the head. She had heard of the in 
 constancy of the seas, and the inconstancy of those 
 who roam them. Might not Fernando meet with other 
 loves in foreign ports? Might not some peerless 
 beauty in one or other of those Seven Cities efface the 
 image of Serafina from his mind? Now let the truth 
 be spoken, the beautiful Serafina had reason for her
 
 ADALANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 311 
 
 disquiet. If Don Fernando had any fault in the world, 
 it was that of being rather inflammable and apt to take 
 fire from every sparkling eye. He had been somewhat 
 of a rover among the sex on shore, what might he be 
 on sea? 
 
 She ventured to express her doubt, but he spurned at 
 the very idea. " What ! he false to Serafina ! He bow 
 at the shrine of another beauty ? Never ! never ! " Re 
 peatedly did he bend his knee, and smite his breast, and 
 call upon the silver moon to witness his sincerity and 
 truth. 
 
 He retorted the doubt, " Might not Serafina herself 
 forget her plighted faith? Might not some wealthier 
 rival present himself while he was tossing on the sea; 
 and, backed by her father's wishes, win the treasure 
 of her hand?" 
 
 The beautiful Serafina raised her white arms between 
 the iron bars of the balcony, and, like her lover, in 
 voked the moon to testify her vows. Alas! how little 
 did Fernando know her heart. The more her father 
 should oppose, the more would she be fixed in faith. 
 Though years should intervene, Fernando on his re 
 turn would find her true. Even should the salt sea 
 swallow him up (and her eyes shed salt tears at the 
 very thought), never would she be the wife of another ! 
 Never, never, NEVER ! She drew from her finger a ring 
 gemmed with a ruby heart, and dropped it from the 
 balcony, a parting pledge of constancy. 
 
 Thus the lovers parted with many a tender word and 
 plighted vow. But will they keep those vows ? Perish 
 the doubt ! Have they not called the constant moon to 
 witness ? 
 
 With the morning dawn the caravels dropped down 
 the Tagus, and put to sea. They steered for the Ca 
 naries, in those days the regions of nautical discovery 
 and romance, and the outposts of the known world, for 
 as yet Columbus had not steered his daring barks
 
 312 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 across the ocean. Scarce had they reached those lati 
 tudes when they were separated by a violent tempest. 
 For many days was the caravel of Don Fernando 
 driven about at the mercy of the elements ; all seaman 
 ship was baffled, destruction seemed inevitable and the 
 crew were in despair. All at once the storm subsided ; 
 the ocean sank into a calm; the clouds which had 
 veiled the face of heaven were suddenly withdrawn, 
 and the tempest-tossed mariners beheld a fair and 
 mountainous island, emerging as if by enchantment 
 from the murky gloom. They rubbed their eyes, and 
 gazed for a time almost incredulously, yet there lay the 
 island spread out in lovely landscapes, with the late 
 stormy sea laving its shores with peaceful billows. 
 
 The pilot of the caravel consulted his maps and 
 charts; no island like the one before him was laid 
 down as existing in those parts ; it is true he had lost 
 his reckoning in the late storm, but, according to his 
 calculations, he could not be far from the Canaries; 
 and this was not one of that group of islands. The 
 caravel now lay perfectly becalmed off the mouth of a 
 river, on the banks of which, about a league from the 
 sea, was descried a noble city, with lofty walls and 
 towers, and a protecting castle. 
 
 After a time, a stately barge with sixteen oars was 
 seen emerging from the river, and approaching the 
 caravel. It was quaintly carved and gilt ; the oarsmen 
 were clad in antique garb, their oars painted of a bright 
 crimson, and they came slowly and solemnly, keeping 
 time as they rowed to the cadence of an old Spanish 
 ditty. Under a silken canopy in the stern, sat a cavalier 
 richly clad, and over his head was a banner bearing 
 the sacred emblem of the cross. 
 
 When the barge reached the caravel, the cavalier 
 stepped on board. He was tall and gaunt ; with a long 
 Spanish visage, moustaches that curled up to his eyes, 
 and a forked beard. He wore gauntlets reaching to
 
 ADALANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 313 
 
 his elbows, a Toledo blade strutting out behind, with 
 a basket hilt, in which he carried his handkerchief. His 
 air was lofty and precise, and bespoke indisputably the 
 hidalgo. Thrusting out a long spindle leg, he took off 
 a huge sombrero, and swaying it until the feather swept 
 the ground, accosted Don Fernando in the old Castilian 
 language, and with the old Castilian courtesy, welcom 
 ing him to the Island of the Seven Cities. 
 
 Don Fernando was overwhelmed with astonishment. 
 Could this be true ? Had he really been tempest-driven 
 to the very land of which he was in quest? 
 
 It was even so. That very day the inhabitants were 
 holding high festival in commemoration of the escape 
 of their ancestors from the Moors. The arrival of the 
 caravel at such a juncture was considered a good omen, 
 the accomplishment of an ancient prophecy through 
 which the island was to be restored to the great com 
 munity of Christendom. The cavalier before him was 
 grand chamberlain, sent by the alcayde to invite him 
 to the festivities of the capital. 
 
 Don Fernando could scarce believe that this was not 
 all a dream. He made known his name and the object 
 of his voyage. The grand chamberlain declared that 
 all was in perfect accordance with the ancient prophecy, 
 and that the moment his credentials were presented, he 
 would be acknowledged as the Adalantado of the Seven 
 Cities. In the mean time the day was waning; the 
 barge was ready to convey him to the land, and would 
 as assuredly bring him back. 
 
 Don Fernando' s pilot, a veteran of the seas, drew 
 him aside and expostulated against his venturing, on 
 the mere word of a stranger, to land in a strange 
 barge on an unknown shore. " Who knows, Sefior, 
 what land this is, or what people inhabit it?" 
 
 Don Fernando was not to be dissuaded. Had he 
 not believed in this island when all the world doubted ? 
 Had he not sought it in defiance of storm and tempest,
 
 3H THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 and was he now to shrink from its shores when they 
 lay before him in calm weather? In a word, was not 
 faith the very corner-stone of his enterprise? 
 
 Having arrayed himself, therefore, in gala dress 
 befitting the occasion, he took his seat in the barge. 
 The grand chamberlain seated himself opposite. The 
 rowers plied their oars, and renewed the mournful 
 old ditty, and the gorgeous but unwieldy barge moved 
 slowly through the water. 
 
 The night closed in before they entered the river, 
 and swept along past rock and promontory, each 
 guarded by its tower. At every post they were chal 
 lenged by the sentinel. 
 
 "Who goes there?" 
 
 " The Adalantado of the Seven Cities." 
 
 " Welcome, Senor Adalantado. Pass on." 
 
 Entering the harbor they rowed close by an armed 
 galley of ancient form. Soldiers with crossbows 
 patrolled the deck. 
 
 "Who goes there?" 
 
 " The Adalantado of the Seven Cities." 
 
 " Welcome, Senor Adalantado. Pass on." 
 
 They landed at a broad flight of stone steps, leading 
 up between two massive towers, and knocked at the 
 water-gate. A sentinel, in ancient steel casque, looked 
 from the barbecan. 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 " The Adalantado of the Seven Cities." 
 
 " Welcome, Senor Adalantado." 
 
 The gate swung open, grating upon rusty hinges. 
 They entered between two rows of warriors in Gothic 
 armor, with crossbows, maces, battle-axes, and faces 
 old-fashioned as their armor. There were processions 
 through the streets, in commemoration of the landing 
 of the seven Bishops and their followers, and bonfires, 
 at which effigies of losel Moors expiated their invasion 
 of Christendom by a kind of auto-da-fe. The groups
 
 ADALANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 315 
 
 round the fires, uncouth in their attire, looked like the 
 fantastic figures that roam the streets in Carnival time. 
 Even the dames who gazed down from Gothic bal 
 conies hung with antique tapestry, resembled effigies 
 dressed up in Christmas mummeries. Everything, in 
 short, bore the stamp of former ages, as if the world 
 had suddenly rolled back for several centuries. Nor 
 was this to be wondered at. Had not the Island of 
 the Seven Cities been cut off from the rest of the 
 world for several hundred years; and were not these 
 the modes and customs of Gothic Spain before it was 
 conquered by the Moors ? 
 
 Arrived at the palace of the alcayde, the grand 
 chamberlain knocked at the portal. The porter looked 
 through a wicket, and demanded who was there. 
 
 " The Adalantado of the Seven Cities." 
 
 The portal was thrown wide open. The grand 
 chamberlain led the way up a vast, heavily moulded, 
 marble staircase, and into a hall of ceremony, where 
 was the alcayde with several of the principal digni 
 taries of the city, who had a marvellous resemblance, 
 in form and feature, to the quaint figures in old 
 illuminated manuscripts. 
 
 The grand chamberlain stepped forward and an 
 nounced the name and title of the stranger guest, and 
 the extraordinary nature of his mission. The an 
 nouncement appeared to create no extraordinary emo 
 tion or surprise, but to be received as the anticipated 
 fulfilment of a prophecy. 
 
 The reception of Don Fernando, however, was 
 profoundly gracious, though in the same style of stately 
 courtesy which everywhere prevailed. He would have 
 produced his credentials, but this was courteously de 
 clined. The evening was devoted to high festivity; 
 the following day, when he should enter the port with 
 his caravel, would be devoted to business, when the 
 credentials would be received in due form, and he
 
 316 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 inducted into office as Adalantado of the Seven 
 Cities. 
 
 Don Fernando was now conducted through one of 
 those interminable suites of apartments, the pride of 
 Spanish palaces, all furnished in a style of obsolete 
 magnificence. In a vast saloon, blazing with tapers, 
 was assembled all the aristocracy and fashion of the 
 city, stately dames and cavaliers, the very counter 
 part of the figures in the tapestry which decorated the 
 walls. Fernando gazed in silent marvel. It was a 
 reflex of the proud aristocracy of Spain in the time of 
 Roderick the Goth. 
 
 The festivities of the evening were all in the style 
 of solemn and antiquated ceremonial. There was a 
 dance, but it was as if the old tapestry were put in 
 motion, and all the figures moving in stately measure 
 about the floor. There was one exception, and one 
 that told powerfully upon the susceptible Adalantado. 
 The alcayde's daughter such a ripe, melting beauty ! 
 Her dress, it is true, like the dresses of her neighbors, 
 might have been worn before the flood, but she had 
 the black Andalusian eye, a glance of which, through 
 its long dark lashes, is irresistible. Her voice, too, 
 her manner, her undulating movements, all smacked 
 of Andalusia, and showed how female charms may 
 be transmitted from age to age, and clime to clime, 
 without ever going out of fashion. Those who know 
 the witchery of the sex, in that most amorous part of 
 amorous old Spain, may judge of the fascination to 
 which Don Fernando was exposed, as he joined in 
 the dance with one of its most captivating descendants. 
 
 He sat beside her at the banquet ! such an old-world 
 feast ! such obsolete dainties ! At the head of the table 
 the peacock, that bird of state and ceremony, was 
 served up in full plumage on a golden dish. As Don 
 Fernando cast his eyes down the glittering board, what 
 a vista presented itself of odd heads and head-dresses ;
 
 ADALANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 317 
 
 of formal bearded dignitaries and stately dames, with 
 castellated locks and towering plumes! Is it to be 
 wondered at -that he should turn with delight from 
 these antiquated figures to the alcayde's daughter, all 
 smiles and dimples, and melting looks and melting 
 accents? Beside, for I wish to give him every excuse 
 in my power, he was in a particularly excitable 
 mood from the novelty of the scene before him, from 
 this realization of all his hopes and fancies, and from 
 frequent draughts of the wine-cup presented to him 
 at every moment by officious pages during the banquet. 
 
 In a word there is no concealing the matter 
 before the evening was over, Don Fernando was 
 making love outright to the alcayde's daughter. They 
 had wandered together to a moon-lit balcony of the 
 palace, and he was charming her ear with one of 
 those love-ditties with which, in a like balcony, he had 
 serenaded the beautiful Serafina. 
 
 The damsel hung her head coyly. " Ah ! Sefior, 
 these are flattering words ; but you cavaliers, who roam 
 the seas, are unsteady as its waves. To-morrow you 
 will be throned in state, Adalantado of the Seven Cities ; 
 and will think no more of the alcayde's daughter." 
 
 Don Fernando in the intoxication of the moment 
 called the moon to witness his sincerity. As he raised 
 his hand in adjuration, the chaste moon cast a ray 
 upon the ring that sparkled on his finger. It caught 
 the damsel's eye. " Signer Adalantado," said she 
 archly, " I have no great faith in the moon, but give 
 me that ring upon your finger in pledge of the truth 
 of what you profess." 
 
 The gallant Adalantado was taken by surprise; 
 there was no parrying this sudden appeal; before he 
 had time to reflect, the ring of the beautiful Serafina 
 glittered on the finger of the alcayde's daughter. 
 
 At this eventful moment the chamberlain approached 
 with lofty demeanor, and announced that the barge
 
 3i8 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 was waiting to bear him back to the caravel. I forbear 
 to relate the ceremonious partings with the alcayde 
 and his dignitaries, and the tender farewell of the 
 alcayde's daughter. He took his seat in the barge 
 opposite the grand chamberlain. The rowers plied 
 their crimson oars in the same slow and stately man 
 ner to the cadence of the same mournful old ditty. 
 His brain was in a whirl with all that he had seen, 
 and his heart now and then gave him a twinge as he 
 thought of his temporary infidelity to the beautiful 
 Serafina. The barge sallied out into the sea, but no 
 caravel was to be seen ; doubtless she had been carried 
 to a distance by the current of the river. The oars 
 men rowed on; their monotonous chant had a lulling 
 effect. A drowsy influence crept over Don Fernando. 
 Objects swam before his eyes. The oarsmen assumed 
 odd shapes as in a dream. The grand chamberlain 
 grew larger and larger, and taller and taller. He took 
 off his huge sombrero, and held it over the head of 
 Don Fernando, like an extinguisher over a candle. 
 The latter cowered beneath it; he felt himself sinking 
 in the socket. 
 
 " Good night ! Sefior Adalantado of the Seven 
 Cities ! " said the grand chamberlain. 
 
 The sombrero slowly descended Don Fernando 
 was extinguished! 
 
 How long he remained extinct no mortal man can 
 tell. When he returned to consciousness, he found 
 himself in a strange cabin, surrounded by strangers. 
 He rubbed his eyes, and looked round him wildly. 
 Where was he? On board a Portuguese ship, bound 
 to Lisbon. How came he there ? He had been 
 taken senseless from a wreck drifting about the ocean. 
 
 Don Fernando was more and more confounded and 
 perplexed. He recalled, one by one, everything that 
 had happened to him in the Island of the Seven Cities, 
 until he had been extinguished by the sombrero of the
 
 ADALANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 319 
 
 grand chamberlain. But what had happened to him 
 since? What had become of his caravel? Was it 
 the wreck of her on which he had been found floating? 
 
 The people about him could give no information on 
 the subject. He entreated them to take him to the 
 Island of the Seven Cities, which could not be far off ; 
 told them all that had befallen him there; that he had 
 but to land to be received as Adalantado; when he 
 would reward them magnificently for their services. 
 
 They regarded his words as the ravings of delirium, 
 and in their honest solicitude for the restoration of his 
 reason, administered such rough remedies that he 
 was fain to drop the subject and observe a cautious 
 taciturnity. 
 
 At length they arrived in the Tagus, and anchored 
 before the famous city of Lisbon. Don Fernando 
 sprang joyfully on shore, and hastened to his ancestral 
 mansion. A strange porter opened the door, who 
 knew nothing of him or his family ; no people of the 
 name had inhabited the house for many a year. 
 
 He sought the mansion of Don Ramiro. He ap 
 proached the balcony beneath which he had bidden 
 farewell to Serafina. Did his eyes deceive him ? No ! 
 There was Serafina herself among the flowers in the 
 balcony. He raised his arms toward her with an ex 
 clamation of rapture. She cast upon him a look of 
 indignation, and, hastily retiring, closed the casement 
 with a slam that testified her displeasure. 
 
 Could she have heard of his flirtation with the al- 
 cayde's daughter? But that was mere transient gal 
 lantry. A moment's interview would dispel every 
 doubt of his constancy. 
 
 He rang at the door ; as it was opened by the porter 
 he rushed up-stairs; sought the well-known chamber, 
 and threw himself at the feet of Serafina. She started 
 back with affright, and took refuge in the arms of a 
 youthful cavalier.
 
 320 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 " What mean you, Senor," cried the latter, " by 
 this intrusion ? " 
 
 " What right have you to ask the question ? " 
 demanded Don Fernando fiercely. 
 
 " The right of an affianced suitor ! " 
 
 Don Fernando started and turned pale. " Oh, 
 Serafina! Serafina!" cried he, in a tone of agony; 
 " is this thy plighted constancy? " 
 
 " Serafina ? What mean you by Serafina, Senor ? 
 If this be the lady you intend, her name is Maria." 
 
 " May I not believe my senses ? May I not believe 
 my heart?" cried Don Fernando. " Is not this Sera 
 fina Alvarez, the original of yon portrait, which, less 
 fickle than herself, still smiles on me from the wall? " 
 
 " Holy Virgin ! " cried the young lady, casting her 
 eyes upon the portrait. " He is talking of my great- 
 grandmother ! " 
 
 An explanation ensued, if that could be called an 
 explanation which plunged the unfortunate Fernando 
 into tenfold perplexity. If he might believe his eyes, 
 he saw before him his beloved Serafina; if he might 
 believe his ears, it was merely her hereditary form 
 and features, perpetuated in the person of her great- 
 granddaughter. 
 
 His brain began to spin. He sought the office of 
 the Minister of Marine, and made a report of his ex 
 pedition, and of the Island of the Seven Cities, which 
 he had so fortunately discovered. Nobody knew any 
 thing of such an expedition, or such an island. He 
 declared that he had undertaken the enterprise under 
 a formal contract with the crown, and had received 
 a regular commission, constituting him Adalantado. 
 This must be matter of record, and he insisted loudly, 
 that the books of the department should be consulted. 
 The wordy strife at length attracted the attention of 
 an old gray-headed clerk, who sat perched on a high 
 stool, at a high desk, with iron-rimmed spectacles on
 
 ADALANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 321 
 
 the top of a thin, pinched nose, copying records into 
 an enormous folio. He had wintered and summered 
 in the department for a great part of a century, until 
 he had almost grown to be a piece of the desk at 
 which he sat; his memory was a mere index of official 
 facts and documents, and his brain was little better 
 than red tape and parchment. After peering down for 
 a time from his lofty perch, and ascertaining the matter 
 in controversy, he put his pen behind his ear, and de 
 scended. He remembered to have heard something 
 from his predecessor about an expedition of the kind 
 in question, but then it had sailed during the reign of 
 Don loam II., and he had been dead at least a hundred 
 years. To put the matter beyond dispute, however, 
 the archives of the Torre do Tombo, that sepulchre 
 of old Portuguese documents, were diligently searched, 
 and a record was found of a contract between the 
 crown and one Fernando de Ulmo, for the discovery 
 of the Island of the Seven Cities, and of a commission 
 secured to him as Adalantado of the country he might 
 discover. 
 
 " There ! " cried Don Fernando, triumphantly, 
 " there you have proof, before your own eyes, of 
 what I have said. I am the Fernando de Ulmo 
 specified in that record. I have discovered the 
 Island of the Seven Cities, and am entitled to be 
 Adalantado, according to contract." 
 
 The story of Don Fernando had certainly, what is 
 pronounced the best of historical foundation, docu 
 mentary evidence; but when a man, in the bloom of 
 youth, talked of events that had taken place above a 
 century previously, as having happened to himself, it 
 is no wonder that he was set down for a madman. 
 
 The old clerk looked at him from above and be 
 low his spectacles, shrugged his shoulders, stroked his 
 chin, reascended his lofty stool, took the pen from be 
 hind his ears, and resumed his daily and eternal task,
 
 322 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 copying records into the fiftieth volume of a series of 
 gigantic folios. The other clerks winked at each other 
 shrewdly, and dispersed to their several places, and 
 poor Don Fernando, thus left to himself, flung out of 
 the office, almost driven wild by these repeated 
 perplexities. 
 
 In the confusion of his mind, he instinctively re 
 paired to the mansion of Alvarez, but it was barred 
 against him. To break the delusion under which the 
 youth apparently labored, and to convince him that the 
 Serafina about whom he raved was really dead, he 
 was conducted to her tomb. There she lay, a stately 
 matron, cut out in alabaster ; and there lay her husband 
 beside her; a portly cavalier, in armor; and there 
 knelt, on each side, the effigies of a numerous progeny, 
 proving that she had been a fruitful vine. Even the 
 very monument gave evidence of the lapse of time; 
 the hands of her husband, folded as if in prayer, had 
 lost their fingers, and the face of the once lovely 
 Serafina was without a nose. 
 
 Don Fernando felt a transient glow of indignation 
 at beholding this monumental proof of the inconstancy 
 of his mistress; but who could expect a mistress to 
 remain constant during a whole century of absence? 
 And what right had he to rail about constancy, after 
 what had passed between himself and the alcayde's 
 daughter? The unfortunate cavalier performed one 
 pious act of tender devotion; he had the alabaster 
 nose of Serafina restored by a skilful statuary, and 
 then tore himself from the tomb. 
 
 He could now no longer doubt the fact that, some 
 how or other, he had skipped over a whole century, 
 during the night he had spent at the Island of the 
 Seven Cities ; and he was now as complete a stranger 
 in his native city, as if he had never been there. A 
 thousand times did he wish himself back to that won 
 derful island, with its antiquated banquet halls, where
 
 ADALANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 323 
 
 he had been so courteously received; and now that 
 the once young and beautiful Serafina was nothing 
 but a great-grandmother in marble, with generations 
 of descendants, a thousand times would he recall the 
 melting black eyes of the alcayde's daughter, who 
 doubtless, like himself, was still flourishing in fresh 
 juvenility, and breathe a secret wish that he was seated 
 by her side. 
 
 He would at once have set on foot another expedi 
 tion, at his own expense, to cruise in search of the 
 sainted island, but his means were exhausted. He 
 endeavored to rouse others to the enterprise, setting 
 forth the certainty of profitable results, of which his 
 own experience furnished such unquestionable proof. 
 Alas ! no one would give faith to his tale ; but looked 
 upon it as the feverish dream of a shipwrecked man. 
 He persisted in his efforts ; holding forth in all places 
 and all companies, until he became an object of jest 
 and jeer to the light-minded, who mistook his earnest 
 enthusiasm for a proof of insanity ; and the very chil 
 dren in the streets bantered him with the title of " The 
 Adalantado of the Seven Cities." 
 
 Finding all efforts in vain, in his native city of 
 Lisbon, he took shipping for the Canaries, as being 
 nearer the latitude of his former cruise, and inhabited 
 by people given to nautical adventure. Here he found 
 ready listeners to his story; for the old pilots and 
 mariners of those parts were notorious island-hunters, 
 and devout believers in all the wonders of the seas. 
 Indeed, one and all treated his adventure as a common 
 occurrence, and turning to each other, with a sagacious 
 nod of the head, observed, " He has been at the Island 
 of St. Brandan." 
 
 They then went on to inform him of that great 
 marvel and enigma of the ocean; of its repeated ap 
 pearance to the inhabitants of their islands; and of 
 the many but ineffectual expeditions that had been
 
 324 THE PHANTOM ISLAND 
 
 made in search of it. They took him to a promontory 
 of the island of Palma, whence the shadowy St. Bran- 
 dan had oftenest been descried, and they pointed out 
 the very tract in the west where its mountains had been 
 seen. 
 
 Don Fernando listened with rapt attention. He had 
 no longer a doubt that this mysterious and fugacious 
 island must be the same with that of the Seven Cities ; 
 and that some supernatural influence connected with 
 it had operated upon himself, and made the events of a 
 night occupy the space of a century. 
 
 He endeavored, but in vain, to rouse the islanders to 
 another attempt at discovery; they had given up the 
 phanton island as indeed inaccessible. Fernando, 
 however, was not to be discouraged. The idea wore 
 itself deeper and deeper in his mind, until it became 
 the engrossing subject of his thoughts and object of 
 his being. Every morning he would repair to the 
 promontory of Palma, and sit there throughout the 
 livelong day, in hopes of seeing the fairy mountains of 
 St. Brandan peering above the horizon ; every even 
 ing he returned to his home, a disappointed man, but 
 ready to resume his post on the following morning. 
 
 His assiduity was all in vain. He grew gray in his 
 ineffectual attempt; and was at length found dead at 
 his post. His grave is still shown in the island of 
 Palma, and a cross is erected on the spot where he 
 used to sit and look out upon the sea, in hopes of the 
 reappearance of the phantom island. 
 
 NOTE. For various particulars concerning the 
 Island of St. Brandan and the Island of the Seven 
 Cities, those ancient problems of the ocean, the curious 
 reader is referred to articles under those heads in the 
 Appendix to the " Life of Columbus."
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 325 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 
 
 I HAVE already given to the world some anecdotes of 
 a summer's residence in the old Moorish palace of the 
 Alhambra. It was a dreamy sojourn, during which 
 I lived, as it were, in the midst of an Arabian tale, and 
 shut my eyes as much as possible to everything that 
 should call me back to every-day life. If there is any 
 country in Europe where one can do so, it is among 
 these magnificent but semi-barbaric ruins of poor, wild, 
 legendary, romantic Spain. In the silent and deserted 
 halls of the Alhambra, surrounded with the insignia of 
 regal sway, and the vivid, though dilapidated traces 
 of Oriental luxury, I was in the stronghold of Moorish 
 story, where everything spoke of the palmy days of 
 Granada when under the dominion of the crescent. 
 
 Much of the literature of Spain turns upon the wars 
 of the Moors and Christians, and consists of traditional 
 ballads and tales or romances, about the " buenas an- 
 danzas," and " grandes hechos," the " lucky adven 
 tures," and " great exploits " of the warriors of yore. 
 It is worthy of remark, that many of these lays which 
 sing of prowess and magnanimity in war, and tender 
 ness and fidelity in love, relate as well to Moorish as to 
 Spanish cavaliers. The lapse of peaceful centuries 
 has extinguished the rancor of ancient hostility; and 
 the warriors of Granada, once the objects of bigot 
 detestation, are now often held up by Spanish poets as 
 mirrors of chivalric virtue. 
 
 None have been the theme of higher eulogy than 
 the illustrious line of the Abencerrages, who in the 
 proud days of Moslem domination were the soul of 
 everything noble and chivalric. The veterans of the 
 family sat in the royal council, and were foremost in
 
 326 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 
 
 devising heroic enterprises to carry dismay into the 
 Christian territories; and what the veterans devised 
 the young men of the name were foremost to execute. 
 In all adventures, enterprises, and hair-breadth hazards, 
 the Abencerrages were sure to win the brightest lau 
 rels. In the tilt and tourney, in the riding at the 
 ring, the daring bull-fight, and all other recreations 
 which bore an affinity to war, the Abencerrages carried 
 off the palm. None equalled them for splendor of 
 array, for noble bearing, and glorious horsemanship. 
 Their open-handed munificence made them the idols 
 of the people; their magnanimity and perfect faith 
 gained the admiration of the high-minded. Never did 
 they decry the merits of a rival, nor betray the confid- 
 ings of a friend ; and the word of an Abencerrage was 
 a guaranty never to be doubted. 
 
 And then their devotion to the fair! Never did 
 Moorish beauty consider the fame of her charms es 
 tablished, until she had an Abencerrage for a lover; 
 and never did an Abencerrage prove recreant to his 
 vows. Lovely Granada ! City of delights ! Who ever 
 bore the favors of thy dames more proudly on their 
 casques, or championed them more gallantly in the 
 chivalrous tilts of the Vivarambla ? Or who ever made 
 thy moon-lit balconies, thy gardens of myrtles and 
 roses, of oranges, citrons, and pomegranates, respond 
 to more tender serenades? 
 
 Such were the fancies I used to conjure up as I sat 
 in the beautiful hall of the Abencerrages, celebrated 
 in the tragic story of that devoted race, where thirty- 
 six of its bravest cavaliers were treacherously sacrificed 
 to appease the jealous fears of a tyrant. The fountain 
 which once ran red with their blood, throws up a 
 sparkling jet, and spreads a dewy freshness through 
 the hall; but a deep stain on the marble pavement is 
 still pointed out as a sanguinary record of the massacre. 
 The truth of the record has been called in question,
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 327 
 
 but I regarded it with the same determined faith with 
 which I contemplated the stains of Rizzio's blood on 
 the floor of the palace of Holy rood. I thank no one 
 for enlightening my credulity on points of poetical 
 belief. It is like robbing the statue of Memnon of its 
 mysterious music. Dispel historical illusions, and there 
 is an end to half the charms of travelling. 
 
 The hall of the Abencerrages is connected moreover 
 with the recollection of one of the sweetest evenings 
 and sweetest scenes I ever enjoyed in Spain. It was a 
 beautiful summer evening, when the moon shone down 
 into the Court of Lions, lighting up its sparkling foun 
 tain. I was seated with a few companions in the hall 
 in question, listening to those traditional ballads and 
 romances in which the Spaniards delight. They were 
 sung to the accompaniment of the guitar, by one of the 
 most gifted and fascinating beings that I ever met with 
 even among the fascinating daughters of Spain. She 
 was young and beautiful, and light and ethereal, full 
 of fire, and spirit, and pure enthusiasm. She wore 
 the fanciful Andalusian dress, touched the guitar with 
 speaking eloquence, improvised with wonderful fa 
 cility; and, as she became excited by her theme, or by 
 the rapt attention of her auditors, would pour forth, in 
 the richest and most melodious strains, a succession of 
 couplets, full of striking description, or stirring narra 
 tive, and composed, as I was assured, at the moment. 
 Most of these were suggested by the place, and related 
 to the ancient glories of Granada and the prowess of 
 her chivalry. The Abencerrages were her favorite 
 heroes ; she felt a woman's admiration of their gallant 
 courtesy and high-souled honor; and it was touching 
 and inspiring to hear the praises of that generous but 
 devoted race chanted in this fated hall of their calamity, 
 by the lips of Spanish beauty. 
 
 Among the subjects of which she treated, was a tale 
 of Moslem honor and old-fashioned courtesy, which
 
 328 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 
 
 made a strong impression on me. She disclaimed all 
 merit of invention, however, and said she had merely 
 dilated into verse a popular tradition; and, indeed, I 
 have since found the main facts inserted at the end of 
 Conde's " History of the Domination of the Arabs," 
 and the story itself embodied in the form of an episode 
 in the " Diana " of Montemayor. From these sources 
 I have drawn it forth, and endeavored to shape it ac 
 cording to my recollection of the version of the beauti 
 ful minstrel; but alas! what can supply the want of 
 that voice, that look, that form, that action, which 
 gave magical effect to her chant, and held every one 
 rapt in breathless admiration! Should this mere 
 travestie of her inspired numbers ever meet her eye, 
 in her stately abode at Granada, may it meet with that 
 indulgence which belongs to her benignant nature. 
 Happy should I be, if it could awaken in her bosom 
 one kind recollection of the stranger, for whose grati 
 fication she did not think it beneath her to exert those 
 fascinating powers, in the moon-lit halls of the 
 Alhambra, 
 
 THE ABENCERRAGE 
 
 On the summit of a craggy hill, a spur of the moun 
 tains of Ronda, stands the castle of Allora; now a 
 mere ruin, infested by bats and owlets ; but in old times, 
 a strong border-hold which kept watch upon the war 
 like kingdom of Granada, and held the Moors in check. 
 It was a post always confided to some well-tried com 
 mander, and at the time of which we treat was held 
 by Rodrigo de Narvaez, alcayde, or military governor 
 of Antiquera. It was a frontier post of his command ; 
 but he passed most of his time there, because its situ 
 ation on the borders gave frequent opportunity for 
 those adventurous exploits in which the Spanish chiv 
 alry delighted.
 
 THE ABENCERRAGE 329 
 
 He was a veteran, famed among both Moors and 
 Christians, not only for deeds of arms, but for that 
 magnanimous courtesy which should ever be entwined 
 with the stern virtues of the soldier. 
 
 His garrison consisted of fifty chosen men, well 
 appointed and well mounted, with which he maintained 
 such vigilant watch that nothing could escape his eye. 
 While some remained on guard in the castle, he would 
 sally forth with others, prowling about the highways, 
 the paths and defiles of the mountains by day and 
 night, and now and then making a daring foray into 
 the very Vega of Granada. 
 
 On a fair and beautiful night in summer, when the 
 moon was in the full, and the freshness of the evening 
 breeze had tempered the heat of day, the alcayde, 
 with nine of his cavaliers, was going the rounds of the 
 mountains in quest of adventures. They rode silently 
 and cautiously, for it was a night to tempt others 
 abroad, and they might be overheard by Moorish scout 
 or traveller ; they kept along ravines and hollow ways, 
 moreover, lest they should be betrayed by the glitter 
 ing of the moon upon their armor. Coming to a fork 
 in the road, the alcayde ordered five of his cavaliers 
 to take one of the branches, while he, with the remain 
 ing four, would take the other. Should either party be 
 in danger, the blast of a horn was to be the signal for 
 succor. The party of five had not proceeded far, when, 
 in passing through a defile, they heard the voice of a 
 man singing. Concealing themselves among trees, 
 they awaited his approach. The moon, which left the 
 grove in shadow, shone full upon his person, as he 
 slowly advanced, mounted on a dapple-gray steed of 
 powerful frame and generous spirit, and magnificently 
 caparisoned. He was a Moorish cavalier of noble de 
 meanor and graceful carriage, arrayed in a marlota, or 
 tunic, and an albornoz of crimson damask fringed with 
 gold. His Tunisian turban, of many folds, was of
 
 330 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 
 
 striped silk and cotton, bordered with a golden fringe; 
 at his girdle hung a Damascus scimitar, with loops and 
 tassels of silk and gold. On his left arm he bore an 
 ample target, and his right hand grasped a long double- 
 pointed lance. Apparently dreaming of no danger, he 
 sat negligently on his steed, gazing on the moon, and 
 singing, with a sweet and manly voice, a Moorish love- 
 ditty. 
 
 Just opposite the grove where the cavaliers were 
 concealed, the horse turned aside to drink at a small 
 fountain in a rock beside the road. His rider threw 
 the reins on his neck to let him drink at his ease, and 
 continued his song. 
 
 The cavaliers whispered with each other. Charmed 
 with the gallant and gentle appearance of the Moor, 
 they determined not to harm, but capture him; an 
 easy task, as they supposed, in his negligent mood. 
 Rushing forth, therefore, they thought to surround, 
 and take him by surprise. Never were men more mis 
 taken. To gather up his reins, wheel round his steed, 
 brace his buckler, and couch his lance, was the work 
 of an instant, and there he sat, fixed like a castle in 
 his saddle. 
 
 The cavaliers checked their steeds, and reconnoitred 
 him warily, loath to come to an encounter which must 
 prove fatal to him. 
 
 The Moor now held a parley. " If ye be true knights, 
 and seek for honorable fame, come on singly, and I will 
 meet each in succession; if ye be mere lurkers of the 
 road, intent on spoil, come all at once, and do your 
 worst." 
 
 The cavaliers communed together for a moment, 
 when one, parting from the others, advanced. " Al 
 though no law of chivalry," said he, " obliges us to 
 risk the loss of a prize, when fairly in our power, yet 
 we willingly grant as a courtesy what we might refuse 
 as a right. Valiant Moor, defend thyself ! "
 
 THE ABENCERRAGE 331 
 
 So saying, he wheeled, took proper distance, couched 
 his lance, and putting spurs to his horse, made at the 
 stranger. The latter met him in mid career, trans 
 pierced him with his lance, and threw him from his 
 saddle. A second and a third succeeded, but were un 
 horsed with equal facility, and thrown to the earth, 
 severely wounded. The remaining two, seeing their 
 comrades thus roughly treated, forgot all compact of 
 courtesy, and charged both at once upon the Moor. 
 He parried the thrust of one, but was wounded by the 
 other in the thigh, and in the shock and confusion 
 dropped his lance. Thus disarmed, and closely pressed, 
 he pretended to fly, and was hotly pursued. Having 
 drawn the two cavaliers some distance from the spot, 
 he wheeled short about, with one of those dexterous 
 movements for which the Moorish horsemen were re 
 nowned; passed swiftly between them, swung him 
 self down from his saddle, so as to catch up his lance, 
 then, lightly replacing himself, turned to renew the 
 combat. 
 
 Seeing him thus fresh for the encounter, as if just 
 issued from his tent, one of the cavaliers put his lips 
 to his horn, and blew a blast, that soon brought the 
 alcayde and his four companions to the spot. 
 
 Narvaez, seeing three of his cavaliers extended on 
 the earth, and two others hotly engaged with the Moor, 
 was struck with admiration, and coveted a contest with 
 so accomplished a warrior. Interfering in the fight, 
 he called upon his followers to desist, and with courte 
 ous words invited the Moor to a more equal combat. 
 The challenge was readily accepted. For some time 
 the contest was doubtful, and the alcayde had need of 
 all his skill and strength to ward off the blows of his 
 antagonist. The Moor, however, exhausted by previ 
 ous fighting, and by loss of blood, no longer sat his 
 horse firmly, nor managed him with his wonted skill. 
 Collecting all his strength for a last assault, he rose
 
 332 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 
 
 in his stirrups, and made a violent thrust with his lance ; 
 the alcayde received it upon his shield, and at the same 
 time wounded the Moor in the right arm ; then closing, 
 in the shock, grasped him in his arms, dragged him 
 from his saddle, and fell with him to the earth ; when 
 putting his knee upon his breast, and his dagger to 
 his throat, " Cavalier," exclaimed he, " render thyself 
 my prisoner, for thy life is in my hands! " 
 
 " Kill me, rather," replied the Moor, " for death 
 would be less grievous than loss of liberty." 
 
 The alcayde, however, with the clemency of the 
 truly brave, assisted him to rise, ministered to his 
 wounds with his own hands, and had him con 
 veyed with great care to the castle of Allora. His 
 wounds in a few days were nearly cured ; but the deep 
 est had been inflicted on his spirit. He was constantly 
 buried in a profound melancholy. 
 
 The alcayde, who had conceived a great regard for 
 him, treated him more as a friend than a captive, and 
 tried in every way to cheer him, but in vain; he was 
 always sad and moody, and, when on the battlements 
 of the castle, would keep his eyes turned to the south, 
 with a fixed and wistful gaze. 
 
 "How is this?" exclaimed the alcayde, reproach 
 fully, " that you, who were so hardy and fearless in 
 the field, should lose all spirit when a captive. If any 
 secret grief preys on your heart, confide it to me, as 
 to a friend, and I promise on the faith of a cavalier that 
 you shall have no cause to repent the disclosure." 
 
 The Moorish knight kissed the hand of the alcayde. 
 " Noble cavalier," said he, " that I am cast down in 
 spirit, is not from my wounds, which are slight, nor 
 from my captivity, for your kindness has robbed it of 
 all gloom; nor from my defeat, for to be conquered 
 by so accomplished and renowned a cavalier, is no dis 
 grace. But to explain the cause of my grief, it is 
 necessary to give some particulars of my story; and
 
 THE ABENCERRAGE 333 
 
 this I am moved to do by the sympathy you have mani 
 fested towards me, and the magnanimity that shines 
 through all your actions. 
 
 " Know, then, that my name is Abendaraez, and that 
 I am of the noble but unfortunate line of the Abencer- 
 rages. You have doubtless heard of the destruction 
 that fell upon our race. Charged with treasonable 
 designs, of which they were entirely innocent, many 
 of them were beheaded, the rest banished; so that 
 not an Abencerrage was permitted to remain in Gra 
 nada, excepting my father and my uncle, whose inno 
 cence was proved, even to the satisfaction of their 
 persecutors. It was decreed, however, that, should 
 they have children, the sons should be educated at a 
 distance from Granada, and the daughters should be 
 married out of the kingdom. 
 
 " Conformably to this decree, I was sent, while yet 
 an infant, to be reared in the fortress of Cartama, the 
 alcayde of which was an ancient friend of my father. 
 He had no children, and received me into his family 
 as his own child, treating me with the kindness and 
 affection of a father ; and I grew up in the belief that 
 he really was such. A few years afterward, his wife 
 gave birth to a daughter, but his tenderness toward 
 me continued undiminished. I thus grew up with 
 Xarisa, for so the infant daughter of the alcayde was 
 called, as her own brother. I beheld her charms un 
 folding, as it were, leaf by leaf, like the morning rose, 
 each moment disclosing fresh sweetness and .beauty, 
 and thought the growing passion which I felt for her 
 was mere fraternal affection. 
 
 " At length one day I accidentally overheard a con 
 versation between the alcayde and his confidential 
 domestic, of which I found myself the subject. 
 
 " In this I learnt the secret of my real parentage, 
 which the alcayde had withheld from me as long as 
 possible, through reluctance to inform me of my being
 
 334 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 
 
 of a proscribed and unlucky race. It was time now, 
 he thought, to apprise me of the truth, that I might 
 adopt a career in life. 
 
 " I retired without letting it be perceived that I had 
 overheard the conversation. The intelligence it con 
 veyed would have overwhelmed me at an earlier period ; 
 but now the intimation that Xarisa was not my sister, 
 operated like magic. In an instant the brotherly affec 
 tion with which my heart at times had throbbed almost 
 to excess, was transformed into ardent love. 
 
 " I sought Xarisa in the garden, where I found her 
 in a bower of jessamines, arranging her beautiful hair 
 in the mirror of a crystal fountain. I ran to her with 
 open arms, and was received with a sister's embraces; 
 upbraiding me for leaving her so long alone. 
 
 " We seated ourselves by the fountain, and I has 
 tened to reveal the secret conversation I had overheard. 
 
 " ' Alas ! ' cried she, ' then our happiness is at an 
 end!' 
 
 " ' How ! ' cried I, * wilt thou cease to love me be 
 cause I am not thy brother ? ' 
 
 " ' Alas, no ! ' replied she, gently withdrawing from 
 my embrace, ' but when it is once made known we are 
 not brother and sister, we shall no longer be permitted 
 to be thus always together.' 
 
 " In fact, from that moment our intercourse took 
 a new character. We met often at the fountain among 
 the jessamines, but Xarisa no longer advanced with 
 open arms to meet me. She became reserved and 
 silent, and would blush, and cast down her eyes, when 
 I seated myself beside her. My heart became a prey 
 to the thousand doubts and fears that ever attend upon 
 true love. Restless and uneasy, I looked back with 
 regret to our unreserved intercourse when we sup 
 posed ourselves brother and sister ; yet I would not 
 have had the relationship true, for the world. 
 
 " While matters were in this state between us, an
 
 THE ABENCERRAGE 335 
 
 order came from the King- of Granada for the alcayde 
 to take command of the fortress of Coyn, on the Chris 
 tian frontier. He prepared to remove, with all his 
 family, but signified that I should remain at Cartama. 
 I declared that I could not be parted from Xarisa. 
 ' That is the very cause/ said he, ' why I leave thee 
 behind. It is time, Abendaraez, thou shouldst know 
 the secret of thy birth. Thou art no son of mine, 
 neither is Xarisa thy sister.' ' I know it all,' exclaimed 
 I, 'and I love her with tenfold the affection of a brother. 
 You have brought us up together; you have made us 
 necessary to each other's happiness; our hearts have 
 entwined themselves with our growth; do not now 
 tear them asunder. Fill up the measure of your kind 
 ness; be indeed a father to me, by giving me Xarisa 
 for my wife.' 
 
 " The brow of the alcayde darkened as I spoke. 
 ' Have I then been deceived ? ' said he. ' Have those 
 nurtured in my very bosom been conspiring against 
 me? Is this your return for my paternal tenderness? 
 to beguile the affections of my child, and teach her to 
 deceive her father? It would have been cause enough 
 to refuse thee the hand of my daughter, that thou wert 
 of a proscribed race, who can never approach the walls 
 of Granada; this, however, I might have passed over, 
 but never will I give my daughter to a man who has 
 endeavored to win her from me by deception/ 
 
 " All my attempts to vindicate myself and Xarisa 
 were unavailing. I retired in anguish from his pres 
 ence, and seeking Xarisa, told her of this blow, which 
 was worse than death to me. ' Xarisa/ said I, ' we 
 part forever ! I shall never see thee more ! Thy father 
 will guard thee rigidly. Thy beauty and his wealth 
 will soon attract some happier rival, and I shall be 
 forgotten ! ' 
 
 " Xarisa reproached my want of faith, and promised 
 eternal constancy. I still doubted and desponded, until,
 
 336 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 
 
 moved by my anguish and despair, she agreed to a 
 secret union. Our espousals made, we parted, with a 
 promise on her part to send me word from Coyn, should 
 her father absent himself from the fortress. The very 
 day after our secret nuptials, I beheld the whole train 
 of the alcayde depart from Cartama, nor would he 
 admit me to his presence, nor permit me to bid farewell 
 to Xarisa. I remained at Cartama, somewhat pacified 
 in spirit by our secret bond of union; but everything 
 around fed my passion, and reminded me of Xarisa. 
 I saw the window at which I had so often beheld her. 
 I wandered through the apartment she had inhabited; 
 the chamber in which she had slept. I visited the bower 
 of jessamines, and lingered beside the fountain in 
 which she had delighted. Everything recalled her to 
 my imagination, and filled my heart with melancholy. 
 
 " At length a confidential servant arrived with a 
 letter from her, informing me that her father was to 
 depart that day for Granada, on a short absence, in 
 viting me to hasten to Coyn, describing a secret portal 
 at which I should apply, and the signal by which I 
 would obtain admittance. 
 
 "If ever you have loved, most valiant alcayde, you 
 may judge of my transport. That very night I arrayed 
 myself in gallant attire, to pay due honor to my bride, 
 and arming myself against any casual attack, issued 
 forth privately from Cartama. You know the rest, and 
 by what sad fortune of war I find myself instead of a 
 happy bridegroom in the nuptial bower of Coyn, van 
 quished, wounded, and a prisoner within the walls of 
 Allora. The term of absence of the father of Xarisa 
 is nearly expired. Within three days he will return to 
 Coyn, and our meeting will no longer be possible. 
 Judge, then, whether I grieve without cause and 
 whether I may not well be excused for showing impa 
 tience under confinement." 
 
 Don Rodrigo was greatly moved by this recital ; for,
 
 THE ABENCERRAGE 337 
 
 though more used to rugged war than scenes of amo 
 rous softness, he was of a kind and generous nature. 
 
 " Abendaraez," said he, " I did not seek thy con 
 fidence to gratify an idle curiosity. It grieves me much 
 that the good fortune which delivered thee into my 
 hands, should have marred so fair an enterprise. Give 
 me thy faith, as a true knight, to return prisoner to 
 my castle, within three days, and I will grant thee per 
 mission to accomplish thy nuptials." 
 
 The Abencerrage, in a transport of gratitude, would 
 have thrown himself at his feet, but the alcayde pre 
 vented him. Calling in his cavaliers, he took Aben 
 daraez by the right hand, in their presence, exclaiming 
 solemnly, " You promise, on the faith of a cavalier, to 
 return to my castle of Allora within three days, and 
 render yourself my prisoner? " And the Abencerrage 
 said, " I promise." 
 
 Then said the alcayde, " Go ! and may good fortune 
 attend you. If you require any safeguard, I and my 
 cavaliers are ready to be your companions." 
 
 The Abencerrage kissed the hand of the alcayde, 
 in grateful acknowledgment. " Give me," said he, 
 " my own armor and my steed, and I require no guard. 
 It is not likely that I shall again meet with so valorous 
 a foe." 
 
 The shades of night had fallen, when the tramp of 
 the dapple-gray steed resounded over the drawbridge, 
 and immediately afterwards, the light clatter of hoofs 
 along the road bespoke the fleetness with which the 
 youthful lover hastened to his bride. It was deep night 
 when the Moor arrived at the castle of Coyn. He 
 silently and cautiously walked his panting steed under 
 its dark walls, and having nearly passed round them, 
 came to the portal denoted by Xarisa. He paused, 
 looked round to see that he was not observed, and 
 knocked three times with the butt of his lance. In a
 
 338 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 
 
 little while the portal was timidly unclosed by the 
 duenna of Xarisa. "Alas! Senor," said she, "what 
 has detained you thus long? Every night have I 
 watched for you; and my lady is sick at heart with 
 doubt and anxiety." 
 
 The Abencerrage hung his lance and shield and 
 scimitar against the wall, and followed the duenna, 
 with silent steps, up a winding staircase, to the apart 
 ment of Xarisa. Vain would be the attempt to de 
 scribe the raptures of that meeting. Time flew too 
 swiftly, and the Abencerrage had nearly forgotten, 
 until too late, his promise to return a prisoner to the 
 alcayde of Allora. The recollection of it came to him 
 with a pang, and woke him from his dream of bliss. 
 Xarisa saw his altered looks, and heard with alarm 
 his stifled sighs ; but her countenance brightened when 
 she heard the cause. " Let not thy spirit be cast down," 
 said she, throwing her white arms around him. " I 
 have the keys of my father's treasures; send ransom 
 more than enough to satisfy the Christian, and remain 
 with me." 
 
 " No," said Abendaraez, " I have given my word 
 to return in person, and like a true knight, must fulfil 
 my promise. After that, fortune must do with me as 
 it pleases." 
 
 " Then," said Xarisa, " I will accompany thee. 
 Never shalt thou return a prisoner, and I remain at 
 liberty." 
 
 The Abencerrage was transported with joy at this 
 new proof of devotion in his beautiful bride. All 
 preparations were speedily made for their departure. 
 Xarisa mounted behind the Moor, on his powerful 
 steed; they left the castle walls before daybreak, nor 
 did they pause, until they arrived at the gate of the 
 castle of Allora. 
 
 Alighting in the court, the Abencerrage supported
 
 THE ABENCERRAGE 339 
 
 the steps of his trembling bride, who remained closely 
 veiled, into the presence of Rodrigo de Narvaez. " Be 
 hold, valiant Alcayde ! " said he, " the way in which 
 an Abencerrage keeps his word. I promised to return 
 to thee a prisoner, but I deliver two captives into thy 
 power. Behold Xarisa, and judge whether I grieved 
 without reason, over the loss of such a treasure. Re 
 ceive us as thine own, for I confide my life and her 
 honor to thy hands." 
 
 The alcayde was lost in admiration of the beauty of 
 the lady, and the noble spirit of the Moor. " I know 
 not," said he, " which of you surpasses the other; but 
 I know that my castle is graced and honored by your 
 presence. Consider it your own, while you deign to 
 reside with me." 
 
 For several days the lovers remained at Allora, 
 happy in each other's love, and in the friendship of 
 the alcayde. The latter wrote a letter to the Moorish 
 king of Granada, relating the whole event, extolling 
 the valor and good faith of the Abencerrage, and crav 
 ing for him the royal countenance. 
 
 The king was moved by the story, and pleased with 
 an opportunity of showing attention to the wishes of 
 a gallant and chivalrous enemy; for though he had 
 often suffered from the prowess of Don Rodrigo de 
 Narvaez, he admired his heroic character. Calling the 
 alcayde of Coyn into his presence, he gave him the 
 letter to read. The alcayde turned pale and trembled 
 with rage on the perusal. " Restrain thine anger," 
 said the king; "there is nothing that the alcayde of 
 Allora could ask, that I would not grant, if in my 
 power. Go thou to Allora ; pardon thy children ; take 
 them to thy home. I receive this Abencerrage into 
 my favor, and it will be my delight to heap benefits 
 upon you all." 
 
 The kindling ire of the alcayde was suddenly ap-
 
 340 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 
 
 peased. He hastened to Allora, and folded his chil 
 dren to his bosom, who would have fallen at his feet. 
 Rodrigo de Narvaez gave liberty to his prisoner with 
 out ransom, demanding merely a promise of his friend 
 ship. He accompanied the youthful couple and their 
 father to Coyn, where their nuptials were celebrated 
 with great rejoicings. When the festivities were over, 
 Don Rodrigo returned to his fortress of Allora. 
 
 After his departure, the alcayde of Coyn addressed 
 his children : " To your hands," said he, " I confide 
 the disposition of my wealth. One of the first things 
 I charge you, is not to forget the ransom you owe to 
 the alcayde of Allora. His magnanimity you can never 
 repay, but you can prevent it from wronging him of 
 his just dues. Give him, moreover, your entire friend 
 ship, for he merits it fully, though of a different faith." 
 
 The Abencerrage thanked him for his proposition, 
 which so truly accorded with his own wishes. He 
 took a large sum of gold, and inclosed it in a rich 
 coffer; and, on his own part, sent six beautiful horses, 
 superbly caparisoned; with six shields and lances, 
 mounted and embossed with gold. The beautiful 
 Xarisa, at the same time, wrote a letter to the alcayde, 
 filled with expressions of gratitude and friendship, and 
 sent him a box of fragrant cypress-wood, containing 
 linen of the finest quality, for his person. The alcayde 
 disposed of the present in a characteristic manner. 
 The horses and armor he shared among the cavaliers 
 who had accompanied him on the night of the skirmish. 
 The box of cypress-wood and its contents he retained, 
 for the sake of the beautiful Xarisa, and sent her, by 
 the hands of the messenger, the sum of gold paid as 
 a ransom, entreating her to receive it as a wedding- 
 present. This courtesy and magnanimity raised the 
 character of the alcayde Rodrigo de Narvaez still 
 higher in the estimation of the Moors, who extolled
 
 THE ABENCERRAGE 341 
 
 him as a perfect mirror of chivalric virtue ; and from 
 that time forward, there was a continual exchange of 
 good offices between them. 
 
 Those who would read the foregoing story decked 
 out with poetic grace in the pure Castilian, let them 
 seek it in the " Diana of Montemayor." 
 
 THE END
 
 LORD BYRON
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 HISTORICAL NOTICE 
 
 BEING about to give a few sketches taken during a 
 three weeks' sojourn in the ancestral mansion of the 
 late Lord Byron, I think it proper to premise some 
 brief particulars concerning its history. 
 
 Newstead Abbey is one of the finest specimens in 
 existence of those quaint and romantic piles, half 
 castle, half convent, which remain as monuments of 
 the olden times of England. It stands, too, in the midst 
 of a legendary neighborhood; being in the heart of 
 Sherwood Forest, and surrounded by the haunts of 
 Robin Hood and his band of outlaws, so famous in 
 ancient ballad and nursery tale. It is true, the forest 
 scarcely exists but in name, and the tract of country 
 over which it once extended its broad solitudes and 
 shades is now an open and smiling region, cultivated 
 with parks and farms, and enlivened with villages. 
 
 Newstead, which probably once exerted a monastic 
 sway over this region, and controlled the consciences 
 of the rude foresters, was originally a priory, founded 
 in the latter part of the twelfth century, by Henry II., 
 at the time when he sought, by building of shrines 
 and convents, and by other acts of external piety, to 
 expiate the murder of Thomas a Becket. The priory 
 was dedicated to God and the Virgin, and was inhab 
 ited by a fraternity of canons regular of St. Augustine. 
 This order was originally simple and abstemious in 
 its mode of living, and exemplary in its conduct ; but
 
 4 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 it would seem that it gradually lapsed into those abuses 
 which disgraced too many of the wealthy monastic 
 establishments; for there are documents among its 
 archives which intimate the prevalence of gross mis 
 rule and dissolute sensuality among its members. 
 
 At the time of the dissolution of the convents during 
 the reign of Henry VIII. , Newstead underwent a sud 
 den reverse, being given, with the neighboring manor 
 and rectory of Papelwick, to Sir John Byron, Steward 
 of Manchester and Rochdale, and Lieutenant of Sher 
 wood Forest. This ancient family worthy figures in 
 the traditions of the Abbey, and in the ghost-stories 
 with which it abounds, under the quaint and graphic 
 appellation of " Sir John Byron the Little, with the 
 great Beard." He converted the saintly edifice into a 
 castellated dwelling, making it his favorite residence 
 and the seat of his forest jurisdiction. 
 
 The Byron family being subsequently ennobled by 
 a baronial title, and enriched by various possessions, 
 maintained great style and retinue at Newstead. The 
 proud edifice partook, however, of the vicissitudes of 
 the times, and Lord Byron, in one of his poems, rep 
 resents it as alternately the scene of lordly wassailing 
 and of civil war: 
 
 Hark, how the hall, resounding to the strain, 
 Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 
 
 The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, 
 High-crested banners wave thy walls within. 
 
 Of changing sentinels the distant hum, 
 The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, 
 
 The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, 
 Unite in concert with increased alarms. 
 
 About the middle of the last century, the Abbey 
 came into the possession of another noted character, 
 who makes no less figure in its shadowy traditions 
 than Sir John the Little with the great Beard. This 
 was the grand-uncle of the poet, familiarly known
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 5 
 
 among the gossiping chroniclers of the Abbey as " The 
 Wicked Lord Byron." He is represented as a man of 
 irritable passions and vindictive temper, in the indul 
 gence of which an incident occurred which gave a 
 turn to his whole character and life, and in some 
 measure affected the fortunes of the Abbey. In his 
 neighborhood lived his kinsman and friend, Mr. Cha- 
 worth, proprietor of Annesley Hall. Being together 
 in London in 1765, in a chamber of the Star and 
 Garter tavern in Pall Mall, a quarrel rose between 
 them. Byron insisted upon settling it upon the spot 
 by single combat. They fought without seconds, by 
 the dim light of a candle ; and Mr. Chaworth, although 
 the most expert swordsman, received a mortal wound. 
 With his dying breath he related such particulars of 
 the contest as induced the coroner's jury to return a 
 verdict of wilful murder. Lord Byron was sent to 
 the Tower, and subsequently tried before the House 
 of Peers, where an ultimate verdict was given of 
 manslaughter. 
 
 He retired after this to the Abbey, where he shut 
 himself up to brood over his disgraces ; grew gloomy, 
 morose, and fantastical, and indulged in fits of passion 
 and caprice, that made him the theme of rural wonder 
 and scandal. No tale was too wild or too monstrous 
 for vulgar belief. Like his successor the poet, he was 
 accused of all kinds of vagaries and wickedness. It 
 was said that he always went armed, as if prepared 
 to commit murder on the least provocation. At one 
 time, when a gentleman of his neighborhood was to 
 dine tete-a-tete with him, it is said a brace of pistols 
 were gravely laid with the knives and forks upon the 
 table, as part of the regular table furniture, and im 
 plements that might be needed in the course of the 
 repast. Another rumor states, that, being exasperated 
 at his coachman for disobedience to orders, he shot 
 him on the spot, threw his body into the coach where
 
 6 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 Lady Byron was seated, and, mounting the box, offici 
 ated in his stead. At another time, according to the 
 same vulgar rumors, he threw her ladyship into the 
 lake in front of the Abbey, where she would have been 
 drowned but for the timely aid of the gardener. These 
 stories are doubtless exaggerations of trivial incidents 
 which may have occurred; but it is certain that the 
 wayward passions of this unhappy man caused a sep 
 aration from his wife, and finally spread a solitude 
 around him. Being displeased at the marriage of his 
 son, and heir, he displayed an inveterate malignity 
 towards him. Not being able to cut off his succession 
 to the Abbey estate, which descended to him by entail, 
 he endeavored to injure it as much as possible, so that 
 it might come a mere wreck into his hands. For this 
 purpose he suffered the Abbey to fall out of repair, 
 and everything to go to waste about it, and cut down 
 all the timber on the estate, laying low many a tract 
 of old Sherwood Forest, so that the Abbey lands lay 
 stripped and bare of all their ancient honors. He was 
 baffled in his unnatural revenge by the premature death 
 of his son, and passed the remainder of his days in 
 his deserted and dilapidated halls, a gloomy misan 
 thrope, brooding amidst the scenes he had laid desolate. 
 
 His wayward humors drove from him all neighborly 
 society, and for a part of the time he was almost with 
 out domestics. In his misanthropic mood, when at 
 variance with all human-kind, he took to feeding 
 crickets, so that in process of time the Abbey was 
 overrun with them, and its lonely halls made more 
 lonely at night by their monotonous music. Tradi 
 tion adds that, at his death, the crickets seemed aware 
 that they had lost their patron and protector, for they 
 one and all packed up bag and baggage, and left the 
 Abbey, trooping across its courts and corridors in all 
 directions. 
 
 The death of the "Old Lord," or "The Wicked
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 7 
 
 Lord Byron," for he is known by both appellations, 
 occurred in 1798; and the Abbey then passed into the 
 possession of the poet. The latter was but eleven 
 years of age, and living in humble style with his mother 
 in Scotland. They came soon after to England, to 
 take possession. Moore gives a simple but striking 
 anecdote of the first arrival of the poet at the domains 
 of his ancestors. 
 
 They had arrived at the Newstead toll-bar, and saw 
 the woods of the Abbey stretching out to receive them, 
 when Mrs. Byron, affecting to be ignorant of the 
 place, asked the woman of the toll-house to whom that 
 seat belonged? She was told that the owner of it, 
 Lord Byron, had been some months dead. " And who 
 is the next heir? " asked the proud and happy mother. 
 " They say," answered the old woman, " it is a little 
 boy who lives at Aberdeen." " And this is he, bless 
 him ! " exclaimed the nurse, no longer able to contain 
 herself, and turning to kiss with delight the young 
 lord who was seated on her lap. 1 
 
 During Lord Byron's minority, the Abbey was let 
 to Lord Grey de Ruthen, but the poet visited it occa 
 sionally during the Harrow vacations, when he resided 
 with his mother at lodgings in Nottingham. It was 
 treated little better by its present tenant than by the 
 old lord who preceded him; so that, when, in the 
 autumn of 1808, Lord Byron took up his abode there, 
 it was in a ruinous condition. The following lines 
 from his own pen may give some idea of its condition : 
 
 Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle, 
 Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay ; 
 
 In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 
 
 Have choked up the rose which once bloomed in the way. 
 
 Of the mail-covered barons who, proudly, to battle 
 Led thy vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 
 
 The escutcheon and shield, which with every wind rattle, 
 Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 2 
 
 1 Moore's Life of Lord Byron. 
 
 2 Lines on leaving Newstead Abbey.
 
 8 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 In another poem he expresses the melancholy feeling 
 with which he took possession of his ancestral mansion : 
 
 Newstead ! That saddening scene of change is thine, 
 
 Thy yawning arch betokens sure decay : 
 The last and youngest of a noble line 
 
 Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 
 
 Deserted now, he scans thy gray-worn towers, 
 
 Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep, 
 Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers, 
 
 These these he views, and views them but to weep. 
 
 Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes, 
 
 Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great; 
 Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 
 
 Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate. 1 
 
 Lord Byron had not fortune sufficient to put the 
 pile in extensive repair, nor to maintain anything like 
 the state of his ancestors. He restored some of the 
 apartments, so as to furnish his mother with a com 
 fortable habitation, and fitted up a quaint study for 
 himself, in which, among books and busts, and other 
 library furniture, were two skulls of the ancient friars, 
 grinning on each side of an antique cross. One of 
 his gay companions gives a picture of Newstead when 
 thus repaired, and the picture is sufficiently desolate. 
 
 " There are two tiers of cloisters, with a variety of 
 cells and rooms about them, which, though not in 
 habited, nor in an inhabitable state, might easily be made 
 so; and many of the original rooms, among which is 
 a fine stone hall, are still in use. Of the Abbey church, 
 one end only remains ; and the old kitchen, with a long 
 range of apartments, is reduced to a heap of rubbish. 
 Leading from the Abbey to the modern part of the 
 habitation is a noble room, seventy feet in length, and 
 twenty-three in breadth; but every part of the house 
 displays neglect and decay, save those which the present 
 lord has lately fitted up." 2 
 
 1 Elegy on Newstead Abbey. 
 
 2 Letter of the late Charles Skinner Mathews, Esq.
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 9 
 
 Even the repairs thus made were but of transient 
 benefit, for, the roof being left in its dilapidated state, 
 the rain soon penetrated into the apartments which 
 Lord Byron had restored and decorated, and in a few 
 years rendered them almost as desolate as the rest of 
 the Abbey. 
 
 Still he felt a pride in the ruinous old edifice; its 
 very dreary and dismantled state addressed itself to 
 his poetical imagination, and to that love of the melan 
 choly and the grand which is evinced in all his writ 
 ings. " Come what may," said he in one of his letters, 
 " Newstead and I stand or fall together. I have now 
 lived on the spot. I have fixed my heart upon it, and 
 no pressure, present or future, shall induce me to 
 barter the last vestige of our inheritance. I have that 
 pride within me which will enable me to support diffi 
 culties: could I obtain in exchange for Newstead 
 Abbey the first fortune in the country, I would reject 
 the proposition." 
 
 His residence at the Abbey, however, was fitful and 
 uncertain. He passed occasional portions of time 
 there, sometimes studiously and alone, oftener idly and 
 recklessly, and occasionally with young and gay com 
 panions, in riot and revelry, and the indulgence of all 
 kinds of mad caprice. The Abbey was by no means 
 benefited by these roistering inmates, who sometimes 
 played off monkish mummeries about the cloisters, at 
 other times turned the state-chambers into schools for 
 boxing and single-stick, and shot pistols in the great 
 hall. The country people of the neighborhood were 
 as much puzzled by these madcap vagaries of the new 
 incumbent as by the gloomier habits of the " old lord," 
 and began to think that madness was inherent in the 
 Byron race, or that some wayward star ruled over the 
 Abbey. 
 
 It is needless to enter into a detail of the circum 
 stances which led his Lordship to sell his ancestral
 
 io NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 estate, notwithstanding the partial predilections and 
 hereditary feeling which he had so eloquently ex 
 pressed. Fortunately it fell into the hands of a man 
 who possessed something of a poetical temperament, 
 and who cherished an enthusiastic admiration for 
 Lord Byron. Colonel (at that time Major) Wildman 
 had been a schoolmate of the poet, and sat with him 
 on the same form at Harrow. He had subsequently 
 distinguished himself in the war of the Peninsula, and 
 at the battle of Waterloo, and it was a great consola 
 tion to Lord Byron, in parting with his family estate, 
 to know that it would be held by one capable of restor 
 ing its faded glories, and who would respect and pre 
 serve all the monuments and memorials of his line. 1 
 
 The confidence of Lord Byron in the good feeling 
 and good taste of Colonel Wildman has been justified 
 
 1 The following letter, written in the course of the transfer of 
 the estate, has never been published : 
 
 VENICE, Nov. 18, 1818. 
 MY DEAR WILDMAN, 
 
 Mr. Hanson is on the eve of his return, so that I have only 
 time to return a few inadequate thanks for your very kind letter. 
 I should regret to trouble you with any requests of mine, in re 
 gard to the preservation of any signs of my family which may 
 still exist at Newstead, and leave everything of that kind to your 
 own feelings, present or future, upon the subject. The portrait 
 which you flatter me by desiring, would not be worth to you 
 your trouble and expense of such an expedition, but you may rely 
 upon having the very first that may be painted, and which may 
 seem worth your acceptance. 
 
 I trust that Newstead will, being yours, remain so, and that I 
 may see you as happy as I am very sure that you will make your 
 dependants. With regard to myself, you may be sure that, 
 whether in the fourth, or fifth, or sixth form at Harrow, or in 
 the fluctuations of after-life, I shall always remember with re 
 gard my old schoolfellow fellow-monitor, and friend, and 
 recognize with respect the gallant soldier, who, with all the ad 
 vantages of fortune and allurements of youth to a life of pleas 
 ure, devoted himself to duties of a nobler order and will receive 
 his reward in the esteem and admiration of his country. 
 
 Ever yours most truly and affectionately, 
 
 BYRON.
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY n 
 
 by the event. Under his judicious eye and munificent 
 hand the venerable and romantic pile has risen from its 
 ruins in all its old monastic and baronial splendor, 
 and additions have been made to it in perfect con 
 formity of style. The groves and forests have been 
 replanted; the lakes and fish-ponds cleaned out, and 
 the gardens rescued from the " hemlock and thistle," 
 and restored to their pristine and dignified formality. 
 
 The farms on the estate have been put in complete 
 order, new farm-houses built of stone, in the pictur 
 esque and comfortable style of the old English 
 granges; the hereditary tenants secured in their pater 
 nal homes and treated with the most considerate in 
 dulgence; everything, in a word, gives happy indica 
 tions of a liberal and beneficent landlord. 
 
 What most, however, will interest the visitors to 
 the Abbey in favor of its present occupant, is the 
 reverential care with which he has preserved and reno 
 vated every monument and relic of the Byron family, 
 and every object in any wise connected with the mem 
 ory of the poet. Eighty thousand pounds have already 
 been expended upon the venerable pile, yet the work 
 is still going on, and Newstead promises to realize 
 the hope faintly breathed by the poet when bidding it 
 a melancholy farewell : 
 
 Haply thy sun emerging, yet may shine, 
 Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 
 
 Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, 
 And bless thy future, as thy former day.
 
 12 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 ARRIVAL AT THE ABBEY 
 
 I HAD been passing a merry Christmas in the good old 
 style at Barlboro' Hall, a venerable family mansion 
 in Derbyshire, and set off to finish the holidays with 
 the hospitable proprietor of Newstead Abbey. A drive 
 of seventeen miles through a pleasant country, part 
 of it the storied region of Sherwood Forest, brought 
 me to the gate of Newstead Park. The aspect of 
 the park was by no means imposing, the fine old 
 trees that once adorned it having been laid low by 
 Lord Byron's wayward predecessor. 
 
 Entering the gate, the post-chaise rolled heavily 
 along a sandy road, between naked declivities, gradu 
 ally descending into one of those gentle and sheltered 
 valleys in which the sleek monks of old loved to nestle 
 themselves. Here a sweep of the road round an angle 
 of a garden-wall brought us full in front of the vener 
 able edifice, embosomed in the valley, with a beautiful 
 sheet of water spreading out before it. 
 
 The irregular gray pile, of motley architecture, an 
 swered to the description given by Lord Byron : 
 
 An old, old monastery once, and now 
 Still older mansion, of a rich and rare 
 Mixed Gothic .... 
 
 One end was fortified by a castellated tower be 
 speaking the baronial and warlike days of the edifice; 
 the other end maintained its primitive monastic char 
 acter. A ruined chapel, flanked by a solemn grove, 
 still reared its front entire. It is true, the threshold of 
 the once frequented portal was grass-grown, and the 
 great lancet window, once glorious with painted glass, 
 was now entwined and overhung with ivy; but the
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 13 
 
 old convent cross still braved both time and tempest 
 on the pinnacle of the chapel, and below, the blessed 
 effigies of the Virgin and child, sculptured in gray 
 stone, remained uninjured in their niche, giving a 
 sanctified aspect to the pile. 1 
 
 A flight of rooks, tenants of the adjacent grove, 
 were hovering about the ruin, and balancing them 
 selves upon every airy projection, and looked down 
 with curious eye, and cawed as the post-chaise rattled 
 along below. 
 
 The chamberlain of the Abbey, a most decorous per 
 sonage, dressed in black, received us at the portal. 
 Here, too, we encountered a memento of Lord Byron, 
 a great black and white Newfoundland dog, that had 
 accompanied his remains from Greece. He was de 
 scended from the famous Boatswain, and inherited his 
 generous qualities. He was a cherished inmate of the 
 Abbey, and honored and caressed by every visitor. 
 Conducted by the chamberlain, and followed by the 
 dog, who assisted in doing the honors of the house, 
 we passed through a long, low vaulted hall, supported 
 by massive Gothic arches, and not a little resembling 
 the crypt of a cathedral, being the basement story of 
 the Abbey. 
 
 From this we ascended a stone staircase, at the head 
 of which a pair of folding-doors admitted us into a 
 broad corridor that ran round the interior of the 
 Abbey. The windows of the corridor looked into a 
 quadrangular grass-grown court, forming the hollow 
 centre of the pile. In the midst of it rose a lofty and 
 fantastic fountain, wrought of the same gray stone 
 
 1 ... in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, 
 
 The Virgin Mother of the God-born child, 
 With her son in her blessed arms, looked round, ( 
 
 Spared by some chance, when all beside was spoil d : 
 She made the earth below seem holy ground. 
 
 Don Juan, Canto III.
 
 14 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 as the main edifice, and which has been well described 
 by Lord Byron. 
 
 Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 
 
 Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint, 
 
 Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, 
 And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : 
 
 The spring rush'd through grim mouths of granite made, 
 And sparkled into basins, where it spent 
 
 Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, 
 
 Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 1 
 
 Around this quadrangle were low vaulted cloisters, 
 with Gothic arches, once the secluded walks of the 
 monks : the corridor along which we were passing was 
 built above these cloisters, and their hollow arches 
 seemed to reverberate every foot-fall. Everything 
 thus far had a solemn monastic air; but, on arriving 
 at an angle of the corridor, the eye, glancing along a 
 shadowy gallery, caught a sight of two dark figures in 
 plate armor, with closed visors, bucklers braced, and 
 swords drawn, standing motionless against the wall. 
 They seemed two phantoms of the chivalrous era of 
 the Abbey. 
 
 Here the chamberlain, throwing open a folding-door, 
 ushered us at once into a spacious and lofty saloon, 
 which offered a brilliant contrast to the quaint and 
 sombre apartments we had traversed. It was elegantly 
 furnished, and the walls hung with paintings, yet some 
 thing of its original architecture had been preserved 
 and blended with modern embellishments. There were 
 the stone-shafted casements and the deep bow-window 
 of former times. The carved and panelled wood-work 
 of the lofty ceiling had likewise been carefully restored, 
 and its Gothic and grotesque devices painted and gilded 
 in their ancient style. 
 
 Here, too, were emblems of the former and latter 
 days of the Abbey, in the effigies of the first and last 
 
 1 Don Juan, Canto III.
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 15 
 
 of the Byron line that held sway over its destinies. 
 At the upper end of the saloon, above the door, the 
 dark Gothic portrait of " Sir John Byron the Little 
 with the great Beard " looked grimly down from his 
 canvas, while, at the opposite end, a white marble bust 
 of the genius loci, the noble poet, shone conspicuously 
 from its pedestal. 
 
 The whole air and style of the apartment partook 
 more of the palace than the monastery, and its win 
 dows looked forth on a suitable prospect, composed of 
 beautiful groves, smooth verdant lawns, and silver 
 sheets of water. Below the windows was a small 
 flower-garden, enclosed by stone balustrades, on which 
 were stately peacocks, sunning themselves and display 
 ing their plumage. About the grass plots in front were 
 gay cock-pheasants, and plump partridges, and nimble- 
 footed water-hens, feeding almost in perfect security. 
 
 Such was the medley of objects presented to the eye 
 on first visiting the Abbey, and I found the interior 
 fully to answer the description of the poet : 
 
 The mansion's self was vast and venerable, 
 With more of the monastic than has been 
 
 Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable, 
 The cells, too, and refectory, I ween ; 
 
 An exquisite small chapel had been able, 
 Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene; 
 
 The rest had been reformed, replaced, or sunk, 
 
 And spoke more of the friar than the monk. 
 
 Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, joined 
 By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, 
 
 Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined 
 Formed a whole, which, irregular in parts, 
 
 Yet left a grand impression on the mind, 
 
 At least of those whose eyes were in their hearts. 
 
 It is not my intention to lay open the scenes of 
 domestic life at the Abbey, nor to describe the festivi 
 ties of which I was a partaker during my sojourn 
 within its hospitable walls. I wish merely to present 
 a picture of the edifice itself, and of those personages
 
 16 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 and circumstances about it connected with the memory 
 of Byron. 
 
 I forbear, therefore, to dwell on my reception by 
 my excellent and amiable host and hostess, or to make 
 my reader acquainted with the elegant inmates of the 
 mansion that I met in the saloon; and I shall pass 
 on at once with him to the chamber allotted me, and 
 to which I was most respectfully conducted by the 
 chamberlain. 
 
 It was one of a magnificent suite of rooms, extend 
 ing between the court of the cloisters and the Abbey 
 garden, the windows looking into the latter. The 
 whole suite formed the ancient state apartment, and 
 had fallen into decay during the neglected days of the 
 Abbey, so as to be in a ruinous condition in the time of 
 Lord Byron. It had since been restored to its ancient 
 splendor, of which my chamber may be cited as a 
 specimen. It was lofty and well proportioned; the 
 lower part of the walls was panelled with ancient oak, 
 the upper part hung with gobelin tapestry, representing 
 Oriental hunting-scenes, wherein the figures were of 
 the size of life, and of great vivacity of attitude and 
 color. 
 
 The furniture was antique, dignified, and cumbrous. 
 High-backed chairs, curiously carved, and wrought in 
 needlework; a massive clothes-press of dark oak, well 
 polished, and inlaid with landscapes of various tinted 
 woods; a bed of state, ample and lofty, so as only to 
 be ascended by a movable flight of steps, the huge 
 posts supporting a high tester with a tuft of crimson 
 plumes at each corner, and rich curtains of crimson 
 damask hanging in broad and heavy folds. 
 
 A venerable mirror of plate-glass stood on the toilet, 
 in which belles of former centuries may have con 
 templated and decorated their charms. The floor of 
 the chamber was of tessellated oak, shining with wax, 
 and partly covered by a Turkey carpet. In the centre
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 17 
 
 stood a massy oaken table, waxed and polished as 
 smooth as glass, and furnished with a writing-desk of 
 perfumed rosewood. 
 
 ^ A sober light was admitted into the room through 
 Gothic stone-shafted casements, partly shaded by 
 crimson curtains, and partly overshadowed by the 
 trees of the garden. This solemnly tempered light 
 added to the effect of the stately and antiquated 
 interior. 
 
 Two portraits, suspended over the doors, were in 
 keeping with the scene. They were in ancient Van 
 dyke dresses ; one was a cavalier, who may have oc 
 cupied this apartment in days of yore, the other was 
 a lady with a black velvet mask in her hand, who may 
 once have arrayed herself for conquest at the very 
 mirror I have described. 
 
 The most curious relic of old times, however, in 
 this quaint but richly dight apartment, was a great 
 chimney-piece of panel-work, carved in high relief, 
 with niches or compartments, each containing a human 
 bust, that protruded almost entirely from the wall. 
 Some of the figures were in ancient Gothic garb; the 
 most striking among them was a female, who was 
 earnestly regarded by a fierce Saracen from an ad 
 joining niche. 
 
 This panel-work is among the mysteries of the 
 Abbey, and causes as much wide speculation as the 
 Egyptian hieroglyphics. Some suppose it to illustrate 
 an adventure in the Holy Land, and that the lady in 
 effigy had been rescued by some crusader of the family 
 from the turbaned Turk who watches her so earnestly. 
 What tends to give weight to these suppositions is, 
 that similar pieces of panel-work exist in other parts 
 of the Abbey, in all of which are to be seen the Chris 
 tian lady and her Saracen guardian or lover. At the 
 bottom of these sculptures are emblazoned the armorial 
 bearings of the Byrons.
 
 i8 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 I shall not detain the reader, however, with any 
 further description of my apartment, or of the mys 
 teries connected with it. As he is to pass some days 
 with me at the Abbey, we shall have time to examine 
 the old edifice at our leisure, and to make ourselves 
 acquainted, not merely with its interior, but likewise 
 with its environs. 
 
 THE ABBEY GARDEN 
 
 THE morning after my arrival, I rose at an early hour. 
 The daylight was peering brightly between the window- 
 curtains, and drawing them apart, I gazed through' the 
 Gothic casement upon a scene that accorded in char 
 acter with the interior of the ancient mansion. It was 
 the old Abbey garden, but altered to suit the tastes of 
 different times and occupants. In one direction were 
 shady walks and alleys, broad terraces and lofty 
 groves; in another, beneath a gray monastic-looking 
 angle of the edifice, overrun with ivy and surmounted 
 by a cross, lay a small French garden, with for 
 mal flower-pots, gravelled walks, and stately stone 
 balustrades. 
 
 The beauty of the morning, and the quiet of the 
 hour, tempted me to an early stroll ; for it is pleasant 
 to enjoy such old-time places alone, when one may 
 indulge poetical reveries, and spin cobweb fancies 
 without interruption. Dressing myself, therefore, 
 with all speed, I descended a small flight of steps from 
 the state apartment into the long corridor over the 
 cloisters, along which I passed to a door at the farther 
 end. Here I emerged into the open air, and, descend 
 ing another flight of stone steps, found myself in the 
 centre of what had once been the Abbey chapel. 
 
 Nothing of the sacred edifice remained, however, 
 but the Gothic front, with its deep portal and grand
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 19 
 
 lancet-window, already described. The nave, the side 
 walls, the choir, the sacristy, all had disappeared. The 
 open sky was over my head, a smooth-shaven grass- 
 plot beneath my feet. Gravel-walks and shrubberies 
 had succeeded to the shadowy aisles, and stately trees 
 to the clustering columns. 
 
 Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 
 
 The humid pall of life-extinguished clay, 
 In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, 
 
 Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 
 Where now the bats their wavering wings extend, 
 
 Soon as the gloaming spreads her warning shade, 
 The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
 
 Or matin orisons to Mary paid. 
 
 Instead of the matin orisons of the monks, how 
 ever, the ruined walls of the chapel now resounded to 
 the cawing of innumerable rooks that were fluttering 
 and hovering about the dark grove which they in 
 habited, and preparing for their morning flight. 
 
 My ramble led me along quiet alleys, bordered by 
 shrubbery, where the solitary water-hen would now 
 and then scud across my path, and take refuge among 
 the bushes. From hence I entered upon a broad ter 
 raced walk, once a favorite resort of the friars, which 
 extended the whole length of the old Abbey garden, 
 passing along the ancient stone wall which bounded 
 it. In the centre of the garden lay one of the monkish 
 fish-pools, an oblong sheet of water, deep set, like a 
 mirror, in green sloping banks of turf. In its glassy 
 bosom was reflected the dark mass of a neighboring 
 grove, one of the most important features of the 
 garden. 
 
 This grove goes by the sinister name of " the Devil's 
 Wood," and enjoys but an equivocal character in the 
 neighborhood. It was planted by " The Wicked Lord 
 Byron," during the early part oi his residence at the 
 Abbey, before his fatal duel with Mr. Chaworth. 
 Having something of a foreign and a classical taste,
 
 20 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 he set up leaden statues of satyrs or fauns at each 
 end of the grove. The statues, like everything else 
 about the old Lord, fell under the suspicion and oblo 
 quy that overshadowed him in the latter part of his 
 life. The country people, who knew nothing of 
 heathen mythology and its sylvan deities, looked with 
 horror at idols invested with the diabolical attributes 
 of horns and cloven feet. They probably supposed 
 them some object of secret worship of the gloomy and 
 secluded misanthrope and reputed murderer, and gave 
 them the name of " The old Lord's Devils." 
 
 I penetrated the recesses of the mystic grove. There 
 stood the ancient and much slandered statues, over 
 shadowed by tall larches, and stained by dank green 
 mould. It is not a matter of surprise that strange 
 figures, thus behoofed and behorned, and set up in a 
 gloomy grove, should perplex the minds of the simple 
 and superstitious yeomanry. There are many of the 
 tastes and caprices of the rich, that in the eyes of the 
 uneducated must savor of insanity. 
 
 I was attracted to this grove, however, by memorials 
 of a more touching character. It had been one of the 
 favorite haunts of the late Lord Byron. In his fare 
 well visit to the Abbey, after he had parted with the 
 possession of it, he passed some time in this grove, in 
 company with his sister; and as a last memento, en 
 graved their names on the bark of a tree. 
 
 The feelings that agitated his bosom during this 
 farewell visit, when he beheld round him objects dear 
 to his pride, and dear to his juvenile recollections, but 
 of which the narrowness of his fortune would not 
 permit him to retain possession, may be gathered from 
 a passage in a poetical epistle, written to his sister in 
 after-years : 
 
 I did remind you of pur own dear lake 
 
 By the old hall which may be mine no more; 
 
 Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
 The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore :
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 21 
 
 Sad havoc Time must with my memory make 
 Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
 Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
 Resign'd forever, or divided far. 
 
 I feel almost at times as I have felt 
 
 In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks, 
 Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
 
 Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
 Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
 
 My heart with recognition of their looks; 
 And even at moments I would think I see 
 Some living things I love but none like thee. 
 
 I searched the grove for some time, before I found 
 the tree on which Lord Byron had left his frail me 
 morial. It was an elm of peculiar form, having two 
 trunks which sprang from the same root, and, after 
 growing side by side, mingled their branches together. 
 He had selected it, doubtless, as emblematical of 
 his sister and himself. The names of BYRON and 
 AUGUSTA were still visible. They had been deeply 
 cut in the bark, but the natural growth of the tree was 
 gradually rendering them illegible, and a few years 
 hence, strangers will seek in vain for this record of 
 fraternal affection. 
 
 Leaving the grove, I continued my ramble along a 
 spacious terrace, overlooking what had once been the 
 kitchen-garden of the Abbey. Below me lay the 
 monks' stew, or fish-pond, a dark pool, overhung by 
 gloomy cypresses, with a solitary water-hen swim 
 ming about in it. 
 
 A little further on, and the terrace looked down 
 upon the stately scene on the south side of the Abbey ; 
 the flower-garden, with its stone balustrades and 
 stately peacocks, the lawn, with its pheasants and par 
 tridges, and the soft valley of Newstead beyond. 
 
 At a distance, on the border of the lawn, stood an 
 other memento of Lord Byron; an oak planted by 
 him in his boyhood, on his first visit to the Abbey.
 
 22 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 With a superstitious feeling inherent in him, he linked 
 his own destiny with that of the tree. " As it fares," 
 said he, " so will fare my fortunes." Several years 
 elapsed, many of them passed in idleness and dissipa 
 tion. He returned to the Abbey a youth scarce grown 
 to manhood, but, as he thought, with vices and follies 
 beyond his years. He found his emblem oak almost 
 choked by weeds and brambles, and took the lesson 
 to himself. 
 
 Young oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
 I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine, 
 
 That thy dark waving branches would flourish around, 
 And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 
 
 Such, such was my hope when in infancy's years 
 On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride ; 
 
 They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears 
 Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. 
 
 I leaned over the stone balustrade of the terrace, 
 and gazed upon the valley of Newstead, with its silver 
 sheets of water gleaming in the morning sun. It was 
 a Sabbath morning, which always seems to have a 
 hallowed influence over the landscape, probably from 
 the quiet of the day, and the cessation of all kinds of 
 week-day labor. As I mused upon the mild and beau 
 tiful scene, and the wayward destinies of the man 
 whose stormy temperament forced him from this tran 
 quil paradise to battle with the passions and perils of 
 the world, the sweet chime of bells from a village a 
 few miles distant came stealing up the valley. Every 
 sight and sound this morning seemed calculated to 
 summon up touching recollections of poor Byron. The 
 chime was from the village spire of Hucknall Torkard, 
 beneath which his remains lie buried ! 
 
 I have since visited his tomb. It is in an old 
 
 gray country church, venerable with the lapse of cen 
 turies. He lies buried beneath the pavement, at one 
 end of the principal aisle. A light falls on the spot
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 23 
 
 through the stained glass of a Gothic window, and a 
 tablet on the adjacent wall announces the family vault 
 of the Byrons. It had been the wayward intention of 
 the poet to be entombed, with his faithful dog, in the 
 monument erected by him in the garden of Newstead 
 Abbey. His executors showed better judgment and 
 feeling, in consigning his ashes to the family sepulchre, 
 to mingle with those of his mother and his kindred. 
 Here, 
 
 After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well. 
 Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing 
 Can touch him further ! 
 
 How nearly did his dying hour realize the wish 
 made by him, but a few years previously, in one of his 
 fitful moods of melancholy and misanthropy : 
 
 When time, or soon or late, shall bring 
 The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 
 
 Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 
 Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 
 
 No band of friends or heirs be there, 
 To weep or wish the coming blow : 
 
 No maiden with dishevelled hair, 
 To feel, or feign decorous woe. 
 
 But silent let me sink to earth, 
 With no officious mourners near: 
 
 I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
 Nor startle friendship with a tear. 
 
 He died among strangers, in a foreign land, with 
 out a kindred hand to close his eyes; yet he did not 
 die unwept. With all his faults and errors, and pas 
 sions and caprices, he had the gift of attaching his 
 humble dependants warmly to him. One of them, a 
 poor Greek, accompanied his remains to England, and 
 followed them to the grave. I am told that, during 
 the ceremony, he stood holding on by a pew in an 
 agony of grief, and when all was over, seemed as if 
 he would have gone down into the tomb with the body
 
 24 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 of his master. A nature that could inspire such at 
 tachments, must have been generous and beneficent. 
 
 PLOUGH MONDAY 
 
 SHERWOOD FOREST is a region that still retains much 
 of the quaint customs and holiday games of the olden 
 time. A day or two after my arrival at the Abbey, as 
 I was walking in the cloisters, I heard the sound of 
 rustic music, and now and then a burst of merriment, 
 proceeding from the interior of the mansion. Pres 
 ently the chamberlain came and informed me that a 
 party of country lads were in the servants' hall, per 
 forming Plough Monday antics, and invited me to wit 
 ness their mummery. I gladly assented, for I am 
 somewhat curious about these relics of popular usages. 
 The servants' hall was a fit place for the exhibition of 
 an old Gothic game. It was a chamber of great extent 
 which in monkish times had been the refectory of the 
 Abbey. A row of massive columns extended length 
 wise through the centre, whence sprung Gothic arches, 
 supporting the low vaulted ceiling. Here was a set of 
 rustics dressed up in something of the style repre 
 sented in the books concerning popular antiquities. 
 One was in a rough garb of frieze, with his head 
 muffled in bear-skin, and a bell dangling behind him, 
 that jingled at every movement. He was the clown, 
 or fool of the party, probably a traditional representa 
 tive of the ancient satyr. The rest were decorated 
 with ribbons and armed with wooden swords. The 
 leader of the troop recited the old ballad of St. George 
 and the Dragon, which had been current among the 
 country people for ages; his companions accompanied 
 the recitation with some rude attempt at acting, while 
 the clown cut all kinds of antics.
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 25 
 
 To these succeeded a set of morris-dancers, gayly 
 dressed up with ribbons and hawks'-bells. In this 
 troop we had Robin Hood and Maid Marian, the 
 latter represented by a smooth-faced boy: also, Beel 
 zebub, equipped with a broom, and accompanied by his 
 wife Bessy, a termagant old beldame. These rude 
 pageants are the lingering remains of the old customs 
 of Plough Monday, when bands of rustics, fantasti 
 cally dressed, and furnished with pipe and tabor, 
 dragged what was called the " fool plough " from 
 house to house, singing ballads and performing antics, 
 for which they were rewarded with money and good 
 cheer. 
 
 But it is not in " merry Sherwood Forest " alone 
 that these remnants of old times prevail. They are 
 to be met with in most of the counties north of the 
 Trent, which classic stream seems to be the boundary- 
 line of primitive customs. During my recent Christ 
 mas sojourn at Barlboro Hall, on the skirts of Derby 
 shire and Yorkshire, I had witnessed many of the 
 rustic festivities peculiar to that joyous season, which 
 have rashly been pronounced obsolete by those who 
 draw their experience merely from city life. I had 
 seen the great Yule clog put on the fire on Christmas 
 Eve, and the wassail-bowl sent round, brimming with 
 its spicy beverage. I had heard carols beneath my 
 window by the choristers of the neighboring village, 
 who went their rounds about the ancient Hall at mid 
 night, according to immemorial custom. We had 
 mummers and mimers too, with the story of St. George 
 and the Dragon, and other ballads and traditional dia 
 logues, together with the famous old interlude of the 
 Hobby Horse, all represented in the antechamber and 
 servants' hall by rustics, who inherited the custom and 
 the poetry from preceding generations. 
 
 The boar's head, crowned with rosemary, had taken 
 its honored station among the Christmas cheer; the
 
 26 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 festal board had been attended by glee-singers and 
 minstrels from the village to entertain the company 
 with hereditary songs and catches during their repast ; 
 and the old Pyrrhic game of the sword-dance, handed 
 down since the time of the Romans, was admirably 
 performed in the court-yard of the mansion by a band 
 of young men, lithe and supple in their forms and 
 graceful in their movements, who, I was told, went the 
 rounds of the villages and country-seats during the 
 Christmas holidays. , 
 
 I specify these rural pageants and ceremonials, which 
 I saw during my sojourn in this neighborhood, because 
 it has been deemed that some of the anecdotes of holi 
 day customs given in my preceding writings related to 
 usages which have entirely passed away. Critics who 
 reside in cities have little idea of the primitive manners 
 and observances which still prevail in remote and rural 
 neighborhoods. 
 
 In fact, in crossing the Trent one seems to step back 
 into old times ; and in the villages of Sherwood Forest 
 we are in a black-letter region. The moss-green cot 
 tages, the lowly mansions of gray stone, the Gothic 
 crosses at each end of the villages, and the tall May 
 pole in the centre, transport us in imagination to fore 
 gone centuries ; everything has a quaint and antiquated 
 air. 
 
 The tenantry on the Abbey estate partake of this 
 primitive character. Some of the families have rented 
 farms there for nearly three hundred years ; and, not 
 withstanding that their mansions fell to decay, and 
 everything about them partook of the general waste 
 and misrule of the Byron dynasty, yet nothing could 
 uproot them from their native soil. I am happy to say 
 that Colonel Wildman has taken these stanch loyal 
 families under his peculiar care. He has favored them 
 in their rents, repaired, or rather rebuilt their farm 
 houses, and has enabled families that had almost sunk
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 27 
 
 into the class of mere rustic laborers once more to hold 
 up their heads among the yeomanry of the land. 
 
 I visited one of these renovated establishments that 
 had but lately been a mere ruin, and now was a sub 
 stantial grange. It was inhabited by a young couple. 
 The good woman showed every part of the establish 
 ment with decent pride, exulting in its comfort and 
 respectability. Her husband, I understood, had risen 
 in consequence with the improvement of his mansion, 
 and now began to be known among his rustic neigh 
 bors by the appellation of " the young Squire." 
 
 OLD SERVANTS 
 
 IN an old, time-worn, and mysterious-looking mansion 
 like Newstead Abbey, and one so haunted by monkish 
 and feudal and poetical associations, it is a prize to 
 meet with some ancient crone, who has passed a long 
 life about the place, so as to have become a living 
 chronicle of its fortunes and vicissitudes. Such a one 
 is Nanny Smith, a worthy dame, near seventy years 
 of age, who for a long time served as housekeeper to 
 the Byrons. The Abbey and its domains comprise her 
 world, beyond which she knows nothing, but within 
 which she has ever conducted herself with native 
 shrewdness and old-fashioned honesty. When Lord 
 Byron sold the Abbey, her vocation was at end, still 
 she lingered about the place, having for it the local 
 attachment of a cat. Abandoning her comfortable 
 housekeeper's apartment, she took shelter in one of 
 the " rock houses," which are nothing more than a 
 little neighborhood of cabins, excavated in the perpen 
 dicular walls of a stone quarry, at no great distance 
 from the Abbey. Three cells, cut in the living rock, 
 formed her dwelling; these she fitted up humbly but
 
 28 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 comfortably; her son William labored in the neighbor 
 hood, and aided to support her, and Nanny Smith 
 maintained a cheerful aspect and an independent spirit. 
 One of her gossips suggested to her that William 
 should marry, and bring home a young wife to help 
 her and take care of her. " Nay, nay," replied Nanny, 
 tartly, " I want no young mistress in my house." So 
 much for the love of rule poor Nanny's house was 
 a hole in a rock ! 
 
 Colonel Wildman, on taking possession of the 
 Abbey, found Nanny Smith thus humbly nestled. 
 With that active benevolence which characterizes him, 
 he immediately set William up in a small farm on the 
 estate, where Nanny Smith has a comfortable mansion 
 in her old days. Her pride is roused by her son's ad 
 vancement. She remarks with exultation that people 
 treat William with much more respect now that he is 
 a farmer, than they did when he was a laborer. A 
 farmer of the neighborhood has even endeavored to 
 make a match between him and his sister, but Nanny 
 Smith has grown fastidious, and interfered. The girl, 
 she said, was too old for her son ; besides, she did not 
 see that he was in any need of a wife. 
 
 " No," said William, " I ha' no great mind to marry 
 the wench; but if the Colonel and his lady wish it, I 
 am willing. They have been so kind to me that I 
 should think it my duty to please them." The Colonel 
 and his lady, however, have not thought proper to put 
 honest William's gratitude to so severe a test. 
 
 Another worthy whom Colonel Wildman found 
 vegetating upon the place, and who had lived there for 
 at least sixty years, was old Joe Murray. He had come 
 there when a mere boy in the train of the " old lord," 
 about the middle of the last century, and had contin 
 ued with him until his death. Having been a cabin- 
 boy when very young, Joe always fancied himself a 
 bit of a sailor, and had charge of all the pleasure-boats
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 29 
 
 on the lake, though he afterwards rose to the dignity 
 of butler. In the latter days of the old Lord Byron, 
 when he shut himself up from all the world, Joe Mur 
 ray was the only servant retained by him, excepting 
 his housekeeper, Betty Hardstaff, who was reputed to 
 have an undue sway over him, and was derisively called 
 Lady Betty, among the country folk. 
 
 When the Abbey came into the possession of the 
 late Lord Byron, Joe Murray accompanied it as a fix 
 ture. He was reinstated as butler in the Abbey, and 
 high admiral on the lake, and his sturdy honest mas 
 tiff qualities won so upon Lord Byron as even to rival 
 his Newfoundland dog in his affections. Often, when 
 dining, he would pour out a bumper of choice Madeira, 
 and hand it to Joe as he stood behind his chair. In 
 fact, when he built the monumental tomb which stands 
 in the Abbey garden, he intended it for himself, Joe 
 Murray, and the dog. The two latter were to lie on 
 each side of him. Boatswain died not long afterwards, 
 and was regularly interred, and the well-known epi 
 taph inscribed on one side of the monument. Lord 
 Byron departed for Greece; during his absence a 
 gentleman, to whom Joe Murray was showing the 
 tomb, observed, " Well, old boy, you will take your 
 place here some twenty years hence." 
 
 "I don't know that, sir," growled Joe, in reply; 
 " if I was sure his Lordship would come here, I should 
 like it well enough, but I should not like to lie alone 
 with the dog." 
 
 Joe Murray was always extremely neat in his dress, 
 and attentive to his person, and made a most respect 
 able appearance. A portrait of him still hangs in the 
 Abbey, representing him a hale fresh-looking fellow, 
 in a flaxen wig, a blue coat and buff waistcoat, with a 
 pipe in his hand. He discharged all the duties of his 
 station with great fidelity, unquestionable honesty, and 
 much outward decorum; but, if we may believe his
 
 30 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 contemporary, Nanny Smith, who, as housekeeper, 
 shared the sway of the household with him, he was 
 very lax in his minor morals, and used to sing loose 
 and profane songs as he presided at the table in the 
 servants' hall, or sat taking his ale and smoking his 
 pipe by the evening fire. Joe had evidently derived 
 his convivial notions from the race of English country 
 squires who flourished in the days of his juvenility. 
 Nanny Smith was scandalized at his ribald songs, but 
 being above harm herself, endured them in silence. 
 At length, on his singing them before a young girl of 
 sixteen, she could contain herself no longer, but read 
 him a lecture that made his ears ring, and then flounced 
 off to bed. The lecture seems, by her account, to have 
 staggered Joe, for he told her the next morning that 
 he had had a terrible dream in the night. An Evan 
 gelist stood at the foot of his bed with a great Dutch 
 Bible, which he held with the printed part towards him, 
 and after a while pushed it in his face. Nanny Smith 
 undertook to interpret the vision, and read from it 
 such a homily, and deduced such awful warnings, that 
 Joe became quite serious, left off singing, and took to 
 reading good books for a month ; but after that, con 
 tinued Nanny, he relapsed and became as bad as ever, 
 and continued to sing loose and profane songs to his 
 dying day. 
 
 When Colonel Wildman became proprietor of the 
 Abbey, he found Joe Murray flourishing in a green old 
 age, though upwards of fourscore, and continued him 
 in his station as butler. The old man was rejoiced at 
 the extensive repairs that were immediately com 
 menced, and anticipated with pride the day when the 
 Abbey should rise out of its ruins with renovated splen 
 dor, its gates be thronged with trains and equipages, 
 and its halls once more echo to the sound of joyous 
 hospitality. 
 
 What chiefly, however, concerned Joe's pride and
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 31 
 
 ambition, was a plan of the Colonel's to have the an 
 cient refectory of the convent, a great vaulted room, 
 supported by Gothic columns, converted into a ser 
 vants' hall. Here Joe looked forward to rule the roast 
 at the head of the servants' table, and to make the 
 Gothic arches ring with those hunting and hard-drink 
 ing ditties which were the horror of the discreet Nanny 
 Smith. Time, however, was fast wearing away with 
 him, and his great fear was that the hall would not be 
 completed in his day. In his eagerness to hasten the 
 repairs, he used to get up early in the morning, and 
 ring up the workmen. Notwithstanding his great age, 
 also, he would turn out half -dressed in cold weather 
 to cut sticks for the fire. Colonel Wildman kindly 
 remonstrated with him for thus risking his health, as 
 others would do the work for him. 
 
 " Lord, sir," exclaimed the hale old fellow, " it 's 
 my air-bath, I 'm all the better for it." 
 
 Unluckily, as he was thus employed one morning, 
 a splinter flew up and wounded one of his eyes. An 
 inflammation took place ; he lost the sight of that eye, 
 and subsequently of the other. Poor Joe gradually 
 pined away, and grew melancholy. Colonel Wildman 
 kindly tried to cheer him up. " Come, come, old boy," 
 cried he, " be of good heart ; you will yet take your 
 place in the servants' hall." 
 
 " Nay, nay, sir," replied he, " I did hope once that 
 I should live to see it; I looked forward to it with 
 pride, I confess ; but it is all over with me now, I 
 shall soon go home ! " 
 
 He died shortly afterwards, at the advanced age of 
 eighty-six, seventy of which had been passed as an 
 honest and faithful servant at the Abbey. Colonel 
 Wildman had him decently interred in the church of 
 Hucknall Torkard, near the vault of Lord Byron.
 
 32 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 SUPERSTITIONS OF THE ABBEY 
 
 THE anecdotes I had heard of the quondam house 
 keeper of Lord Byron, rendered me desirous of paying 
 her a visit. I rode in company with Colonel Wildman, 
 therefore, to the cottage of her son William, where she 
 resides, and found her seated by her fireside, with a 
 favorite cat perched upon her shoulder and purring in 
 her ear. Nanny Smith is a large, good-looking woman, 
 a specimen of the old-fashioned country housewife, 
 combining antiquated notions and prejudices, and very 
 limited information, with natural good sense. She 
 loves to gossip about the Abbey and Lord Byron, and 
 was soon drawn into a course of anecdotes, though 
 mostly of an humble kind, such as suited the meridian 
 of the housekeeper's room and servants' hall. She 
 seemed to entertain a kind recollection of Lord Byron, 
 though she had evidently been much perplexed by some 
 of his vagaries ; and especially by the means he adopted 
 to counteract his tendency to corpulency. He used 
 various modes to sweat himself down: sometimes he 
 would lie for a long time in a warm bath, sometimes 
 he would walk up the hills in the park, wrapped up and 
 loaded with great-coats ; " a sad toil for the poor 
 youth," added Nanny, " he being so lame." 
 
 His meals were scanty and irregular, consisting of 
 dishes which Nanny seemed to hold in great contempt, 
 such as pilaw, maccaroni, and light puddings. 
 
 She contradicted the report of the licentious life 
 which he was reported to lead at the Abbey, and of the 
 paramours said to have been brought with him from 
 London. " A great part of his time used to be passed 
 lying on a sofa reading. Sometimes he had young 
 gentlemen of his acquaintance with him, and they
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 33 
 
 played some mad pranks ; but nothing but what young 
 gentlemen may do, and no harm done." 
 
 " Once, it is true," she added, " he had with him a 
 beautiful boy as a page, which the housemaids said was 
 a girl. For my part, I know nothing about it. Poor 
 soul, he was so lame he could not go out much with 
 the men ; all the comfort he had was to be a little with 
 the lasses. The housemaids, however, were very jeal 
 ous ; one of them, in particular, took the matter in great 
 dudgeon. Her name was Lucy; she was a great fa 
 vorite with Lord Byron, and had been much noticed 
 by him, and began to have high notions. She had her 
 fortune told by a man who squinted, to whom she gave 
 two-and-sixpence. He told her to hold up her head 
 and look high, for she would come to great things. 
 Upon this," added Nanny, " the poor thing dreamt of 
 nothing less than becoming a lady, and mistress of the 
 Abbey; and promised me, if such luck should happen 
 to her, she would be a good friend to me. Ah, wella- 
 day! Lucy never had the fine fortune she dreamt of; 
 but she had better than I thought for ; she is now mar 
 ried, and keeps a public house at Warwick." 
 
 Finding that we listened to her with great attention, 
 Nanny Smith went on with her gossiping. " One 
 time," said she, " Lord Byron took a notion that there 
 was a deal of money buried about the Abbey by the 
 monks in old times, and nothing would serve him but 
 he must have the flagging taken up in the cloisters; 
 and they digged and digged, but found nothing but 
 stone coffins full of bones. Then he must needs have 
 one of the coffins put in one end of the great hall, so 
 that the servants were afraid to go there of nights. 
 Several of the skulls were cleaned and put in frames in 
 his room. I used to have to go into the room at night 
 to shut the windows, and if I glanced an eye at them, 
 they all seemed to grin, which I believe skulls always 
 do. I can't say but I was glad to get out of the room.
 
 34 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 " There was at one time (and for that matter there 
 is still) a good deal said about ghosts haunting about 
 the Abbey. The keeper's wife said she saw two stand 
 ing in a dark part of the cloisters just opposite the 
 chapel, and one in the garden by the lord's well. Then 
 there was a young lady, a cousin of Lord Byron, who 
 was staying in the Abbey, and slept in the room next the 
 clock; and she told me that one night when she was 
 lying in bed, she saw a lady in white come out of the 
 wall on one side of the room, and go into the wall on 
 the opposite side. 
 
 " Lord Byron one day said to me, ' Nanny, what 
 nonsense they tell about ghosts, as if there ever were 
 any such things. I have never seen anything of the 
 kind about the Abbey, and I warrant you have not/ 
 This was all done, do you see, to draw me out; but 
 I said nothing, but shook my head. However, they 
 say his lordship did once see something. It was in the 
 great hall: something all black and hairy: he said 
 it was the devil. 
 
 " For my part," continued Nanny Smith, " I never 
 saw anything of the kind, but I heard something 
 once. I was one evening scrubbing the floor of the 
 little dining-room at the end of the long gallery; it 
 was after dark ; I expected every moment to be called 
 to tea, but wished to finish what I was about. All at 
 once I heard heavy footsteps in the great hall. They 
 sounded like the tramp of a horse. I took the light and 
 went to see what it was. I heard the steps come from 
 the lower end of the hall to the fireplace in the centre, 
 where they stopped; but I could see nothing. I re 
 turned to my work, and in a little time heard the same 
 noise again. I went again with the light ; the footsteps 
 stopped by the fireplace as before ; still I could see noth 
 ing. I returned to my work, when I heard the steps 
 for a third time. I then went into the hall without a 
 light, but they stopped just the same, by the fireplace
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 35 
 
 half-way up the hall. I thought this rather odd, but 
 returned to my work. When it was finished, I took the 
 light and went through the hall, as that was my way to 
 the kitchen. I heard no more footsteps, and thought 
 no more of the matter, when, on coming to the lower 
 end of the hall, I found the door locked, and then, 
 on one side of the door, I saw the stone coffin with 
 the skull and bones that had been digged up in the 
 cloisters." 
 
 Here Nanny paused: I asked her if she believed 
 that the mysterious footsteps had any connection with 
 the skeleton in the coffin ; but she shook her head, and 
 would not commit herself. We took our leave of the 
 good old dame shortly after, and the story she had 
 related gave subject for conversation on our ride home 
 ward. It was evident she had spoken the truth as to 
 what she had heard, but had been deceived by some 
 peculiar effect of sound. Noises are propagated about 
 a huge irregular edifice of the kind in a very deceptive 
 manner; footsteps are prolonged and reverberated by 
 the vaulted cloisters and echoing halls; the creaking 
 and slamming of distant gates, the rushing of the blast 
 through the groves and among the ruined arches of the 
 chapel, have all a strangely delusive effect at night. 
 
 Colonel Wildman gave an instance of the kind from 
 his own experience. Not long after he had taken up 
 his residence at the Abbey, he heard one moonlight 
 night a noise as if a carriage was passing at a distance. 
 He opened the window and leaned out. It then seemed 
 as if the great iron roller was dragged along the gravel- 
 walks and terrace, but there was nothing to be seen. 
 When he saw the gardener on the following morning, 
 he questioned him about working so late at night. The 
 gardener declared that no one had been at work, and 
 the roller was chained up. He was sent to examine it, 
 and came back with a countenance full of surprise. 
 The roller had been moved in the night, but he declared
 
 36 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 no mortal hand could have moved it. " Well," replied 
 the Colonel, good-humoredly, " I am glad to find I 
 have a brownie to work for me." 
 
 Lord Byron did much to foster and give currency to 
 the superstitious tales connected with the Abbey, by 
 believing, or pretending to believe in them. Many 
 have supposed that his mind was really tinged with 
 superstition, and that this innate infirmity was in 
 creased by passing much of his time in a lonely way, 
 about the empty halls and cloisters of the Abbey, then 
 in a ruinous melancholy state, and brooding over the 
 skulls and effigies of its former inmates. I should 
 rather think that he found poetical enjoyment in these 
 supernatural themes, and that his imagination de 
 lighted to people this gloomy and romantic pile with 
 all kinds of shadowy inhabitants. Certain it is, the 
 aspect of the mansion under the varying influence of 
 twilight and moonlight, and cloud and sunshine oper 
 ating upon its halls, and galleries, and monkish clois 
 ters, is enough to breed all kinds of fancies in the 
 minds of its inmates, especially if poetically or super- 
 stitiously inclined. 
 
 I have already mentioned some of the fabled visit 
 ants of the Abbey. The goblin friar, however, is the 
 one to whom Lord Byron has given the greatest im 
 portance. It walked the cloisters by night, and some 
 times glimpses of it were seen in other parts of the 
 Abbey. Its appearance was said to portend some im 
 pending evil to the master of the mansion. Lord 
 Byron pretended to have seen it about a month be 
 fore he contracted his ill-starred marriage with Miss 
 Milbanke. 
 
 He has embodied this tradition in the following 
 ballad, in which he represents the friar as one of the 
 ancient inmates of the Abbey, maintaining by night a 
 kind of spectral possession of it, in right of the fra 
 ternity. Other traditions, however, represent him as
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 37 
 
 one of the friars doomed to wander about the place in 
 atonement for his crimes. But to the ballad. 
 
 Beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 
 
 Who sitteth by Norman stone, 
 For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, 
 
 And his mass of the days that are gone. 
 When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 
 
 Made Norman Church his prey, 
 And expell'd the friars, one friar still 
 
 Would not be driven away. 
 
 Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right, 
 
 To turn church lands to lay, 
 With sword in hand, and torch to light 
 
 Their walls, if they said nay, 
 A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, 
 
 And he did not seem form'd of clay, 
 For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church 
 
 Though he is not seen by day. 
 
 And whether for good, or whether for ill, 
 
 It is not mine to say; 
 But still to the house of Amundeville 
 
 He abideth night and day. 
 By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said, 
 
 He flits on the bridal eve; 
 And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death 
 
 He comes but not to grieve. 
 
 When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn, 
 
 And when aught is to befall 
 That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 
 
 He walks from hall to hall. 
 His form you may trace, but not his face, 
 
 'T is shadow'd by his cowl; 
 But his eyes may be seen from the folds between 
 
 And they seem of a parted soul. 
 
 But beware ! beware of the Black Friar, 
 
 He still retains his sway, 
 For he is yet the church's heir 
 
 Whoever may be the lay. 
 Amundeville is lord by day, 
 
 But the monk is lord by night, 
 Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 
 
 To question that friar's right. 
 
 Say naught to him as he walks the hall, 
 And he '11 say naught to you ;
 
 38 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 He sweeps along in his dusky pall, 
 
 As o'er the grass the dew. 
 Then gramercy ! for the Black Friar ; 
 
 Heaven sain him ! fair or foul, 
 And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 
 
 Let ours be for his soul. 
 
 Such is the story of the goblin friar, which, partly 
 through old tradition, and partly through the influence 
 of Lord Byron's rhymes, has become completely es 
 tablished in the Abbey, and threatens to hold posses 
 sion as long as the old edifice shall endure. Various 
 visitors have either fancied, or pretended to have seen 
 him, and a cousin of Lord Byron, Miss Sally Parkins, 
 is even said to have made a sketch of him from mem 
 ory. As to the servants at the Abbey, they have be 
 come possessed with all kinds of superstitious fancies. 
 The long corridors and Gothic halls, with their ancient 
 portraits and dark figures in armor, are all haunted 
 regions to them ; they even fear to sleep alone, and will 
 scarce venture at night on any distant errand about the 
 Abbey unless they go in couples. 
 
 Even the magnificent chamber in which I was lodged 
 was subject to the supernatural influences which 
 reigned over the Abbey, and was said to be haunted by 
 " Sir John Byron the Little with the great Beard." 
 The ancient black-looking portrait of this family 
 worthy, which hangs over the door of the great saloon, 
 was said to descend occasionally at midnight from the 
 frame, and walk the rounds of the state apartments. 
 Nay, his visitations were not confined to the night, 
 for a young lady, on a visit to the Abbey some years 
 since, declared that, on passing in broad day by the 
 door of the identical chamber I have described, which 
 stood partly open, she saw Sir John Byron the Little 
 seated by the fireplace, reading out of a great black- 
 letter book. From this circumstance some have been 
 led to suppose that the story of Sir John Byron may 
 be in some measure connected with the mysterious
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 39 
 
 sculptures of the chimney-piece already mentioned; 
 but this has no countenance from the most authentic 
 antiquarians of the Abbey. 
 
 For my own part, the moment I learned the wonder 
 ful stories and strange suppositions connected with my 
 apartment, it became an imaginary realm to me. As 
 I lay in bed at night and gazed at the mysterious panel- 
 work, where Gothic knight, and Christian dame, and 
 Paynim lover gazed upon me in effigy, I used to weave 
 a thousand fancies concerning them. The great figures 
 in the tapestry, also, were almost animated by the 
 workings of my imagination, and the Vandyke por 
 traits of the cavalier and lady that looked down 
 with pale aspects from the wall, had almost a spec 
 tral effect, from their immovable gaze and silent 
 companionship ; 
 
 For by dim lights the portraits of the dead 
 Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 
 
 . . . Their buried locks still wave 
 Along the canvas ; their eyes glance like dreams 
 
 On ours, as spars within some dusky cave, 
 But death is mingled in their shadowy beams. 
 
 In this way I used to conjure up fictions of the brain, 
 and clothe the objects around me with ideal interest 
 and import, until, as the Abbey clock tolled midnight, 
 I almost looked to see Sir John Byron the Little with 
 the long Beard stalk into the room with his book under 
 his arm, and take his seat beside the mysterious 
 chimney-piece. 
 
 ANNESLEY HALL 
 
 AT about three miles' distance from Newstead Abbey, 
 and contiguous to its lands, is situated Annesley Hall, 
 the old family mansion of the Chaworths. The fami 
 lies, like the estates, of the Byrons and Chaworths were
 
 40 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 connected in former times, until the fatal duel between 
 their two representatives. The feud, however, which 
 prevailed for a time, promised to be cancelled by the 
 attachment of two youthful hearts. While Lord Byron 
 was yet a boy, he beheld Mary Ann Chaworth, a beau 
 tiful girl, and the sole heiress of Annesley. With that 
 susceptibility to female charms which he evinced almost 
 from childhood, he became almost immediately enam 
 ored of her. According to one of his biographers, it 
 would appear that at first their attachment was mutual, 
 yet clandestine. The father of Miss Chaworth was 
 then living, and may have retained somewhat of the 
 family hostility, for we are told that the interviews 
 of Lord Byron and the young lady were private, at a 
 gate which opened from her father's grounds to those 
 of Newstead. However, they were so young at the 
 time that these meetings could not have been regarded 
 as of any importance : they were little more than chil 
 dren in years ; but, as Lord Byron says of himself, his 
 feelings were beyond his age. 
 
 The passion thus early conceived was blown into a 
 flame, during a six weeks' vacation which he passed 
 with his mother at Nottingham. The father of Miss 
 Chaworth was dead, and she resided with her mother 
 at the old Hall of Annesley. During Byron's minor 
 ity, the estate of Newstead was let to Lord Grey de 
 Ruthen, but its youthful Lord was always a welcome 
 guest at the Abbey. He would pass days at a time 
 there, and make frequent visits thence to Annesley 
 Hall. His visits were encouraged by Miss Chaworth's 
 mother ; she partook none of the family feud, and prob 
 ably looked with complacency upon an attachment that 
 might heal old differences and unite two neighboring 
 estates. 
 
 The six weeks' vacation passed as a dream amongst 
 the beautiful flowers of Annesley. Byron was scarce 
 fifteen years of age, Mary Chaworth was two years
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 41 
 
 older; but his heart, as I have said, was beyond his 
 age, and his tenderness for her was deep and passion 
 ate. These early loves, like the first run of the un- 
 crushed grape, are the sweetest and strongest gushings 
 of the heart, and however they may be superseded by 
 other attachments in after-years, the memory will con 
 tinually recur to them, and fondly dwell upon their 
 recollections. 
 
 His love for Miss Chaworth, to use Lord Byron's 
 own expression, was " the romance of the most roman 
 tic period of his life," and I think we can trace the 
 effect of it throughout the whole course of his writings, 
 coming up every now and then, like some lurking 
 theme which runs through a complicated piece of 
 music, and links it all in a pervading chain of melody. 
 
 How tenderly and mournfully does he recall, in 
 after-years, the feelings awakened in his youthful and 
 inexperienced bosom by this impassioned, yet innocent 
 attachment; feelings, he says, lost or hardened in the 
 intercourse of life : 
 
 The love of better things and better days; 
 
 The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
 Of what is called the world, and the world's ways; 
 
 The moments when we gather from a glance 
 More joy than from all future pride or praise, 
 
 Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
 The heart in an existence of its own, 
 Of which another's bosom is the zone. 
 
 Whether this love was really responded to by the 
 object, is uncertain. Byron sometimes speaks as if he 
 had met with kindness in return, at other times he ac 
 knowledges that she never gave him reason to believe 
 she loved him. It is probable, however, that at first 
 she experienced some flutterings of the heart. She was 
 of a susceptible age; had as yet formed no other at 
 tachments; her lover, though boyish in years, was 
 a man in intellect, a poet in imagination, and had a 
 countenance of remarkable beauty.
 
 42 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 With the six weeks' vacation ended this brief ro 
 mance. Byron returned to school deeply enamored; 
 but if he had really made any impression on Miss Cha- 
 worth's heart, it was too slight to stand the test of 
 absence. She was at that age when a female soon 
 changes from the girl to the woman, and leaves her 
 boyish lovers far behind her. While Byron was pur 
 suing his schoolboy studies, she was mingling with 
 society, and met with a gentleman of the name of Mus 
 ters, remarkable, it is said, for manly beauty. A story 
 is told of her having first seen him from the top of 
 Annesley Hall, as he dashed through the park, with 
 hound and horn, taking the lead of the whole field in 
 a fox-chase, and that she was struck by the spirit 
 of his appearance, and his admirable horsemanship. 
 Under such favorable auspices he wooed and won her ; 
 and when Lord Byron next met her, he learned to his 
 dismay that she was the affianced bride of another. 
 
 With that pride of spirit which always distinguished 
 him, he controlled his feelings and maintained a serene 
 countenance. He even affected to speak calmly on the 
 subject of her approaching nuptials. '' The next time 
 I see you," said he, " I suppose you will be Mrs. Cha- 
 worth," (for she was to retain her family name.) 
 Her reply was " I hope so." 
 
 I have given these brief details preparatory to a 
 sketch of a visit which I made to the scene of this 
 youthful romance. Annesley Hall I understood was 
 shut up, neglected, and almost in a state of desolation ; 
 for Mr. Musters rarely visited it, residing with his 
 family in the neighborhood of Nottingham. I set out 
 for the Hall on horseback, in company with Colonel 
 Wildman, and followed by the great Newfoundland 
 dog Boatswain. In the course of our ride we visited 
 a spot memorable in the love-story I have cited. It was 
 the scene of this parting interview between Byron and 
 Miss Chaworth, prior to her marriage. A long ridge
 
 43 
 
 of upland advances into the valley of .Newstead, like a 
 promontory into a lake, and was formerly crowned by 
 a beautiful grove, a landmark to the neighboring coun 
 try. The grove and promontory are graphically de 
 scribed by Lord Byron in his " Dream," and an exqui 
 site picture given of himself, and the lovely object of 
 his boyish idolatry : 
 
 I saw two beings in the. hues of youth 
 Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
 Green, and of mild declivity, the last 
 As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, 
 Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
 But a most living landscape, and the wave 
 Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men, 
 Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill 
 Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
 Of trees, in circular array, so fixed, 
 Not by the sport of Nature, but of man: 
 These two a maiden and a youth, were there 
 Gazing the one on all that was beneath 
 Fair as herself but the boy gazed on her; 
 And both were fair, and one was beautiful : 
 And both were young yet not unlike in youth 
 As the sweet moon in the horizon's verge, 
 The maid was on the verge of womanhood : 
 The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
 Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
 There was but one beloved face on earth, 
 And that was shining on him. 
 
 I stood upon the spot consecrated by this memorable 
 interview. Below me extended the " living landscape," 
 once contemplated by the loving pair ; the gentle valley 
 of Newstead, diversified by woods and cornfields, and 
 village spires, and gleams of water, and the distant 
 towers and pinnacles of the venerable Abbey. The 
 diadem of trees, however, was gone. The attention 
 drawn to it by the poet, and the romantic manner in 
 which he had associated it with his early passion for 
 Mary Chaworth, had nettled the irritable feelings of 
 her husband, who but ill brooked the poetic celebrity
 
 44 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 conferred on his wife by the enamored verses of an 
 other. The celebrated grove stood on his estate, and 
 in a fit of spleen he ordered it to be levelled with the 
 dust. At the time of my visit the mere roots of the 
 trees were visible; but the hand that laid them low is 
 execrated by every poetical pilgrim. 
 
 Descending the hill, we soon entered a part of what 
 once was Annesley Park, and rode among time-worn 
 and tempest-riven oaks and elms, with ivy clambering 
 about their trunks, and rooks' nests among their 
 branches. The park had been cut up by a post-road, 
 crossing which, we came to the gate-house of Annesley 
 Hall. It was an old brick building that might have 
 served as an outpost or barbacan to the Hall during the 
 civil wars, when every gentleman's house was liable 
 to become a fortress. Loopholes were still visible in 
 its walls, but the peaceful ivy had mantled the sides, 
 overrun the roof, and almost buried the ancient clock 
 in front, that still marked the waning hours of its 
 decay. 
 
 An arched way led through the centre of the gate 
 house, secured by grated doors of open iron-work, 
 wrought into flowers and flourishes. These being 
 thrown open, we entered a paved court-yard, decorated 
 with shrubs and antique flower-pots, with a ruined 
 stone fountain in the centre. The whole approach re 
 sembled that of an old French chateau. 
 
 On one side of the court-yard was a range of stables, 
 now tenantless, but which bore traces of the fox 
 hunting squire; for there were stalls boxed up, into 
 which the hunters might be turned loose when they 
 came home from the chase. 
 
 At the lower end of the court, and immediately oj> 
 posite the gate-house, extended the Hall itself; a ram 
 bling, irregular pile, patched and pieced at various 
 times, and in various tastes, with gable ends, stone 
 balustrades, and enormous chimneys, that strutted out
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 45 
 
 like buttresses from the walls. The whole front of 
 the edifice was overrun with evergreens. 
 
 We applied for admission at the front door which 
 was under a heavy porch. The portal was strongly 
 barricadoed, and our knocking was echoed by waste 
 and empty halls. Everything bore an appearance of 
 abandonment. After a time, however, our knocking 
 summoned a solitary tenant from some remote corner 
 of the pile. It was a decent-looking little dame, who 
 emerged from a side-door at a distance, and seemed 
 a worthy inmate of the antiquated mansion. She had, 
 in fact, grown old with it. Her name, she said, was 
 Nanny Marsden; if she lived until next August, she 
 would be seventy-one: a great part of her life had 
 been passed in the Hall, and when the family had re 
 moved to Nottingham, she had been left in charge of 
 it. The front of the house had been thus warily bar 
 ricadoed in consequence of the late riots at Notting 
 ham, in the course of which the dwelling of her master 
 had been sacked by the mob. To guard against any 
 attempt of the kind upon the Hall, she had put it in 
 this state of defence; though I rather think she and 
 a superannuated gardener comprised the whole garri 
 son. " You must be attached to the old building," said 
 I, "after having lived so long in it." "Ah, sir!" 
 replied she, " I am getting in years, and have a fur 
 nished cottage of my own in Annesley Wood, and 
 begin to feel as if I should like to go and live in my 
 own home." 
 
 Guided by the worthy little custodian of the fortress, 
 we entered through the sally-port by which she had 
 issued forth, and soon found ourselves in a spacious 
 but somewhat gloomy hall, where the light was par 
 tially admitted through square stone-shafted windows, 
 overhung with ivy. Everything around us had the 
 air of an old-fashioned country squire's establishment. 
 In the centre of the hall was a billiard-table, and about
 
 46 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 the walls were hung portraits of race-horses, hunters, 
 and favorite dogs, mingled indiscriminately with 
 family pictures. 
 
 Staircases led up from the hall to various apart 
 ments. In one of the rooms we were shown a couple 
 of buff jerkins, and a pair of ancient jackboots, of the 
 time of the cavaliers; relics which are often to be 
 met with in the old English family mansions. These, 
 however, had peculiar value, for the good little dame 
 assured us they had belonged to Robin Hood. As 
 we were in the midst of the region over which that 
 famous outlaw once bore ruffian sway, it was not for 
 us to gainsay his claim to any of these venerable 
 relics, though we might have demurred that the articles 
 of dress here shown were of a date much later than 
 his time. Every antiquity, however, about Sherwood 
 Forest is apt to be linked with the memory of Robin 
 Hood and his gang. 
 
 As we were strolling about the mansion, our four- 
 footed attendant, Boatswain, followed leisurely, as if 
 taking a survey of the premises. I turned to rebuke 
 him for his intrusion, but the moment the old house 
 keeper understood he had belonged to Lord Byron, her 
 heart seemed to yearn towards him. 
 
 " Nay, nay," exclaimed she, " let him alone, let him 
 go where he pleases. He 's welcome. Ah, dear me ! 
 If he lived here I should take great care of him he 
 should want for nothing. Well! " continued she, fond 
 ling him, " who would have thought that I should see 
 a dog of Lord Byron in Annesley Hall ! " 
 
 " I suppose, then," said I, " you recollect something 
 of Lord Byron, when he used to visit here? " - " Ah, 
 bless him ! " cried she, " that I do ! He used to ride 
 over here and stay three days at a time, and sleep in the 
 blue room. Ah! poor fellow! He was very much 
 taken with my young mistress ; he used to walk about 
 the garden and the terraces with her, and seemed to
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 47 
 
 love the very ground she trod on. He used to call her 
 his bright morning star of Annesley." 
 
 I felt the beautiful poetic phrase thrill through me. 
 
 " You appear to like the memory of Lord Byron," 
 said I. 
 
 " Ah, sir ! why should not I ? He was always main 
 good to me when he came here. Well ! well ! they say 
 it is a pity he and my young lady did not make a match. 
 Her mother would have liked it. He was always a 
 welcome guest, and some think it would have been well 
 for him to have had her; but it was not to be! He 
 went away to school, and then Mr. Musters saw her, 
 and so things took their course." 
 
 The simple soul now showed us into the favorite 
 sitting-room of Miss Chaworth, with a small flower- 
 garden under the windows, in which she had delighted. 
 In this room Byron used to sit and listen to her as she 
 played and sang, gazing upon her with the passionate 
 and almost painful devotion of a love-sick stripling. 
 He himself gives us a glowing picture of his mute 
 idolatry : 
 
 He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 
 She was his voice; he did not speak to her, 
 But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 
 For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, 
 Which colored all his objects; he had ceased 
 To live within himself; she was his life, 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
 Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
 A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 
 And his cheek change tempestuously his heart 
 Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
 
 There was a little Welsh air, called " Mary Ann," 
 which, from bearing her own name, he associated with 
 herself, and often persuaded her to sing it over and 
 over for him. 
 
 The chamber, like all the other parts of the house, 
 had a look of sadness and neglect ; the flower-pots be-
 
 48 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 neath the window, which once bloomed beneath the 
 hand of Mary Chaworth, were overrun with weeds; 
 and the piano, which had once vibrated to her touch, 
 and thrilled the heart of her stripling lover, was now 
 unstrung and out of tune. 
 
 We continued our stroll about the waste apartments, 
 of all shapes and sizes, and without much elegance of 
 decoration. Some of them were hung with family 
 portraits, among which was pointed out that of the 
 Mr. Chaworth who was killed by the " wicked Lord 
 Byron." 
 
 These dismal-looking portraits had a powerful effect 
 upon the imagination of the stripling poet, on his first 
 visit to the Hall. As they gazed down from the wall, 
 he thought they scowled upon him, as if they had taken 
 a grudge against him on account of the duel of his 
 ancestor. He even gave this as a reason, though prob 
 ably in jest, for not sleeping at the Hall, declaring that 
 he feared they would come down from their frames 
 at night to haunt him. 
 
 A feeling of the kind he has embodied in one of his 
 stanzas of " Don Juan " : 
 
 The forms of the grim knights and pictured saints 
 Look living in the moon ; and as you turn 
 
 Backward and forward to the echoes faint 
 Of your own footsteps voices from the urn 
 
 Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 
 
 Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern, 
 
 As if to ask you how you dare to keep 
 
 A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. 
 
 Nor was the youthful poet singular in these fancies ; 
 the Hall, like most old English mansions that have an 
 cient family portraits hanging about their dusky gal 
 leries and waste apartments, had its ghost-story con 
 nected with these pale memorials of the dead. Our 
 simple-hearted conductor stopped before the portrait 
 of a lady, who had been a beauty in her time, and 
 inhabited the Hall in the heyday of her charms. Some-
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 49 
 
 thing mysterious or melancholy was connected with 
 her story; she died young, but continued for a long 
 time to haunt the ancient mansion, to the great dismay 
 of the servants, and the occasional disquiet of the vis 
 itors, and it was with much difficulty her troubled spirit 
 was conjured down and put to rest. 
 
 From the rear of the Hall we walked out into the 
 garden, about which Byron used to stroll and loiter in 
 company with Miss Chaworth. It was laid out in the 
 old French style. There was a long terraced walk, 
 with heavy stone balustrades and sculptured urns, over 
 run with ivy and evergreens. A neglected shrubbery 
 bordered one side of the terrace, with a lofty grove 
 inhabited by a venerable community of rooks. Great 
 flights of steps led down from the terrace to a flower- 
 garden, laid out in formal plots. The rear of the Hall, 
 which overlooked the garden, had the weather-stains 
 of centuries; and its stone-shafted casements, and an 
 ancient sun-dial against its walls, carried back the mind 
 to days of yore. 
 
 The retired and quiet garden, once a little seques 
 tered world of love and romance, was now all matted 
 and wild, yet was beautiful even in its decay. Its air 
 of neglect and desolation was in unison with the for 
 tune of the two beings who had once walked here in 
 the freshness of youth, and life, and beauty. The gar 
 den, like their young hearts, had gone to waste and 
 ruin. 
 
 Returning to the Hall, we now visited a chamber 
 built over the porch, or grand entrance; it was in a 
 ruinous condition, the ceiling having fallen in, and the 
 floor given way. This, however, is a chamber ren 
 dered interesting by poetical associations. It is sup 
 posed to be the oratory alluded to by Lord Byron in 
 his " Dream," wherein he pictures his departure from 
 Annesley after learning that Mary Chaworth was en 
 gaged to be married.
 
 50 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 There was an ancient mansion, and before 
 
 Its walls there was a steed caparison'd ; 
 
 Within an antique Oratory stood 
 
 The Boy of whom I spake ; he was alone, 
 
 And pale and pacing to and fro : anon 
 
 He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
 
 Words which I could not guess of ; then he lean'd 
 
 His bow'd head on his h'ands, and shook as 't were 
 
 With a convulsion then arose again, 
 
 And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
 
 What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
 
 And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
 
 Into a kind of quiet; as he paused, 
 
 The lady of his love reentered there ; 
 
 She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
 
 She knew she was by him beloved, she knew, 
 
 For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
 
 Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 
 
 That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
 
 He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 
 Was traced, and then it faded as it came ; 
 
 He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 
 
 Return'd, but not as bidding her adieu, 
 
 For they did part with mutual smiles : he pass'd 
 
 From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
 
 And mounting on his steed he went his way, 
 
 And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 
 
 In one of his journals, Lord Byron describes his 
 feelings after thus leaving the oratory. Arriving on 
 the summit of a hill, which commanded the last view 
 of Annesley, he checked his horse, and gazed back with 
 mingled pain and fondness upon the groves which em 
 bowered the Hall, and thought upon the lovely being 
 that dwelt there, until his feelings were quite dissolved 
 in tenderness. The conviction at length recurred that 
 she never could be his, when, rousing himself from his 
 reverie, he struck his spurs into his steed and dashed 
 forward, as if by rapid motion to leave reflection 
 behind him. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding what he asserts in the verses 
 last quoted, he did pass the " hoary threshold " of 
 Annesley again. It was, however, after the lapse of
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 51 
 
 several years, during which he had grown up to man 
 hood, had passed through the ordeal of pleasures and 
 tumultuous passions, and had felt the influence of 
 other charms. Miss Chaworth, too, had become a wife 
 and a mother, and he dined at Annesley Hall at the in 
 vitation of her husband. He thus met the object of 
 his early idolatry in the very scene of his tender devo 
 tions, which, as he says, her smiles had once made a 
 heaven to him. The scene was but little changed. He 
 was in the very chamber where he had so often listened 
 entranced to the witchery of her voice ; there were the 
 same instruments and music; there lay her flower- 
 garden beneath the window, and the walks through 
 which he had wandered with her in the intoxication 
 of youthful love. Can we wonder that amidst the 
 tender recollections which every object around him 
 was calculated to awaken, the fond passion of his boy 
 hood should rush back in full current to his heart? 
 He was himself surprised at this sudden revulsion of 
 his feelings, but he had acquired self-possession and 
 could command them. His firmness, however, was 
 doomed to undergo a further trial. While seated by 
 the object of his secret devotions, with all these recol 
 lections throbbing in his bosom her infant daughter 
 was brought into the room. At sight of the child he 
 started; it dispelled the last lingerings of his dream, 
 and he afterwards confessed, that to repress his emo 
 tion at the moment, was the severest part of his task. 
 
 The conflict of feelings that raged within his bosom 
 throughout this fond and tender, yet painful and em 
 barrassing visit, are touchingly depicted in lines which 
 he wrote immediately afterwards, and which, though 
 not addressed to her by name, are evidently intended 
 for the eye and the heart of the fair lady of Annesley : 
 
 Well ! them art happy, and I feel 
 
 That I should thus be happy too ; 
 For still my heart regards thy weal 
 
 Warmly, as it was wont to do.
 
 52 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 Thy husband 's blest and 't will impart 
 Some pangs to view his happier lot : 
 
 But let them pass Oh ! how my heart 
 Would hate him, if he loved thee not! 
 
 When late I saw thy favorite child 
 I thought my jealous heart would break; 
 
 But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
 I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 
 
 I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs 
 
 Its father in its face to see ; 
 But then it had its mother's eyes, 
 
 And they were all to love and me. 
 
 Mary, adieu ! I must away : 
 
 While thou art blest I '11 not repine; 
 
 But near thee I can never stay : 
 
 My heart would soon again be thine. 
 
 I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 
 Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; 
 
 Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 
 My heart in all, save love, the same. 
 
 Yet I was calm : I knew the time 
 
 My breast would thrill before thy look; 
 
 But now to tremble were a crime 
 We met, and not a nerve was shook. 
 
 I saw thee gaze upon my face, 
 
 Yet meet with no confusion there: 
 
 One only feeling couldst thou trace; 
 The sullen calmness of despair. 
 
 Away ! away ! my early dream 
 
 Remembrance never must awake : 
 Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? 
 
 My foolish heart, be still, or break. 
 
 The revival of this early passion, and the melan 
 choly associations which it spread over those scenes 
 in the neighborhood of Newstead, which would neces 
 sarily be the places of his frequent resort while in Eng 
 land, are alluded to by him as a principal cause of his 
 first departure for the Continent :
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 53 
 
 When man expell'd from Eden's bowers 
 
 A moment lingered near the gate, 
 Each scene recalled the yanish'd hours, 
 
 And bade him curse his future fate. 
 
 But wandering on through distant climes, 
 He learnt to bear his load of grief; 
 
 Just gave a sigh to other times, 
 And found in busier scenes relief. 
 
 Thus, Mary, must it be with me, 
 
 And I must view thy charms no more; 
 
 For, while I linger near to thee, 
 I sigh for all I knew before. 
 
 It was in the subsequent June that he set off on his 
 pilgrimage by sea and land, which was to become the 
 theme of his immortal poem. That the image of Mary 
 Cha worth, as he saw and loved her in the days of his 
 boyhood, followed him to the very shore, is shown in 
 the glowing stanzas addressed to her on the eve of 
 embarkation : 
 
 'T is done and shivering in the gale 
 The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
 And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
 Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast; 
 And I must from this land be gone, 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 And I will cross the whitening foam, 
 And I will seek a foreign home; 
 Till I forget a false fair face, 
 I ne'er shall find a resting place, 
 My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
 But ever love, and love but one. 
 
 To think of every early scene, 
 
 Of what we are, and what we 've been, 
 
 Would whelm some softer hearts with woe 
 
 But mine, alas ! has stood the blow ; 
 
 Yet still beats on as it begun, 
 
 And never truly loves but one. 
 
 And who that dear loved one may be 
 Is not for vulgar eyes to see, 
 And why that early love was cross'd, 
 Thou know'st the best, I feel the most ; 
 But few that dwell beneath the sun 
 Have loved so long, and loved but one.
 
 54 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 I Ve tried another's fetters too, 
 With charms, perchance, as fair to view; 
 And I would fain have loved as well, 
 But some unconquerable spell 
 Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
 A kindred care for aught but one. 
 
 'T would soothe to take one lingering view 
 And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
 Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
 For him who wanders o'er the deep ; 
 His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
 Yet still he loves and loves but one. 
 
 The painful interview at Annesley Hall which re 
 vived with such intenseness his early passion, remained 
 stamped upon his memory with singular force, and 
 seems to have survived all his " wandering through 
 distant climes," to which he trusted as an oblivious 
 antidote. Upwards of two years after that event, 
 when, having made his famous pilgrimage, he was 
 once more an inmate of Newstead Abbey, his vicinity 
 to Annesley Hall brought the whole scene vividly be 
 fore him, and he thus recalls it in a poetic epistle to 
 a friend : 
 
 I 've seen my bride another's bride, 
 Have seen her seated by his side, 
 Have seen the infant which she bore, 
 Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, 
 When she and I in youth have smiled 
 As fond and faultless as her child : 
 Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
 Ask if I felt no secret pain. 
 
 And I have acted well my part, 
 And made my cheek belie my heart, 
 Return'd the freezing glance she gave, 
 Yet felt the while that woman's slave ; 
 Have kiss'd, as if without design, 
 The babe which ought to have been mine, 
 And show'd, alas ! in each caress, 
 Time had not made me love the less. 
 
 " It was about the time," says Moore in his Life of 
 Lord Byron, " when he was thus bitterly feeling and
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 55 
 
 expressing the blight which his heart had suffered from 
 a real object of affection, that his poems on an imag 
 inary one, ' Thyrza,' were written." He was at the 
 same time grieving over the loss of several of his 
 earliest and dearest friends, the companions of his 
 joyous schoolboy hours. To recur to the beautiful 
 language of Moore, who writes with the kindred and 
 kindling sympathies of a true poet : " All these recol 
 lections of the young and the dead mingled themselves 
 in his mind with the image of her who, though living, 
 was, for him, as much lost as they, and diffused that 
 general feeling of sadness and fondness through his 
 soul, which found a vent in these poems. ... It was 
 the blending of the two affections in his memory and 
 imagination, that gave birth to an ideal object com 
 bining the best features of both, and drew from him 
 those saddest and tenderest of love-poems, in which 
 we find all the depth and intensity of real feeling, 
 touched over with such a light as no reality ever wore." 
 
 An early, innocent, and unfortunate passion, how 
 ever fruitful of pain it may be to the man, is a lasting 
 advantage to the poet. It is a well of sweet and bitter 
 fancies ; of refined and gentle sentiments ; of elevated 
 and ennobling thoughts ; shut up in the deep recesses 
 of the heart, keeping it green amidst the withering 
 blights of the world, and, by its casual gushings and 
 overflowings, recalling at times all the freshness, and 
 innocence, and enthusiasm of youthful days. Lord 
 Byron was conscious of this effect, and purposely cher 
 ished and brooded over the remembrance of his early 
 passion, and of all the scenes of Annesley Hall con 
 nected with it. It was this remembrance that attuned 
 his mind to some of its most elevated and virtuous 
 strains, and shed an inexpressible grace and pathos 
 over his best productions. 
 
 Being thus put upon the traces of this little love- 
 story, I cannot refrain from threading them out, as
 
 56 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 they appear from time to time in various passages of 
 Lord Byron's works. During his subsequent rambles 
 in the East, when time and distance had softened 
 away his " early romance " almost into the remem 
 brance of a pleasing and tender dream, he received 
 accounts of the object of it, which represented her, 
 still in her paternal Hall, among her native bowers 
 of Annesley, surrounded by a blooming and beau 
 tiful family, yet a prey to secret and withering 
 melancholy : 
 
 In her home, 
 
 A thousand leagues from his, her native home, 
 She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, 
 Daughters and sons of beauty, but behold! 
 Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
 And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 
 As if its lids were charged with unshed tears. 
 
 For an instant the buried tenderness of early youth, 
 and the fluttering hopes which accompanied it, seemed 
 to have revived in his bosom, and the idea to have 
 flashed upon his mind that his image might be con 
 nected with her secret woes; but he rejected the 
 thought almost as soon as formed. 
 
 What could her grief be? she had all she loved, 
 And he who had so loved her was not there 
 To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
 Or ill repress'd affection, her pure thoughts. 
 What could her grief be? she had loved him not, 
 Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 
 Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
 Upon her mind a spectre of the past. 
 
 The cause of her grief was a matter of rural com 
 ment in the neighborhood of Newstead and Annesley. 
 It was disconnected from all idea of Lord Byron, but 
 attributed to the harsh and capricious conduct of one 
 to whose kindness and affection she had a sacred claim. 
 The domestic sorrows, which had long preyed in secret
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 57 
 
 on her heart, at length affected her intellect, and the 
 "bright morning star of Annesley" was eclipsed 
 forever. 
 
 The lady of his love, oh! she was changed 
 As by the sickness of the soul; her mind 
 Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes, 
 They had not their own lustre, but the look 
 Which is not of the earth; she was become 
 The queen of a fantastic realm : but her thoughts 
 Were combinations of disjointed things; 
 And forms impalpable and unperceived 
 Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. 
 And this the world calls frenzy. 
 
 Notwithstanding lapse of time, change of place, and 
 a succession of splendid and spirit-stirring scenes in 
 various countries, the quiet and gentle scene of his 
 boyish love seems to have held a magic sway over the 
 recollections of Lord Byron, and the image of Mary 
 Cha worth to have unexpectedly obtruded itself upon 
 his mind like some supernatural visitation. Such was 
 the fact on the occasion of his marriage with Miss 
 Milbanke; Annesley Hall and all its fond associations 
 floated like a vision before his thoughts, even when 
 at the altar, and on the point of pronouncing the nup 
 tial vows. The circumstance is related by him with 
 a force and feeling that persuade us of its truth. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 The wanderer was returned. I saw him stand 
 
 Before an altar with a gentle bride; 
 
 Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
 
 The star-light of his boyhood ; as he stood 
 
 Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
 
 The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 
 
 That in the antique oratory shook 
 
 His bosom in its solitude; and then 
 
 As in that hour a moment o'er his face 
 
 The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 
 Was traced, and then it faded as it came, 
 
 And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
 
 And all things reel'd around him : he could see 
 
 Not that which was, nor that which should have been
 
 58 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall, 
 And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 
 The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 
 All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
 And her who was his destiny, came back, 
 And thrust themselves between him and the light : 
 What business had they there at such a time ? 
 
 The history of Lord Byron's union is too well known 
 to need narration. The errors, and humiliations, and 
 heart-burnings that followed upon it, gave additional 
 effect to the remembrance of his early passion, and 
 tormented him with the idea, that, had he been suc 
 cessful in his suit to the lovely heiress of Annesley, 
 they might both have shared a happier destiny. In 
 one of his manuscripts, written long after his marriage, 
 having accidentally mentioned Miss Chaworth as " My 
 M. A. C, " " Alas ! " exclaims he, with a sudden 
 burst of feeling, " why do I say my? Our union would 
 have healed feuds in which blood had been shed by our 
 fathers ; it would have joined lands broad and rich ; it 
 would have joined at least one heart, and two persons 
 not ill-matched in years and and and what 
 has been the result ? " 
 
 But enough of Annesley Hall and the poetical themes 
 connected with it. I felt as if I could linger for hours 
 about its ruined oratory, and silent hall, and neglected 
 garden, and spin reveries and dream dreams, until all 
 became an ideal world around me The day, however, 
 was fast declining, and the shadows of evening throw 
 ing deeper shades of melancholy about the place. 
 Taking our leave of the worthy old housekeeper, there 
 fore, with a small compensation and many thanks for 
 her civilities, we mounted our horses and pursued our 
 way back to Newstead Abbey.
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 59 
 
 THE LAKE 
 
 Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 
 
 Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 
 
 By a river, which its softened way did take 
 In currents through the calmer water spread 
 
 Around : the wild fowl nestled in the brake 
 And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed : 
 
 The woods sloped downward to its brink, and stood 
 
 With their green faces fixed upon the flood. 
 
 SUCH is Lord Byron's description of one of a series of 
 beautiful sheets of water, formed in old times by the 
 monks by damming up the course of a small river. 
 Here he used daily to enjoy his favorite recreations 
 of swimming and sailing. The " wicked old Lord," in 
 his scheme of rural devastation, had cut down all the 
 woods that once fringed the lake; Lord Byron, on 
 coming of age, endeavored to restore them, and a 
 beautiful young wood, planted by him, now sweeps up 
 from the water's edge, and clothes the hillside opposite 
 to the Abbey. To this woody nook Colonel Wildman 
 has given the appropriate title of " The Poet's Corner." 
 The lake has inherited its share of the traditions 
 and fables connected with everything in and about the 
 Abbey. It was a petty Mediterranean sea on which 
 the " wicked old Lord " used to gratify his nautical 
 tastes and humors. He had his mimic castles and for 
 tresses along its shores, and his mimic fleets upon its 
 waters, and used to get up mimic sea-fights. The re 
 mains of his petty fortifications still awaken the curi 
 ous inquiries of visitors. In one of his vagaries, he 
 caused a large vessel to be brought on wheels from the 
 sea-coast and launched in the lake. The country people 
 were surprised to see a ship thus sailing over dry land. 
 They called to mind a saying of Mother Shipton, the 
 famous prophet of the vulgar, that whenever a ship
 
 60 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 freighted with ling should cross Sherwood Forest, 
 Newstead would pass out of the Byron family. The 
 country people, who detested the old Lord, were 
 anxious to verify the prophecy. Ling, in the dialect 
 of Nottingham, is the name for heather; with this 
 plant they heaped the fated bark as it passed, so that 
 it arrived full freighted at Newstead. 
 
 The most important stories about the lake, however, 
 relate to the treasures that are supposed to lie buried 
 in its bosom. These may have taken their origin in a 
 fact which actually occurred. There was one time 
 fished up from the deep part of the lake a great eagle 
 of molten brass, with expanded wings, standing on a 
 pedestal or perch of the same metal. It had doubtless 
 served as a stand or reading-desk, in the Abbey chapel, 
 to hold a folio Bible or missal. 
 
 The sacred relic was sent to a brazier to be cleaned. 
 As he was at work upon it, he discovered that the 
 pedestal was hollow and composed of several pieces. 
 Unscrewing these, he drew forth a number of parch 
 ment deeds and grants appertaining to the Abbey, and 
 bearing the seals of Edward III. and Henry VIIL, 
 which had thus been concealed, and ultimately sunk 
 in the lake by the friars, to substantiate their right and 
 title to these domains at some future day. 
 
 One of the parchment scrolls thus discovered throws 
 rather an awkward light upon the kind of life led by 
 the friars of Newstead. It is an indulgence granted 
 to them for a certain number of months, in which 
 plenary pardon is assured in advance for all kinds of 
 crimes, among which several of the most gross and 
 sensual are specifically mentioned, and the weaknesses 
 of the flesh to which they were prone. 
 
 After inspecting these testimonials of monkish life, 
 in the regions of Sherwood Forest, we cease to wonder 
 at the virtuous indignation of Robin Hood and his out 
 law crew, at the sleek sensualists of the cloister :
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 61 
 
 I never hurt the husbandman, 
 
 That use to till the ground, 
 Nor spill their blood that range the wood 
 
 To follow hawk and hound. 
 
 My chiefest spite to clergy is, 
 
 Who in these days bear sway; 
 With friars and monks with their fine spunks, 
 
 I make my chiefest prey. 
 
 Old Ballad of Robin Hood 
 
 The brazen eagle has been transferred to the paro 
 chial and collegiate church of Southall, about twenty 
 miles from Newstead, where it may still be seen in the 
 centre of the chancel, supporting, as of yore, a pon 
 derous Bible. As to the documents it contained, they 
 are carefully treasured up by Colonel Wildman among 
 his other deeds and papers, in an iron chest secured 
 by a patent lock of nine bolts, almost equal to a magic 
 spell. 
 
 The fishing up of this brazen relic, as I have al 
 ready hinted, has given rise to the tales of treasure 
 lying at the bottom of the lake, thrown in there by 
 the monks when they abandoned the Abbey. The 
 favorite story is, that there is a great iron chest there 
 filled with gold and jewels, and chalices and crucifixes; 
 nay, that it has been seen, when the water of the lake 
 was unusually low. There were large iron rings at 
 each end, but all attempts to move it were ineffectual; 
 either the gold it contained was too ponderous, or, 
 what is more probable, it was secured by one of those 
 magic spells usually laid upon hidden treasure. It re 
 mains, therefore, at the bottom of the lake to this 
 day, and, it is to be hoped, may one day or other be 
 discovered by the present worthy proprietor.
 
 62 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 ROBIN HOOD AND SHERWOOD 
 FOREST 
 
 WHILE at Newstead Abbey I took great delight in 
 riding and rambling about the neighborhood, studying 
 out the traces of merry Sherwood Forest, and visiting 
 the haunts of Robin Hood. The relics of the old forest 
 are few and scattered, but as to the bold outlaw who 
 once held a kind of freebooting sway over it, there is 
 scarce a hill or dale, a cliff or cavern, a well or foun 
 tain, in this part of the country, that is. not connected 
 with his memory. The very names of some of the 
 tenants on the Newstead estate, such as Beardall and 
 Hardstaff, sound as if they may have been borne in 
 old times by some of the stalwart fellows of the out 
 law gang. 
 
 One of the earliest books that captivated my fancy 
 when a child, was a collection of Robin Hood ballads, 
 " adorned with cuts," which I bought of an old Scotch 
 pedler, at the cost of all my holiday money. How I 
 devoured its pages, and gazed upon its uncouth wood 
 cuts! For a time my mind was filled with picturings 
 of " merry Sherwood," and the exploits and revelling 
 of the bold foresters; and Robin Hood, Little John, 
 Friar Tuck, and their doughty compeers, were my 
 heroes of romance. 
 
 These early feelings were in some degree revived 
 when I found myself in the very heart of the far- 
 famed forest, and, as I said before, I took a kind of 
 schoolboy delight in hunting up all traces of old Sher 
 wood and its sylvan chivalry. One of the first of my 
 antiquarian rambles was on horseback, in company 
 with Colonel Wildman and his lady, who undertook to
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 63 
 
 guide me to some of the mouldering monuments of the 
 forest. One of these stands in front of the very gate 
 of Newstead Park, and is known throughout the coun 
 try by the name of " The Pilgrim Oak." It is a vener 
 able tree, of great size, overshadowing a wide area of 
 the road. Under its shade the rustics of the neighbor 
 hood have been accustomed to assemble on certain holi 
 days, and celebrate their rural festivals. This custom 
 had been handed down from father to son for several 
 generations, until the oak had acquired a kind of sacred 
 character. 
 
 The " old Lord Byron," however, in whose eyes 
 nothing was sacred, when he laid his desolating hand 
 on the groves and forests of Newstead, doomed like 
 wise this traditional tree to the axe. Fortunately the 
 good people of Nottingham heard of the danger of 
 their favorite oak, and hastened to ransom it from 
 destruction. They afterwards made a present of it 
 to the poet, when he came to the estate, and the Pil 
 grim Oak is likely to continue a rural gathering place 
 for many coming generations. 
 
 From this magnificent and time-honored tree we 
 continued on our sylvan research, in quest of another 
 oak, of more ancient date and less flourishing condi 
 tion. A ride of two or three miles, the latter part 
 across open wastes, once clothed with forest, now bare 
 and cheerless, brought us to the tree in question. It 
 was the Oak of Ravenshead, one of the last survivors 
 of old Sherwood, and which had evidently once held 
 a high head in the forest; it was now a mere wreck, 
 crazed by time, and blasted by lightning, and standing 
 alone on a naked waste, like a ruined column in a 
 desert. 
 
 The scenes are desert now, and bare, 
 
 Where flourished once a forest fair, 
 
 When these waste glens with copse were lined, 
 
 And peopled with the hart and hind. 
 
 Yon lonely oak, would he could tell
 
 64 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 The changes of his parent dell, 
 Since he, so gray and stubborn now, 
 Waved in each breeze a sapling bough. 
 Would he could tell how deep the shade 
 A thousand mingled branches made. 
 Here in my shade, methinks he 'd say, 
 The mighty stag at noontide lay, 
 While doe, and roe, and red-deer good, 
 Have bounded by through gay green-wood. 
 
 At no great distance from Ravenshead Oak is a 
 small cave which goes by the name of Robin Hood's 
 Stable. It is in the breast of a hill, scooped out of 
 brown freestone, with rude attempts at columns and 
 arches. Within are two niches, which served, it is said, 
 as stalls for the bold outlaw's horses. To this retreat 
 he retired when hotly pursued by the law, for the place 
 was a secret even from his band. The cave is over 
 shadowed by an oak and alder, and is hardly discover 
 able even at the present day; but when the country 
 was overrun with forest, it must have been completely 
 concealed. 
 
 There was an agreeable wildness and loneliness in 
 a great part of our ride. Our devious road wound 
 down, at one time, among rocky dells by wandering 
 streams, and lonely pools, haunted by shy water-fowl. 
 We passed through a skirt of woodland, of more 
 modern planting, but considered a legitimate offspring 
 of the ancient forest, and commonly called Jock of 
 Sherwood. In riding through these quiet, solitary 
 scenes, the partridge and pheasant would now and then 
 burst upon the wing, and the hare scud away before us. 
 
 Another of these rambling rides in quest of popular 
 antiquities was to a chain of rocky cliffs, called the 
 Kirkby Crags, which skirt the Robin Hood hills. Here, 
 leaving my horse at the foot of the crags, I scaled 
 their rugged sides, and seated myself in a niche of the 
 rocks, called Robin Hood's chair. It commands a wide 
 prospect over the valley of Newstead, and here the
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 65 
 
 bold outlaw is said to have taken his seat, and kept a 
 look-out upon the roads below, watching for mer 
 chants, and bishops, and other wealthy travellers, upon 
 whom to pounce down, like an eagle from his eyrie. 
 
 Descending from the cliffs and remounting my 
 horse, a ride of a mile or two further along a narrow 
 " robber path," as it was called, which wound up into 
 the hills between perpendicular rocks, led to an arti 
 ficial cavern cut in the face of a cliff, with a door and 
 window wrought through the living stone. This bears 
 the name of Friar Tuck's cell, or hermitage, where, 
 according to tradition, that jovial anchorite used to 
 make good cheer and boisterous revel with his free- 
 booting comrades. 
 
 Such were some of the vestiges of old Sherwood 
 and its renowned " yeomandrie," which I visited in 
 the neighborhood of Newstead. The worthy clergy 
 man who officiated as chaplain at the Abbey, seeing 
 my zeal in the cause, informed me of a considerable 
 tract of the ancient forest, still in existence about ten 
 miles distant. There were many fine old oaks in it, 
 he said, that had stood for centuries, but were now 
 shattered and " stag-headed," that is to say, their upper 
 branches were bare, and blasted, and straggling out 
 like the antlers of a deer. Their trunks, too, were 
 hollow, and full of crows and jackdaws, who made 
 them their nestling-places. He occasionally rode over 
 to the forest in the long summer evenings, and pleased 
 himself with loitering in the twilight about the green 
 alleys and under the venerable trees. 
 
 The description given by the chaplain made me 
 anxious to visit this remnant of old Sherwood, and he 
 kindly offered to be my guide and companion. We 
 accordingly sallied forth one morning, on horseback, 
 on this sylvan expedition. Our ride took us through a 
 part of the country where King John had once held 
 a hunting-seat, the ruins of which are still to be seen.
 
 66 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 At that time the whole neighborhood was an open 
 royal forest, or Frank chase, as it was termed ; for 
 King John was an enemy to parks and warrens, and 
 other enclosures, by which game was fenced in for the 
 private benefit and recreation of the nobles and the 
 clergy. 
 
 Here, on the brow of a gentle hill, commanding an 
 extensive prospect of what had once been forest, stood 
 another of those monumental trees, which, to my mind, 
 gave a peculiar interest to this neighborhood. It was 
 the Parliament Oak, so called in memory of an assem 
 blage of the kind held by King John beneath its shade. 
 The lapse of upwards of six centuries had reduced this 
 once mighty tree to a mere crumbling fragment, yet, 
 like a gigantic torso in ancient statuary, the grandeur 
 of the mutilated trunk gave evidence of what it had 
 been in the days of its glory. In contemplating its 
 mouldering remains, the fancy busied itself in calling 
 up the scene that must have been presented beneath 
 its shade, when this sunny hill swarmed with the pag 
 eantry of a warlike and hunting court; when silken 
 pavilions and warrior-tents decked its crest, and royal 
 standards, and baronial banners, and knightly pennons 
 rolled out to the breeze; when prelates and courtiers, 
 and steel-clad chivalry thronged round the person of 
 the monarch, while at a distance loitered the foresters 
 in green, and all the rural and hunting train that waited 
 upon his sylvan sports. 
 
 A thousand vassals mustered round 
 
 With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound, 
 
 And through the brake the rangers stalk, 
 
 And falc'ners hold the ready hawk; 
 
 And foresters in green-wood trim 
 
 Lead in the leash the greyhound grim. 
 
 Such was the phantasmagoria that presented itself 
 for a moment to my imagination, peopling the silent 
 place before me with empty shadows of the past. The
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 67 
 
 reverie, however, was transient; king, courtier, and 
 steel-clad warrior, and forester in green, with horn, 
 and hawk, and hound, all faded again into oblivion, 
 and I awoke to all that remained of this once stirring 
 scene of human pomp and power a mouldering oak, 
 and a tradition. 
 
 We are such stuff as dreams are made of ! 
 
 A ride of a few miles further brought us at length 
 among the venerable and classic shades of Sherwood. 
 Here I was delighted to find myself in a genuine wild 
 wood, of primitive and natural growth, so rarely to 
 be met with in this thickly peopled and highly culti 
 vated country. It reminded me of the aboriginal 
 forests of my native land. I rode through natural 
 alleys and greenwood groves, carpeted with grass and 
 shaded by lofty and beautiful birches. What most 
 interested me, however, was to behold around me the 
 mighty trunks of veteran oaks, old monumental trees, 
 the patriarchs of Sherwood Forest. They were shat 
 tered, hollow, and moss-grown, it is true, and their 
 " leafy honors " were nearly departed ; but like moul 
 dering towers they were noble and picturesque in their 
 decay, and gave evidence, even in their ruins, of their 
 ancient grandeur. 
 
 As I gazed about me upon these vestiges of once 
 " Merrie Sherwood," the picturings of my boyish 
 fancy began to rise in my mind, and Robin Hood and 
 his men to stand before me. 
 
 He clothed himself in scarlet then, 
 
 His men were all in green ; 
 A finer show throughout the world 
 
 In no place could be seen. 
 
 Good lord ! it was a gallant sight 
 
 To see them all in a row ; 
 With every man a good broad-sword. 
 
 And eke a good yew bow.
 
 68 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 The horn of Robin Hood again seemed to resound 
 through the forest. I saw this sylvan chivalry, half 
 huntsmen, half freebooters, trooping across the distant 
 glades, or feasting and revelling beneath the trees; I 
 was going on to embody in this way all the ballad 
 scenes that had delighted me when a boy, when the 
 distant sound of a wood-cutter's axe roused me from 
 my day-dream. 
 
 The boding apprehensions which it awakened were 
 too soon verified. I had not ridden much further, 
 when I came to an open space where the work of de 
 struction was going on. Around me lay the prostrate 
 trunks of venerable oaks, once the towering and mag 
 nificent lords of the forest, and a number of wood 
 cutters were hacking and hewing at another gigantic 
 tree, just tottering to its fall. 
 
 Alas! for old Sherwood Forest: it had fallen into 
 the possession of a noble agriculturist ; a modern utili 
 tarian, who had no feeling for poetry or forest scenery. 
 In a little while and this glorious woodland will be laid 
 low; its green glades be turned into sheep-walks; its 
 legendary bowers supplanted by turnip-fields, and " Mer- 
 rie Sherwood " will exist but in ballad and tradition. 
 
 " O for the poetical superstitions," thought I, " of 
 the olden time ! that shed a sanctity over every grove ; 
 that gave to each tree its tutelar genius or nymph, and 
 threatened disaster to all who should molest the hama 
 dryads in their leafy abodes. Alas! for the sordid 
 propensities of modern days, when everything is coined 
 into gold, and this once holiday planet of ours is turned 
 into a mere ' working-day world.' ' 
 
 My cobweb fancies put to flight, and my feelings 
 out of tune, I left the forest in a far different mood 
 from that in which I had entered it, and rode silently 
 along until, on reaching the summit of a gentle emi 
 nence, the chime of evening bells came on the breeze 
 across the heath from a distant village.
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 69 
 
 I paused to listen. 
 
 " They are merely the evening bells of Mansfield," 
 said my companion. 
 
 "Of Mansfield!" Here was another of the leg 
 endary names of this storied neighborhood, that called 
 up early and pleasant associations. The famous old 
 ballad of the King and the Miller of Mansfield came 
 at once to mind, and the chime of the bells put me 
 again in good humor. 
 
 A little further on, and we were again on the traces 
 of Robin Hood. Here was Fountain Dale, where he 
 had his encounter with that stalwart shaveling Friar 
 Tuck, who was a kind of saint militant, alternately 
 wearing the casque and the cowl : 
 
 The curtal fryar kept Fountain dale 
 
 Seven long years and more, 
 There was neither lord, knight or earl 
 
 Could make him yield before. 
 
 The moat is still shown which is said to have sur 
 rounded the strong-hold of this jovial ^nd fighting 
 friar; and the place where he and Robin Hood had 
 their sturdy trial of strength and prowess, in the mem 
 orable conflict which lasted 
 
 From ten o'clock that very day 
 Until four in the afternoon, 
 
 and ended in the treaty of fellowship. As to the hardy 
 feats, both of sword and trencher, performed by this 
 " curtal fryar," behold are they not recorded at length 
 in the ancient ballads, and in the magic pages of 
 "Ivanhoe"? 
 
 The evening was fast coming on, and the twilight 
 thickening, as we rode through these haunts famous 
 in outlaw story. A melancholy seemed to gather over 
 the landscape as we proceeded, for our course lay 
 by shadowy woods, and across naked heaths, and
 
 70 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 along lonely roads, marked by some of those sinister 
 names by which the country people in England are apt 
 to make dreary places still more dreary. The horrors 
 of " Thieves' Wood," and the " Murderers' Stone," 
 and the " Hag Nook," had all to be encountered in 
 the gathering gloom of evening, and threatened to 
 beset our path with more than mortal peril. Hap 
 pily, however, we passed these ominous places un 
 harmed, and arrived in safety at the portal of New- 
 stead Abbey, highly satisfied with our greenwood 
 foray. 
 
 THE ROOK CELL 
 
 IN the course of my sojourn at the Abbey I changed 
 my quarters from the magnificent old state apartment 
 haunted by Sir John Byron the Little, to another in 
 a remote corner of the ancient edifice, immediately 
 adjoining the ruined chapel. It possessed still more 
 interest in my eyes, from having been the sleeping 
 apartment of Lord Byron during his residence at the 
 Abbey. The furniture remained the same. Here was 
 the bed in which he slept, and which he had brought 
 with him from college; its gilded posts, surmounted 
 by coronets, giving evidence of his aristocratical feel 
 ings. Here was likewise his college sofa: and about 
 the walls were the portraits of his favorite butler, old 
 Joe Murray, of his fancy acquaintance, Jackson the 
 pugilist, together with pictures of Harrow School and 
 the College at Cambridge, at which he was educated. 
 
 The bedchamber goes by the name of the Rook Cell, 
 from its vicinity to the Rookery, which, since time im 
 memorial, has maintained possession of a solemn grove 
 adjacent to the chapel. This venerable community 
 afforded me much food for speculation during my resi 
 dence in this apartment. In the morning I used to hear
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 71 
 
 them gradually waking and seeming to call each othe~ 
 up. After a time, the whole fraternity would be in 
 a flutter; some balancing and swinging on the tree- 
 tops, others perched on the pinnacle of the Abbey 
 church, or wheeling and hovering about in the air, 
 and the ruined walls would reverberate with their in 
 cessant cawings. In this way they would linger about 
 the rookery and its vicinity for the early part of the 
 morning, when, having apparently mustered all their 
 forces, called over the roll, and determined upon their 
 line of march, they one and all would sail off in a long 
 straggling flight to maraud the distant fields. They 
 would forage the country for miles, and remain ab 
 sent all day, excepting now and then a scout would 
 come home, as if to see that all was well. Towards 
 night the whole host might be seen, like a dark cloud 
 in the distance, winging their way homeward. They 
 came, as it were, with whoop and halloo, wheeling high 
 in the air above the Abbey, making various evolu 
 tions before they alighted, and then keeping up an in 
 cessant cawing in the tree-tops, until they gradually 
 fell asleep. 
 
 It is remarked at the Abbey, that the rooks, though 
 they sally forth on forays throughout the week, yet 
 keep about the venerable edifice on Sundays, as if 
 they had inherited a reverence for the day, from their 
 ancient confreres, the monks. Indeed, a believer in 
 the metempsychosis might easily imagine these Gothic- 
 looking birds to be the embodied souls of the ancient 
 friars still hovering about their sanctified abode. 
 
 I dislike to disturb any point of popular and poetic 
 faith, and was loath, therefore, to question the authen 
 ticity of this mysterious reverence for the Sabbath, 
 on the part of the Newstead rooks; but certainly in 
 the course of my sojourn in the Rook Cell I detected 
 them in a flagrant outbreak and foray on a bright 
 Sunday morning.
 
 72 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 Beside the occasional clamor of the rookery, this 
 remote apartment was often greeted with sounds of 
 a different kind, from the neighboring ruins. The 
 great lancet window in front of the chapel adjoins 
 the very wall of the chamber; and the mysterious 
 sounds from it at night have been well described by 
 Lord Byron: 
 
 Now loud, now frantic, 
 
 The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings 
 The owl his anthem, when the silent quire 
 Lie with their hallelujahs quenched like fire. 
 
 But on the noontide of the moon, and when 
 The wind is winged from one point of heaven, 
 
 There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 
 Is musical a dying accent driven 
 
 Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. 
 Some deem it but the distant echo given 
 
 Back to the night-wind by the waterfall, 
 
 And harmonized by the old choral wall 
 
 Others/that some original shape or form, 
 Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 
 
 To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm. 
 Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower ; 
 
 The cause I know not, nor can solve ; but such 
 
 The fact : I 've heard it, once perhaps too much. 
 
 Never was a traveller in quest of the romantic in 
 greater luck. I had, in sooth, got lodged in another 
 haunted apartment of the Abbey; for in this chamber 
 Lord Byron declared he had more than once been har 
 assed at midnight by a mysterious visitor. A black 
 shapeless form would sit cowering upon his bed, and 
 after gazing at him for a time with glaring eyes, would 
 roll off and disappear. The same uncouth apparition 
 is said to have disturbed the slumbers of a newly mar 
 ried couple that once passed their honey-moon in this 
 apartment. 
 
 I would observe that the access to the Rook Cell is 
 by a spiral stone staircase leading up into it as into a 
 turret, from the long shadowy corridor over the
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 73 
 
 cloisters, one of the midnight walks of the goblin friar. 
 Indeed, to the fancies engendered in his brain in this 
 remote and lonely apartment, incorporated with the 
 floating superstitions of the Abbey, we are no doubt 
 indebted for the spectral scene in " Don Juan." 
 
 Then as the night was clear, though cold, he threw 
 His chamber-door wide open and went forth 
 
 Into a gallery, of sombre hue, 
 
 Long furnish'd with old pictures of great worth, 
 
 Of knights and dames, heroic and chaste too, 
 As doubtless should be people of high birth. 
 
 No sound except the echo of his sigh 
 Or step ran sadly through that antique house, 
 
 When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 
 A supernatural agent or a mouse, 
 
 Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
 
 Most people, as it plays along the arras. 
 
 It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, arrayed 
 In cowl, and beads, and dusky garb, appeared 
 
 Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade ; 
 With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard; 
 
 His garments only a slight murmur made; 
 He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, 
 
 But slowly ; and as he passed Juan by 
 
 Glared, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 
 
 Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 
 
 Of such a spirit in these halls of old, 
 But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't 
 
 Beyond the rumor which such spots unfold, 
 Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, 
 
 Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, 
 But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 
 And did he see this ? or was it a vapor ? 
 
 Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd the thing of air, 
 Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place ; 
 
 And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, 
 
 Yet could not speak or move, but, on its base 
 
 As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 
 Twine like a knot of snakes around his face ; 
 
 He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted, 
 
 To ask the reverend person what he wanted.
 
 74 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 The third time, after a still longer pause, 
 The shadow pass'd away but where? the hall 
 
 Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 
 To think his vanishing unnatural : 
 
 Doors there were many, through which, by the laws 
 Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall, 
 
 Might come or go ; but Juan could not state 
 
 Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 
 
 He stood, how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
 An age, expectant, powerless, with his eyes 
 
 Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd, 
 Then by degrees recall'd his energies, 
 
 And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream, 
 But could not wake ; he was, he did surmise, 
 
 Waking already, and return'd at length 
 
 Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 
 
 As I have already observed, it is difficult to deter 
 mine whether Lord Byron was really subject to the 
 superstitious fancies which have been imputed to him, 
 or whether he merely amused himself by giving cur 
 rency to them among his domestics and dependants. 
 He certainly never scrupled to express a belief in super 
 natural visitations, both verbally and in his correspond 
 ence. If such were his foible, the Rook Cell was an 
 admirable place to engender these delusions. As I 
 have lain awake at night, I have heard all kinds of 
 mysterious and sighing sounds from the neighboring 
 ruin. Distant footsteps, too, and the closing of doors 
 in remote parts of the Abbey, would send hollow re 
 verberations and echoes along the corridor and up the 
 spiral staircase. Once, in fact, I was roused by a 
 strange sound at the very door of my chamber. I 
 threw it open, and a form " black and shapeless with 
 glaring eyes " stood before me. It proved, however, 
 neither ghost nor goblin, but my friend Boatswain, 
 the great Newfoundland dog, who had conceived a 
 companionable liking for me, and occasionally sought 
 me in my apartment. To the hauntings of even such 
 a visitant as honest Boatswain may we attribute some 
 of the marvellous stories about the Goblin Friar.
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 75 
 
 THE LITTLE WHITE LADY 
 
 IN the course of a morning's ride with Colonel Wild- 
 man, about the Abbey lands, we found ourselves in 
 one of the prettiest little wild woods imaginable. The 
 road to it had led us among rocky ravines overhung 
 with thickets, and now wound through birchen dingles 
 and among beautiful groves and clumps of elms and 
 beeches. A limpid rill of sparkling water, winding 
 and doubling in perplexed mazes, crossed our path 
 repeatedly, so as to give the wood the appearance of 
 being watered by numerous rivulets. The solitary and 
 romantic look of this piece of woodland, and the fre 
 quent recurrence of its mazy stream, put him in mind, 
 Colonel Wildman said, of the little German fairy tale 
 of Undine, in which is recorded the adventures of a 
 knight who had married a water-nymph. As he rode 
 with his bride through her native woods, every stream 
 claimed her as a relative; one was a brother, another 
 an uncle, another a cousin. 
 
 We rode on, amusing ourselves with applying this 
 fanciful tale to the charming scenery around us, until 
 we came to a lowly gray-stone farm-house, of ancient 
 date, situated in a solitary glen, on the margin of the 
 brook, and overshadowed by venerable trees. It went 
 by the name, as I was told, of the Weir Mill farm 
 house. With this rustic mansion was connected a little 
 tale of real life, some circumstances of which were re 
 lated to me on the spot, and others I collected in the 
 course of my sojourn at the Abbey. 
 
 Not long after Colonel Wildman had purchased the 
 estate of Newstead, he made it a visit for the purpose 
 of planning repairs and alterations. As he was ram 
 bling one evening, about dusk, in company with his 
 architect, through this little piece of woodland, he was
 
 76 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 struck with its peculiar characteristics, and then, for 
 the first time, compared it to the haunted wood of 
 Undine. While he was making the remark, a small 
 female figure, in white, flitted by without speaking a 
 word, or indeed appearing to notice them. Her step 
 was scarcely heard as she passed, and her form was 
 indistinct in the twilight. 
 
 " What a figure for a fairy or sprite ! " exclaimed 
 Colonel Wildman. " How much a poet or a romance 
 writer would make of such an apparition, at such a 
 time and in such a place ! " 
 
 He began to congratulate himself upon having some 
 elfin inhabitant for his haunted wood, when, on pro 
 ceeding a few paces, he found a white frill lying in 
 the path, which had evidently fallen from the figure 
 that had just passed. 
 
 " Well," said he, " after all, this is neither sprite 
 nor fairy, but a being of flesh and blood and muslin." 
 
 Continuing on, he came to where the road passed 
 by an old mill in front of the Abbey. The people of 
 the mill were at the door. He paused and inquired 
 whether any visitor had been at the Abbey, but was 
 answered in the negative. 
 
 " Has nobody passed by here?" 
 
 " No one, sir." 
 
 " That 's strange ! Surely I met a female in white, 
 who must have passed along this path." 
 
 " Oh, sir, you mean the Little White Lady ; oh, 
 yes, she passed by here not long since." 
 
 "The Little White Lady! And pray who is the 
 Little White Lady?" 
 
 " Why, sir, that nobody knows ; she lives in the 
 Weir Mill farm-house, down in the skirts of the wood. 
 She comes to the Abbey every morning, keeps about 
 it all day, and goes away at night. She speaks to no 
 body, and we are rather shy of her, for we don't know 
 what to make of her."
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 77 
 
 Colonel Wildman now concluded that it was some 
 artist or amateur employed in making sketches of the 
 Abbey, and thought no more about the matter. He 
 went to London, and was absent for some time. In 
 the interim, his sister, who was newly married, came 
 with her husband to pass the honey-moon at the Abbey. 
 The Little White Lady still resided in the Weir Mill 
 farm-house, on the border of the haunted wood, and 
 continued her visits daily to the Abbey. Her dress 
 was always the same : a white gown with a little black 
 spencer or bodice, and a white hat with a short veil that 
 screened the upper part of her countenance. Her 
 habits were shy, lonely, and silent; she spoke to no 
 one, and sought no companionship, excepting with the 
 Newfoundland dog, that had belonged to Lord Byron. 
 His friendship she secured by caressing him and oc 
 casionally bringing him food, and he became the com 
 panion of her solitary walks. She avoided all strangers, 
 and wandered about the retired parts of the garden; 
 sometimes sitting for hours by the tree on which Lord 
 Byron had carved his name, or at the foot of the monu 
 ment which he had erected among the ruins of the 
 chapel. Sometimes she read, sometimes she wrote with 
 a pencil on a small slate which she carried with her, 
 but much of her time was passed in a kind of reverie. 
 
 The people about the place gradually became ac 
 customed to her, and suffered her to wander about 
 unmolested ; their distrust of her subsided on discover 
 ing that most of her peculiar and lonely habits arose 
 from the misfortune of being deaf and dumb. Still 
 she was regarded with some degree of shyness, for it 
 was the common opinion that she was not exactly in 
 her right mind. 
 
 Colonel Wildman's sister was informed of all these 
 circumstances by the servants of the Abbey, among 
 whom the Little White Lady was a theme of frequent 
 discussion. The Abbey and its monastic environs
 
 78 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 being haunted ground, it was natural that a mysterious 
 visitant of the kind, and one supposed to be under the 
 influence of mental hallucination, should inspire awe 
 in a person unaccustomed to the place. As Colonel 
 Wildman's sister was one day walking along a broad 
 terrace of the garden, she suddenly beheld the Little 
 White Lady coming towards her, and, in the surprise 
 and agitation of the moment, turned and ran into the 
 house. 
 
 Day after day now elapsed, and nothing more was 
 seen of this singular personage. Colonel Wildman at 
 length arrived at the Abbey, and his sister mentioned 
 to him her rencounter and fright in the garden. It 
 brought to mind his own adventure with the Little 
 White Lady in the wood of Undine, and he was sur 
 prised to find that she still continued her mysterious 
 wanderings about the Abbey. The mystery was soon 
 explained. Immediately after his arrival he received 
 a letter written in the most minute and delicate female 
 hand, and in elegant and even eloquent language. It 
 was from the Little White Lady. She had noticed and 
 been shocked by the abrupt retreat of Colonel Wild 
 man's sister on seeing her in the garden-walk, and 
 expressed her unhappiness at being an object of alarm 
 to any of his family. She explained the motives of 
 her frequent and long visits to the Abbey, which proved 
 to be a singularly enthusiastic idolatry of the genius 
 of Lord Byron, and a solitary and passionate delight 
 in haunting the scenes he had once inhabited. She 
 hinted at the infirmities which cut her off from all 
 social communion with her fellow-beings, and at her 
 situation in life as desolate and bereaved; and con 
 cluded by hoping that he would not deprive her of her 
 only comfort, the permission of visiting the Abbey oc 
 casionally, and lingering about the walks and gardens. 
 
 Colonel Wildman now made further inquiries con 
 cerning her, and found that she was a great favorite
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 79 
 
 with the people of the farm-house where she boarded, 
 from the gentleness, quietude, and innocence of her 
 manners. When at home, she passed the greater part 
 of her time in a small sitting-room, reading and 
 writing. 
 
 Colonel Wildman immediately called on her at the 
 farm-house. She received him with some agitation 
 and embarrassment, but his frankness and urbanity 
 soon put her at her ease. She was past the bloom of 
 youth, a pale, nervous little being, and apparently de 
 ficient in most of her physical organs, for in addition 
 to being deaf and dumb, she saw but imperfectly. They 
 carried on a communication by means of a small slate, 
 which she drew out of her reticule, and on which they 
 wrote their questions and replies. In writing or read 
 ing she always approached her eyes close to the written 
 characters. 
 
 This defective organization was accompanied by a 
 morbid sensibility almost amounting to disease. She 
 had not been born deaf and dumb, but had lost her 
 hearing in a fit of sickness, and with it the power of 
 distinct articulation. Her life had evidently been 
 checkered and unhappy; she was apparently without 
 family or friend, a lonely, desolate being, cut off from 
 society by her infirmities. 
 
 " I am always amongst strangers," said she, " as 
 much so in my native country as I could be in the re 
 motest parts of the world. By all I am considered as 
 a stranger and an alien; no one will acknowledge 
 any connection with me. I seem not to belong to the 
 human species." 
 
 Such were the circumstances that Colonel Wildman 
 was able to draw forth in the course of his conversa 
 tion, and they strongly interested him in favor of this 
 poor enthusiast. He was too devout an admirer of 
 Lord Byron himself not to sympathize in this extraor 
 dinary zeal of one of his votaries, and he entreated her
 
 8o NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 to renew her visits to the Abbey, assuring her that the 
 edifice and its grounds should always be open to her. 
 
 The Little White Lady now resumed her daily walks 
 in the Monks' Garden, and her occasional seat at the 
 foot of the monument; she was shy and diffident, 
 however, and evidently fearful of intruding. If any 
 persons were walking in the garden, she would avoid 
 them, and seek the most remote parts; and was seen 
 like a sprite, only by gleams and glimpses, as she glided 
 among the groves and thickets. Many of her feelings 
 and fancies, during these lonely rambles, were em 
 bodied in verse, noted down on her tablet, and trans 
 ferred to paper in the evening on her return to the 
 farm-house. Some of these verses now lie before me, 
 written with considerable harmony of versification, 
 but chiefly curious as being illustrative of that singular 
 and enthusiastic idolatry with which she almost wor 
 shipped the genius of Byron, or rather the romantic 
 image of him formed by her imagination. 
 
 Two or three extracts may not be unacceptable. The 
 following are from a long rhapsody addressed to Lord 
 Byron : 
 
 By what dread charm thou rulest the mind 
 
 It is not given for us to know ; 
 We glow with feelings undefined, 
 
 Nor can explain from whence they flow. 
 
 Not that fond love which passion breathes 
 
 And youthful hearts inflame ; 
 The soul a nobler homage gives, 
 
 And bows to thy great name. 
 
 Oft have we own'd the muses' skill, 
 
 And proved the power of song, 
 But sweetest notes ne'er woke the thrill 
 
 That solely to thy verse belong. 
 
 This but far more, for thee we prove, 
 Something that bears a holier name 
 
 Than the pure dream of early love, 
 Or friendship's nobler flame.
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 81 
 
 Something divine Oh ! what it is 
 
 Thy muse alone can tell, 
 So sweet, but so profound the bliss 
 
 We dread to break the spell. 
 
 This singular and romantic infatuation, for such 
 it might truly be called, was entirely spiritual and ideal, 
 for, as she herself declares in another of her rhap 
 sodies, she had never beheld Lord Byron; he was, to 
 her, a mere phantom of the brain. 
 
 I ne'er have drunk thy glance, thy form 
 
 My earthly eye has never seen, 
 Though oft when fancy's visions warm, 
 
 It greets me in some blissful dream; 
 Greets me, as greets the sainted seer 
 
 Some radiant visitant from high, 
 When heaven's own strains break on his ear, 
 
 And wrap his soul in ecstasy. 
 
 Her poetical wanderings and musings were not con 
 fined to the Abbey grounds, but extended to all parts 
 of the neighborhood connected with the memory of 
 Lord Byron, and among the rest to the groves and 
 gardens of Annesley Hall, the seat of his early passion 
 for Miss Chaworth. One of her poetical effusions 
 mentions her having seen from Howet's Hill in An 
 nesley Park, a " sylph-like form," in a car drawn by 
 milk-white horses, passing by the foot of the hill, who 
 proved to be the " favorite child " seen by Lord Byron 
 in his memorable interview with Miss Chaworth after 
 her marriage. That favorite child was now a blooming 
 girl approaching to womanhood, and seems to have 
 understood something of the character and story of 
 this singular visitant, and to have treated her with 
 gentle sympathy. The Little White Lady expresses 
 in touching terms, in a note to her verses, her sense of 
 this gentle courtesy. " The benevolent condescension," 
 says she, "of that amiable and interesting young lady, 
 to the unfortunate writer of these simple lines, will 
 remain engraved upon a grateful memory, till the vital
 
 82 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 spark that now animates a heart that too sensibly feels 
 and too seldom experiences such kindness, is forever 
 extinct." 
 
 In the meantime, Colonel Wildman, in occasional in 
 terviews, had obtained further particulars of the story 
 of the stranger, and found that poverty was added to 
 the other evils of her forlorn and isolated state. Her 
 name was Sophia Hyatt. She was the daughter of 
 a country bookseller, but both her parents had died 
 several years before. At their death, her sole depend 
 ence was upon her brother, who allowed her a small 
 annuity on her share of the property left by their 
 father, and which remained in his hands. Her brother, 
 who was a captain of a merchant vessel, removed with 
 his family to America, leaving her almost alone in the 
 world, for she had no other relative in England but a 
 cousin, of whom she knew almost nothing. She re 
 ceived her annuity regularly for a time, but unfortu 
 nately her brother died in the West Indies, leaving his 
 affairs in confusion, and his estate overhung by several 
 commercial claims, which threatened to swallow up the 
 whole. Under these disastrous circumstances, her an 
 nuity suddenly ceased ; she had in vain tried to obtain 
 a renewal of it from the widow, or even an account of 
 the state of her brother's affairs. Her letters for three 
 years past had remained unanswered, and she would 
 have been exposed to the horrors of the most abject 
 want, but for a pittance quarterly doled out to her by 
 her cousin in England. 
 
 Colonel Wildman entered with characteristic benev 
 olence into the story of her troubles. He saw that 
 she was a helpless, unprotected being, unable, from 
 her infirmities and her ignorance of the world, to 
 prosecute her just claims. He obtained from her the 
 address of her relations in America, and of the com 
 mercial connection of her brother; promised, through 
 the medium of his own agents in Liverpool, to insti-
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 83 
 
 tute an inquiry into the situation of her brother's 
 affairs, and to forward any letters she might write, so 
 as to insure their reaching their place of destination. 
 
 Inspired with some faint hopes, the Little White 
 Lady continued her wanderings about the Abbey and 
 its neighborhood. The delicacy and timidity of her 
 deportment increased the interest already felt for her 
 by Mrs. Wildman. That lady, with her wonted kind 
 ness, sought to make acquaintance with her, and in 
 spire her with confidence. She invited her into the 
 Abbey; treated her with the most delicate attention, 
 and, seeing that she had a great turn for reading, of 
 fered her the loan of any books in her possession. She 
 borrowed a few, particularly the works of Sir Walter 
 Scott, but soon returned them; the writings of Lord 
 Byron seemed to form the only study in which she 
 delighted, and when not occupied in reading those, her 
 time was passed in passionate meditations on his 
 genius. Her enthusiasm spread an ideal world around 
 her, in which she moved and existed as in a dream, 
 forgetful at times of the real miseries which beset 
 her in her mortal state. 
 
 One of her rhapsodies is, however, of a very melan 
 choly cast; anticipating her own death, which her 
 fragile frame and growing infirmities rendered but 
 too probable. It is headed by the following 
 paragraph : 
 
 " Written beneath the tree on Crowholt Hill, where 
 it is my wish to be interred (if I should die in 
 Newstead)." 
 
 I subjoin a few of the stanzas: they are addressed 
 to Lord Byron. 
 
 Thou, while thou stand's! beneath this tree, 
 While by thy foot this earth is press'd, 
 
 Think, here the wanderer's ashes be 
 And wilt thou say, sweet be thy rest !
 
 84 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 T would add even to a seraph's bliss, 
 Whose sacred charge thou then may be, 
 
 To guide to guard yes, Byron ! yes, 
 That glory is reserved for me. 
 
 If woes below may plead above 
 A frail heart's errors, mine forgiven, 
 
 To that " high world " I soar, where " love 
 Surviving " forms the bliss of Heaven. 
 
 O wheresoe'er, in realms above, 
 
 Assign'd my spirit's new abode, 
 'T will watch thee with a seraph's love, 
 
 Till thou too soar'st to meet thy God. 
 
 And here, beneath this lonely tree 
 
 Beneath the earth thy feet have press'd, 
 
 My dust shall sleep once dear to thee 
 
 These scenes here may the wanderer rest! 
 
 In the midst of her reveries and rhapsodies, tidings 
 reached Newstead of the untimely death of Lord By 
 ron. How they were received by this humble but pas 
 sionate devotee I could not ascertain ; her life was too 
 obscure and lonely to furnish much personal anecdote, 
 but among her poetical effusions are several written 
 in a broken and irregular manner and evidently under 
 great agitation. 
 
 The following sonnet is the most coherent and most 
 descriptive of her peculiar state of mind : 
 
 Well, thou art gone but what wert thou to me ? 
 
 I never saw thee never heard thy voice, 
 Yet my soul seemed to claim affiance with thee. 
 
 The Roman bard has sung of fields Elysian, 
 Where the soul sojourns ere she visits earth; 
 
 Sure it was there my spirit knew thee, Byron ! 
 Thine image haunteth me like a past vision ; 
 
 It hath enshrined itself in my heart's core; 
 'T is my soul's soul it fills the whole creation. 
 
 For I do live but in that world ideal 
 Which the muse peopleth with her bright fancies, 
 
 And of that world thou art a monarch real, 
 Nor ever earthly sceptre ruled a kingdom, 
 
 With sway so potent as thy lyre, the mind's dominion.
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 85 
 
 Taking all the circumstances here adduced into con 
 sideration, it is evident that this strong excitement and 
 exclusive occupation of the mind upon one subject, 
 operating upon a system in a high state of morbid 
 irritability, was in danger of producing that species 
 of mental derangement called monomania. The poor 
 little being was aware, herself, of the dangers of her 
 case, and alluded to it in the following passage of a 
 letter to Colonel Wildman, which presents one of the 
 most lamentable pictures of anticipated evil ever con 
 jured up by the human mind. 
 
 " I have long," writes she, " too sensibly felt the 
 decay of my mental faculties, which I consider as the 
 certain indication of that dreaded calamity which I 
 anticipate with such terror. A strange idea has long 
 haunted my mind, that Swift's dreadful fate will be 
 mine. It is not ordinary insanity I so much apprehend, 
 but something worse absolute idiotism! 
 
 " O sir ! think what I must suffer from such an idea, 
 without an earthly friend to look up to for protection 
 in such a wretched state exposed to the indecent 
 insults which such spectacles always excite. But I 
 dare not dwell upon the thought; it would facilitate 
 the event I so much dread and contemplate with hor 
 ror. Yet I cannot help thinking from people's be 
 havior to me at times, and from after-reflections upon 
 my conduct, that symptoms of the disease are already 
 apparent." 
 
 Five months passed away, but the letters written 
 by her, and forwarded by Colonel Wildman to 
 America, relative to her brother's affairs, remained 
 unanswered ; the inquiries instituted by the Colonel had 
 as yet proved equally fruitless. A deeper gloom and 
 despondency now seemed to gather upon her mind. 
 She began to talk of leaving Newstead, and repairing 
 to London, in the vague hope of obtaining relief or 
 redress by instituting some legal process to ascertain
 
 86 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 and enforce the will of her deceased brother. Weeks 
 elapsed, however, before she could summon up suffi 
 cient resolution to tear herself away from the scene of 
 poetical fascination. The following simple stanzas, 
 selected from a number written about the time, express 
 in humble rhymes the melancholy that preyed upon 
 her spirits : 
 
 Farewell to thee, Newstead, thy time-riven towers 
 Shall meet the fond gaze of the pilgrim no more ; 
 
 No more may she roam through thy walks and thy bowers 
 Nor muse in thy cloisters at eve's pensive hour. 
 
 Oh how shall I leave you, ye hills and ye dales, 
 When lost in sad musing, though sad not unblest 
 
 A lone pilgrim I stray Ah ! in these lonely vales, 
 I hoped, vainly hoped, that the pilgrim might rest. 
 
 Yet rest is far distant in the dark vale of death 
 
 Alone shall I find it, an outcast forlorn 
 But hence vain complaints, though by fortune bereft 
 
 Of all that could solace in life's early morn. 
 
 Is not man from his birth doomed a pilgrim to roam 
 O'er the world's dreary wilds, whence by fortune's rude gust, 
 
 In his path, if some flowret of joy chanced to bloom, 
 It is torn and its foliage laid low in the dust. 
 
 At length she fixed upon a day for her departure. 
 On the day previous, she paid a farewell visit to the 
 Abbey ; wandering over every part of the grounds and 
 garden; pausing and lingering at every place par 
 ticularly associated with the recollection of Lord By 
 ron ; and passing a long time seated at the foot of the 
 monument, which she used to call " her altar." Seek 
 ing Mrs. Wildman, she placed in her hands a sealed 
 packet, with an earnest request that she would not 
 open it until after her departure from the neighbor 
 hood. This done, she took an affectionate leave of 
 her, and with many bitter tears bade farewell to the 
 Abbey. 
 
 On retiring to her room that evening, Mrs. Wildman 
 could not refrain from inspecting the legacy of this
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 87 
 
 singular being. On opening the packet, she found a 
 number of fugitive poems, written in a most delicate 
 and minute hand, and evidently the fruits of her rev 
 eries and meditations during her lonely rambles ; from 
 these the foregoing extracts have been made. These 
 were accompanied by a voluminous letter, written with 
 the pathos and eloquence of genuine feeling, and de 
 picting her peculiar situation and singular state of 
 mind in dark but painful colors. 
 
 " The last time," says she, " that I had the pleasure 
 of seeing you, in the garden, you asked me why I 
 leave Newstead; when I told you my circumstances 
 obliged me, the expression of concern which I fancied 
 I observed in your look and manner would have en 
 couraged me to have been explicit at the time, but from 
 my inability of expressing myself verbally." 
 
 She then goes on to detail precisely her pecuniary 
 circumstances, by which it appears that her whole de 
 pendence for subsistence was on an allowance of thir 
 teen pounds a year from her cousin, who bestowed it 
 through a feeling of pride, lest his relative should 
 come upon the parish. During two years this pittance 
 had been augmented from other sources, to twenty- 
 three pounds, but the last year it had shrunk within 
 its original bounds, and was yielded so grudgingly, that 
 she could not feel sure of its continuance from one 
 quarter to another. More than once it had been with 
 held on slight pretences, and she was in constant dread 
 lest it should be entirely withdrawn. 
 
 " It is with extreme reluctance," observes she, " that 
 I have so far exposed my unfortunate situation; but 
 I thought you expected to know something more of it, 
 and I feared that Colonel Wildman, deceived by ap 
 pearances, might think that I am in no immediate want, 
 and that the delay of a few weeks, or months, respect 
 ing the inquiry, can be of no material consequence. 
 It is absolutely necessary to the success of the business
 
 88 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 that Colonel Wildman should know the exact state of 
 my circumstances without reserve, that he may be en 
 abled to make a correct representation of them to any 
 gentleman whom he intends to interest, who, I pre 
 sume, if they are not of America themselves, have 
 some connections there, through whom my friends may 
 be convinced of the reality of my distress, if they 
 pretend to doubt it, as I suppose they do: but to be 
 more explicit is impossible; it would be too humiliat 
 ing to particularize the circumstances of the embar 
 rassment in which I am unhappily involved my utter 
 destitution. To disclose all, might, too, be liable to 
 an inference which I hope I am not so void of delicacy, 
 of natural pride, as to endure the thought of. Pardon 
 me, madam, for thus giving trouble where I have no 
 right to do compelled to throw myself upon Colonel 
 Wildman's humanity, to entreat his earnest exertions 
 in my behalf, for it is now my only resource. Yet do 
 not too much despise me for thus submitting to im 
 perious necessity, it is not love of life, believe me 
 it is not, nor anxiety for its preservation. I cannot 
 say, ' There are things that make the world dear to 
 me,' for in the world there is not an object to make 
 me wish to linger here another hour, could I find that 
 rest and peace in the grave which I have never found 
 on earth, and I fear will be denied me there." 
 
 Another part of her letter develops more completely 
 the dark despondency hinted at in the conclusion of the 
 foregoing extract and presents a lamentable in 
 stance of a mind diseased, which sought in vain, amidst 
 sorrow and calamity, the sweet consolations of relig 
 ious faith. 
 
 " That my existence has hitherto been prolonged," 
 says she, " often beyond what I have thought to have 
 been its destined period, is astonishing to myself. 
 Often when my situation has been as desperate, as 
 hopeless, or more so, if possible, than it is at present,
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 89 
 
 some unexpected interposition of Providence has res 
 cued me from a fate that has appeared inevitable. I 
 do not particularly allude to recent circumstances or 
 latter years, for from my earlier years I have been the 
 child of Providence then why should I distrust its 
 care now? I do not distrust it neither do I trust 
 it. I feel perfectly unanxious, unconcerned, and in 
 different as to the future; but this is not trust in 
 Providence not that trust which alone claims its 
 protection. I know this is a blamable indifference 
 it is more for it reaches to the interminable future. 
 It turns almost with disgust from the bright prospects 
 which religion offers for the consolation and support 
 of the wretched, and to which I was early taught, by 
 an almost adored mother, to look forward with hope 
 and joy; but to me they can afford no consolation. 
 Not that I doubt the sacred truths that religion incul 
 cates. I cannot doubt though I confess I have 
 sometimes tried to do so, because I no longer wish for 
 that immortality of which it assures us. My only wish 
 now is for rest and peace endless rest. ' For rest 
 but not to feel 't is rest/ but I cannot delude myself 
 with the hope that such rest will be my lot. I feel an 
 internal evidence, stronger than any arguments that 
 reason or religion can enforce, that I have that within 
 me which is imperishable; that drew not its origin 
 from the ' clod of the valley.' With this conviction, 
 but without a hope to brighten the prospect of that 
 dread future, 
 
 ' I dare not look beyond the tomb, 
 
 Yet cannot hope for peace before.' 
 
 " Such an unhappy frame of mind, I am sure, 
 madam, must excite your commiseration. It is perhaps 
 owing, in part at least, to the solitude in which I have 
 lived, I may say, even in the midst of society, when 
 I have mixed in it, as my infirmities entirely exclude
 
 90 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 me from that sweet intercourse of kindred spirits 
 that sweet solace of refined conversation; the little 
 intercourse I have at any time with those around me 
 cannot be termed conversation, they are not kindred 
 spirits ; and even where circumstances have asso 
 ciated me (but rarely indeed) with superior and culti 
 vated minds, who have not disdained to admit me to 
 their society, they could not by all their generous 
 efforts, even in early youth, lure from my dark soul 
 the thoughts that loved to lie buried there, nor inspire 
 me with the courage to attempt their disclosure; and 
 yet of all the pleasures of polished life which fancy 
 has often pictured to me in such vivid colors, there is 
 not one that I have so ardently coveted as that sweet 
 reciprocation of ideas, the supreme bliss of enlightened 
 minds in the hour of social converse. But this I knew 
 was not decreed for me, 
 
 ' Yet this was in my nature,' 
 
 but since the loss of my hearing, I have always been 
 incapable of verbal conversation. I need not, however, 
 inform you, madam, of this. At the first interview 
 with which you favored me, you quickly discovered 
 my peculiar unhappiness in this respect : you perceived, 
 from my manner, that any attempt to draw me into 
 conversation would be in vain : had it been otherwise, 
 perhaps you would not have disdained now and then to 
 have soothed the lonely wanderer with yours. I have 
 sometimes fancied, when I have seen you in the walk, 
 that you seemed to wish to encourage me to throw my 
 self in your way. Pardon me if my imagination, too 
 apt to beguile me with such dear illusions, has deceived 
 me into too presumptuous an idea here. You must 
 have observed that I generally endeavored to avoid 
 both you and Colonel Wildman. It was to spare your 
 generous hearts the pain of witnessing distress you 
 could not alleviate. Thus cut off, as it were, from all
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 91 
 
 human society, I have been compelled to live in a world 
 of my own, and certainly with the beings with which 
 my world is peopled I am at no loss to converse. But, 
 though I love solitude and am never in want of sub 
 jects to amuse my fancy, yet solitude too much in 
 dulged in must necessarily have an unhappy effect 
 upon the mind, which, when left to seek for resources 
 wholly within itself, will unavoidably, in hours of 
 gloom and despondency, brood over corroding thoughts 
 that prey upon the spirits, and sometimes terminate 
 in confirmed misanthropy especially with those who, 
 from constitution or early misfortunes, are inclined to 
 melancholy, and to view human nature in its dark 
 shades. And have I not cause for gloomy reflections? 
 The utter loneliness of my lot would alone have ren 
 dered existence a curse to one whose heart nature has 
 formed glowing with all the warmth of social affection, 
 yet without an object on which to place it without 
 one natural connection, one earthly friend to appeal 
 to, to shield me from the contempt, indignities, and 
 insults, to which my deserted situation continually ex 
 posed me." 
 
 I am giving long extracts from this letter, yet I 
 cannot refrain from subjoining another letter, which 
 depicts her feelings with respect to Newstead. 
 
 " Permit me, madam, again to request your and 
 Colonel Wildman's acceptance of those acknowledg 
 ments which I cannot too often repeat, for your un 
 exampled goodness to a rude stranger. I know I ought 
 not to have taken advantage of your extreme good 
 nature so frequently as I have. I should have absented 
 myself from your garden during the stay of the com 
 pany at the Abbey; but, as I knew I must be gone 
 long before they would leave it, I could not deny my 
 self the indulgence, as you so freely gave me your 
 permission to continue my walks ; but now they are at 
 an end. I have taken my last farewell of every dear
 
 92 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 and interesting spot, which I now never hope to see 
 again, unless my disembodied spirit may be permitted 
 to revisit them. Yet, oh! if Providence should en 
 able me again to support myself with any degree of 
 respectability, and you should grant me some little 
 humble shed, with what joy shall I return, and renew 
 my delightful rambles. But dear as Newstead is to 
 me, I will never again come under the same unhappy 
 circumstances as I have this last time never without 
 the means of at least securing myself from contempt. 
 How dear, how very dear Newstead is to me, how un 
 conquerable the infatuation that possesses me, I am 
 now going to give a too convincing proof. In offering 
 to your acceptance the worthless trifles that will ac 
 company this, I hope you will believe that I have no 
 view to your amusement. I dare not hope that the 
 consideration of their being the products of your own 
 garden, and most of them written there, in my little 
 tablet, while sitting at the foot of my Altar I could 
 not, I cannot resist the earnest desire of leaving this 
 memorial of the many happy hours I have there en 
 joyed. Oh! do not reject them, madam; suffer them 
 to remain with you ; and if you should deign to honor 
 them with a perusal, when you read them, repress, if 
 you can, the smile that I know will too naturally arise 
 when you recollect the appearance of the wretched 
 being who has dared to devote her whole soul to the 
 contemplation of such more than human excellence. 
 Yet ridiculous as such devotion may appear to some, 
 I must take leave to say, that, if the sentiments which 
 I have entertained for that exalted being could be 
 duly appreciated, I trust they would be found to be of 
 such a nature as is no dishonor even for him to have 
 inspired. . . . 
 
 " I am now coming to take a last, last view of scenes 
 too deeply impressed upon my memory ever to be 
 effaced even by madness itself. O madam! may you
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 93 
 
 never know, nor be able to conceive the agony I en 
 dure in tearing myself from all that the world con 
 tains of dear and sacred to me : the only spot on earth 
 where I can ever hope for peace or comfort. May 
 every blessing the world has to bestow attend you, or, 
 rather, may you long, long live in the enjoyment of 
 the delights of your own paradise, in secret seclusion 
 from a world that has no real blessings to bestow. 
 Now I go ; but O might I dare to hope that, when 
 you are enjoying these blissful scenes, a thought of 
 the unhappy wanderer might sometimes cross your 
 mind, how soothing would such an idea be, if I dared 
 to indulge it; could you see my heart at this mo 
 ment, how needless would it be to assure you of the 
 respectful gratitude, the affectionate esteem, this heart 
 must ever bear you both." 
 
 The effect of this letter upon the sensitive heart of 
 Mrs. Wildman may be more readily conceived than 
 expressed. Her first impulse was to give a home to 
 this poor homeless being, and to fix her in the midst 
 of those scenes which formed her earthly paradise. 
 She communicated her wishes to Colonel Wildman, 
 and they met with an immediate response in his gener 
 ous bosom. It was settled on the spot, that an apart 
 ment should be fitted up for the Little White Lady 
 in one of the new farm-houses, and every arrangement 
 made for her comfortable and permanent maintenance 
 on the estate. With a woman's prompt benevolence, 
 Mrs. Wildman, before she laid her head upon her 
 pillow, wrote the following letter to the destitute 
 stranger : 
 
 " NEWSTEAD ABBEY, Tuesday night, Sept. 2Oth, 1825. 
 " On retiring to my bedchamber this evening, I have 
 opened your letter, and cannot lose a moment in ex 
 pressing to you the strong interest which it has ex 
 cited both in Colonel Wildman and myself, from the
 
 94 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 
 
 details of your peculiar situation, and the delicate, 
 and, let me add, elegant language in which they are 
 conveyed. I am anxious that my note should reach you 
 previous to your departure from this neighborhood, 
 and should be truly happy if, by any arrangement for 
 your accommodation, I could prevent the necessity of 
 your undertaking the journey. Colonel Wildman begs 
 me to assure you that he will use his best exertion in 
 the investigation of those matters which you have con 
 fided to him, and should you remain here at present, 
 or return again after a short absence, I trust we shall 
 find means to become better acquainted, and to con 
 vince you of the interest I feel, and the real satisfac 
 tion it would afford me to contribute in any way to 
 your comfort and happiness. I will only now add my 
 thanks for the little packet which I received with your 
 letter, and I must confess that the letter has so entirely 
 engaged my attention, that I have not as yet had time 
 for the attentive perusal of its companion. 
 " Believe me, dear madam, 
 
 " with sincere good wishes, 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " LOUISA WILDMAN." 
 
 Early the next morning a servant was dispatched 
 with the letter to the Weir Mill farm, but returned 
 with the information that the Little White Lady had 
 set off, before his arrival, in company with the farmer's 
 wife, in a cart for Nottingham, to take her place in 
 the coach for London. Mrs. Wildman ordered him 
 to mount horse instantly, follow with all speed, and 
 deliver the letter into her hand before the departure 
 of the coach. 
 
 The bearer of good tidings spared neither whip 
 nor spur, and arrived at Nottingham on a gallop. On 
 entering the town, a crowd obstructed him in the prin 
 cipal street. He checked his horse to make his way
 
 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 95 
 
 through it quietly. As the crowd opened to the right 
 and left, he beheld a human body lying on the pave 
 ment. It was the corpse of the Little White Lady! 
 
 It seems, that, on arriving in town and dismounting 
 from the cart, the farmer's wife had parted with her 
 to go on an errand, and the Little White Lady con 
 tinued on toward the coach-office. In crossing a street, 
 a cart came along, driven at a rapid rate. The driver 
 called out to her, but she was too deaf to hear his voice 
 or the rattling of his cart. In an instant she was 
 knocked down by the horse, the wheels passed over her 
 body, and she died without a groan.
 
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