<■<• ,o- .0 ^^p. * o „ o *v ,•: ,4°, A >°"V ,% V o V ENGLISH SKETCHES FROM "THE SKETCH BOOK" HV WASHINGTON IRVING. ILLUSTRATED WITH ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY EMINENT ARTISTS. k 2v, % JUL 24 1886 w ) " WASH " I'll I l.A DB I, I' III A: J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. LONDON: 16 RUSSELL STREET, COVENT GARDEN. Entered according to Aot of Congress, in the > > ar 1863, by (i. P. rriN \m. In tin- Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. Entered according to a. i of Congress, In the your 1873, by J, & UPPINCOTT A CO., In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Copyright, 1886, by J. B. LIPPINt OTT I OMPANY, CONTENTS. PAGE BUB \1- LIFE IN ENGLAND 7 WESTMINSTER ABBEY 18 LITTLE BRITAIN 33 STRATFORD-ON-AVON 53 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. PAGE English Rural Scene 7 English Park Scenery 10 Cottage U Going to Church 15 English Cottage Life 17 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. Interior of Westminster Abbey 20 Poets' Corner 22 Tail-Piece : Reliques of Edward the Confessor 32 LITTLE BRITAIN. Initial : Little Britain 33 Tail-Piece: Bowls, etc 41 The Lady-Mayoress 46 Tail-Piece 52 STB A TFORD-ON- A VON. Shakspeare's Birthplace 53 Mine Ease in Mine Inn 55 Stratford Church 57 Shakspeare's Tomb 61 "Hark! Hark! the Lark!" . . . 67 View of Stratford-on-Avon 68 Charlecot Manor 71 I Fall at Charlecot 73 Tomb of Sir Thomas Lucy 75 Shakspeare before Sir Thomas Lucy 77 Tail-Piece: Falstaff 80 5 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural pleasures past! COWPER. The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the Eng- lish character must not confine his observations to the metropo- lis, lie must go forth into the country ; he must sojourn in villages and hamlets; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cottages; he must wander through parks and gardens; along hedges and green lanes ; he must loiter about country churches ; attend wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals; and cope with the people in all their conditions, and all their habits and humors. O ' THE SKETCH BOOK. Ill some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and fash- ion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metrop- olis is a mere gathering-place, or general rendezvous, of the po- lite classes, where they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial hab- its of rural life. The various orders of society are therefore diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom, and the most retired neighborhoods all'ord specimens of the different ranks. The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feel- ing. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the country. This passion seems inherent in them. Even the in- habitants of cities, born and brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occupation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower-garden, and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his busi- ness, and the success of a commercial enterprise. Even those less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive, to have something that shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy quarters of the city, the drawing-room window resembles frequently a bank of flowers, every spot capable of vegetation has its grass-plot and flower-bed ; and every square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to form RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 9 an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand engage- ments that dissipate time, thought, and feeling, in this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too commonly a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere else; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wandering to another; and while paying a friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted in the morning. An immense metropolis, like London, is calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient meet- ings, they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. They present but the cold superficies of character — its rich and genial quali- ties have no time to be warmed into a flow. It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope 'to his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formal- ities and negative civilities of town; throws off his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He man- ages to collect round him all the conveniences and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country-seat abounds with every requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, mu- sic, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint either upon his guests or him- self, but in the true spirit of hospitality provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves every one to partake according to his inclination. The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. They have studied nature intently, and discover an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms, 10 THE SKETCH BOOK. which in other countries she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled round the haunts of domestic life. They seem to have caught her coy and furtive graces, and spread them, like Witchery, about their rural abodes. ■■■ Nothing can be more impo- sing than the magnificence of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage : the solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them ; the hare bounding away to the covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 11 the wing ; the brook, taught to wind in natural meanderings or expand into a glassy lake : the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters ; while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown green and dank with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; but what most delights me, is the creative talent with which the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its ca- pabilities, and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be per- ceived. The cherishing and training of some trees ; the cau- tious pruning of others ; the nice distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage ; the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial opening to a peep of blue dis- tance, or silver gleam of water . all these are managed with a 12 THE SKETCH BOOK. delicate tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a favorite picture. The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy, that descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their embellishment, The trim hedge, the grass-plot before the door, the little flower-bed bordered with snug box, the wood- bine trained up against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice, the pot of flowers in the window, the holly, provi- dently planted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fire- side : all these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of the pub- lic mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cot- tage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant. The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the English lias had a great and salutary effect upon the national character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which char- acterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country. These hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and sim- plicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipations of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different orders of society seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favorably upon each other. The distinctions between them do not appear liURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 13 to be so marked and impassable as in the cities. The manner in which property has been distributed into small estates and farms has established a regular gradation from the nobleman, through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and sub- stantial farmers, down to the laboring peasantry: and while it has thus banded the extremes of society together, has infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it was formerly ; the larger estates having, in late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the country, almost annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system I have mentioned. In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an inter- course with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heart-felt enjoyments of com- mon life. Indeed the very amusements of the country bring men more and more together; and the sounds of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmom'. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in England than they are in any other country ; and why the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. 14 THE SKETCH BOOK. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incom- parable descriptions of nature that abound in the British poets ; that have continued down from ''the Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the Brit- ish poets have lived and revelled with her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the humble vio- let, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupa- tions has been wonderful on the face of the country. A great part of the island is rather level, and would be monotonous, were it not for the charms of culture : but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. It does not abound in grand and sub- lime prospects, but rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a picture : and as the roads are continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eve is de- lighted by a continual succession of small landscapes of capti- vating loveliness. The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 15 with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober, well-established princi- ples, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Every thing seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The old church of remote architecture, with its low massive portal ; its gothic tower ; its windows rich with tracery and painted IQ THE SKETCH BOOK. glass, in scrupulous preservation ; its stately monuments of war- riors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil ; its tombstones, recording successive genera- tions of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the same fields, and kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, a quaint, irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants — the stile and footpath leading from the churchyard, across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge-rows, according to an immemorial right of way — the neighboring village, with its venerable cottages, its public green sheltered by trees, under which the forefathers of the present race have sported — the antique family mansion, stand- ing apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the surrounding scene : all these common feat- ures of English landscape evince a calm and settled security, and hereditary transmission of home-bred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the nation. It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces and mod- est cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the even- ings, gathering about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellishments which their own hands have spread around them. It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoj-ments ; and I cannot close these desul- tory remarks better than by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who has depicted it with remarkable felicity : RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 17 Through each gradation, from the castled hall, The city dome, the villa crowned with shade, But chief from modest mansions numberless, In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roofed shed; This western isle hath long been famed for scenes Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling place ; Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, (Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) Can centre in a little quiet nest All that desire would fly for through the earth : That can, the world eluding, be itself A world enjoyed ; that wants no witnesses But its own sharers, and approving Heaven ; That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft. Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.* * From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend Rann Kennedy, A. M. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. "When 1 behold, with deep astonishment, To famous Westminster how there resorte Living in brasse or stoney monument, Tlic princes and the worthies of all Borte; Doe mhi 1 see reformde nobilitie, Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, Ami looke upon offenselesse majesty, Naked of pomp or earthly domination? Ami how a play-game ofa painted stone Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, Whome all the world which late they stood upon Could not content or quench their appetites. Life is a frost of cold felicitie, And death the thaw of all our yanitie." Christolero's Epigrams, bi T. B. 1598. N ono oi' those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter pari of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening almosl mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, 1 passed several hours in rambling aboul Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile; and, as I passed its threshold, seemed like stepping hack into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, through a long, low, vaulted passage, thai had an almost subterranean look, being dimly Lighted in one pari by circular perforations in the 'massive walls. Through this dark avenue 1 had a dis- tant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, iii his 18' I BR ABBEY. L9 black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepa the mind for it- solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain something of the quiet and seclusion of former dayi . The g ,■.,■(]]- are discolored by damps, and crumbling with age; a coat of hoary mosi ha gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the death's beads and other funereal emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches; the roses which adorned the key- stones have lost their leafy beauty; every thing bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has something :hing and pleasing in its very decay. The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusky splendor. From between the arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blu or a passing cloud; and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure heaven. As I paced the cloi >metime£ contemplating this min- gled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, bu1 nearly worn away by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots: the epitaphs were entirely effaced; the names alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later times. (Vitalis Abbas. L082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. L176.) I remained some little while, musing over thi relics of antiquity, thus loft like 20 THE SKETCH BOOK. wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been, and had perished ; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 21 even these faint records will be obliterated, and the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of de- parted time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward toward the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched, door opening to the interior of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at clustered col- umns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to such an amazing height; and man, wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb; while every footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition, to see how they are crowded together and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ; and how many shapes, and forms, and artifices, are devised to catch the casual notice 22 THE SKETCH BOOK. of the passenger, and save from forgetfulness, for a few short years, a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross-aisles of the abbey. The monu- ments are generally simple; for the lives of literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakspeare and Addison have statues erected to their memories; but the greater part have busts, rnedallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Not- WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 23 withstanding the simplicity of these memorials, I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold curi- osity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of friends and companions ; for indeed there is something of companionship between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of history, which is continually growing faint and obscure: but the intercourse between the author and his fellow- men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoy- ments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his memory ; for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treasures of wis- dom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language. From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll toward that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I wan- dered among what once were chapels, but which are now occu- pied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn I met with some illustrious name, or the cognizance of some powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies ; some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together : warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle ; prelates with cro- siers and mitres ; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it 24 THE SKETCH BOOK. were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely popu- lous, vet where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been suddenly transmuted into stone. I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm ; the bauds were pressed together in supplication upon the breast: the face was almost covered by the morion ; the legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader; of one of those mili- tarv enthusiasts who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction — between the history and the fairy tale. There is some- thing extremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are generally found ; and, in considering them, the imagi- nation is apt to kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They are the relics of times utterly gone by ; of beings passed from recollection ; of customs and manners with which ours have no affinity. They are like objects from some strange and distant land, of which we have no certain knowledge, and about which all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is something extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the supplication of the dying hour. They have an effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the overwrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound on modern monuments. I have been struck, also, with the supe- WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 25 riority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There was ; ble way, in former time-, of saying things simply, and yet saying them proudly; and I do not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and honorable lineage than one whicb affirms, of a noble house, that "all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument which is among the mosl renowned achievements of modern art, l>iii which to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is felling from his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit: we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the spectre. But why should we thus seek- to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love? The grave should be surrounded bv every thing that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead; or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. Whiles wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence from without occasionally reaches the ear — the rumbling of the passing equipage; the murmur of the multitude; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the death- like repose around : and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear the surges of active; life hurrying along, and beating against the very walls of the sepulchre. 26 THE SKETCH BOOK. I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers; and 1 saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A iliglit of steps lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy but magnifi- cent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctanl to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sep- ulchres. On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery. and scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to nave been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the gro- tesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson, with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder — his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surround- ed by a superbly-wrought brazen railing. WESTMINSTEB A.BBEY. 27 There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence; this strange mi ture of tombs and trophie ; these emblems of living and as- piring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dusl and oblivion in which, all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to tread the silenl and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. < >n looking round on the vacanl stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that once borne before them, my imagination conjured up iln- scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land; glittering with the splendor of jewelled rank :mw 1 »ell) would he out of charity with me." Xashe. Q N the centre of the great city of London lies a small neighbor- hood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very venerable and debil- f. itatecl houses, which goes by | the name of Little Britain. | Christ Church School and St. I Bartholomew's Hospital bound it on the west; Smithneld and I Long Lane on the north ; Al- V dersgate Street, like an arm of S the sea, divides it from the JJ eastern part of the city; whilst § the yawning gulf of Bull-and- Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Lane, and the regions of Newgate. Over this little territory, thus bounded and desig- nated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the interven- ing houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly protection. a^/f^ 34 THE SKETCH BOOK. This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As Lon- don increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and trade, creeping on at their heels, took possession of their de- serted abodes. For some time Little Britain became the great mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolific race of booksellers ; these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating beyond the great strait of Newgate Street, settled down in Paternoster Eow and St. Paul's Churchyard, where they con- tinue to increase and multiply even at the present day. But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears traces of its former splendor. There are several houses ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes; and fruits and flowers which it would perplex a nat- uralist to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains of what were once spacious and lordly family mansions. but which have in latter days been subdivided into several tenements. Here may often be found the family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing among the relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling, time-stained apart- ments', with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous mar- ble fireplaces. The lanes and courts also contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale, but, like your small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. These have their gable ends to the street; great bow windows, with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and low arched door- ways.* * It is evident that the author of this interesting communication lias included, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. LITTLE BRITAIN. 35 In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the second floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices. My sit- ting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small panels, and set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a par- ticular respect for three or four high-backed claw-footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen better days, and have doubtless figured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me to keep together, and to look down with sovereign contempt upon their leathern- bottomed neighbors; as I have seen decayed gentiy carry a high head among the plebeian society with which they were reduced to associate. The whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow window; on the panes of which are re- corded the names of previous occupants for many generations, mingled with scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, written in characters which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an idle personage, with no apparent occupation, and pay my bill regularly every week, I am looked upon as the only indepen- dent gentleman of the neighborhood; and, being curious to learn the internal state of a community so apparently shut up within itself, I have managed to work my way into all the concerns and secrets of the place. Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the city; the strong-hold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of Lon- don as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great preservation many of the holi- day games and customs of yore. The inhabitants most reli- giously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on 36 THE SKETCH BOOK'. ' Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas ; they send love- letters on Valentine's Day, burn the pope on the fifth of No- vember, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. Eoast beef and plum-pudding are also held in superstitious ven- eration, and port and sherry maintain their grounds as the only true English wines; all others being considered vile outlandish beverages. Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world; such as the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls; the figures that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock ; the Monument; the lions in the Tower; and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still believe in dreams and fortune-telling, and an old woman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncom- fortable by comets and eclipses; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There are even many ghost stories current, particularly concern- ing the old mansion-houses; in several of which it is said strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies — the former in full-bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords ; the latter in lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, — have been seen walking up and down the great waste chambers, on moonlight nights; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their court- dresses. x Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of the most important of the former is a tall, dry old gentleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and projec- tions ; with a brown circle round each eye, like a pair of horn LITTLE BRITAIN. 37 spectacles. He is much thought of by the old women, who consider him as a kind of conjurer, because he has two or three stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much given to pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspira- cies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions; which last phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He has always some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers, with iIk mi- doses; and thus at the same time puts both soul and body into an uproar. He is a great believer in omens and predic- tions; and has the prophecies of Eobert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make so much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day; and he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his customers and disciples until they were nearly frightened out of their wits. He lias lately got hold of a popular legend or prophecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying current among the ancient sibyls, who treasure up these things, that when the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange shook hands witli the dragon on the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place. This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church; and, fearful to relate, the dra- gon and the grasshopper actually lie cheek by jole, in the yard of his workshop. " Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, " may go star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrol- ogers."' Since these portentous weather-cocks have thus laid 38 THE SKETCH BOOK. their heads together, wonderful events had already occurred. The good old king, notwithstanding that he had lived eighty- two years, had all at once given Tip the ghost; another king had mounted the throne; a royal duke had died suddenly — another, in France, had been murdered; there had been radical meetings in all parts of the kingdom; the bloody scenes at Man- chester; the great plot in Cato Street; — and, above all, the queen had returned to England! All these sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme, with a mysterious look, and a dismal shake of the head; and being taken with his drugs, and asso- ciated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title-page of tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the minds of the people of Little Britain. They shake their heads when- ever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they never expected any good to come of taking down that steeple, which in old times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history of Whittington and his Cat bears witness. The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese- monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family man- sions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed, he is a man of no little standing and importance; and his renown extends through Huggin Lane, and Lad Lane, and even unto Alder- manbury. His opinion is very much taken in affairs of state, having read the Sunday papers for the last half century, togeth- er with the Gentleman's Magazine, Rapin's History of England, and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with invaluable maxims which have borne the test of time and use for centuries. It is his firm opinion that "it is a moral impossible," so long as England is- true to herself, that any thing can shake her: and LITTLE BEITAIN. 39 he has much to say on the subject of the national debt; which, somehow or other, he proves to be a great national bulwark mid blessing. lie passed the greater part of his life in the pur- lieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having become rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure and see the world. He has therefore made several excursions to Eampstead, Highgate, and other neighbor- ing towns, where he has passed whole afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis through a telescope, and endeavoring to descry the steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coach- man of Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches his hat as he passes; and he is considered quite a patron at the coach-office of the Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His family have been very urgent for him to make an expedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed thinks himself too advanced in life to undertake sen- voyages. Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and party spirit ran very high atone time in consequence of two rival "Burial Societies" being set up in the place. One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger; the other at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary: it is needless to say that the latter was the most flourishing. I have passed an evening or two at each, and have acquired much valuable information as to the best mode of being buried, the comparative merits of church- yards, together with divers hints on the subject of patent-iron coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its bearings as to the legality of prohibiting the latter on account of their durability. The tends occasioned by these societies have hap- pily died of late; but they were for a long time prevailing 42 40 THE SKETCH BOOK themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain being ex- tremely solicitous of funereal honors and of lying comfortably in their graves. Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite a different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half-moon, with a most seductive bunch of grapes. The old edifice is covered with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer; such as " Truman, Hanbury, and Co.'s Entire," "Wine, Bum, and Brandy Vaults," ''Old Tom, Rum and Compounds, etc." This indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus from time im- memorial. It lias always been in the family of the Wagstaffs, so that its history is tolerably preserved by the present land- lord. It was much frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the wits of Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff prin- cipally prides himself upon is, that Henry the Eighth in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his famous walking-staff. This, however, is considered as rather a dubious and vainglorious boast of the landlord. The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes by the name of "The Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They abound in old catches, glees, and choice stories, that are tradi- tional in the place, and not to be met with in any other part of the metropolis. There is a mad-cap undertaker who is inimita- ble at a merry song; but the life of the club, and indeed the prime wit of. Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors were all wags before him, and he has inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from LITTLE BEITAIN. 41 generation to generation as heir-looms. He is a dapper little follow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red faee, with a moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind. At the opening of every clnb-night he is called in to sing his " Confes- sion of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl from Crammer Gurton's Needle. He sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as he received it from his father's lips; for it has been a standing favorite at the Half- Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written : nay, he affirms that his predecessors have often had the honor of singing it before the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Little Britain was in all its glory.* * As mine host of the Half- Moon's " Confession of Faith" may not be familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current songs of Little Britain. I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would observe, that the whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and clattering of pewter pots. u I cannot eate but lytle meate, My stomacke is not good, But sure I thinke that I can drinke With him that weares a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I nothing am a colde. I stuff my skyn so full within, Of joly good ale and olde. 42 THE SKETCH BOOK. It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club-night, the shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue Chorus. — Backe and syde go bare, go bare. Booth foote and hand go colde, But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe Whether it be new or olde. •■ I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste, And a crab laid in the f3 T re; A little breade shall do me steade, Much breade I not desyre. Xo frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, Can hurte mee, if I wolde, I am so wrapt and throwly lapt Of joly good ale and olde. Chora*. — Backe and syde go bare, go bare. etc. •• And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, Loveth well good ale to seeke, Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, The teares run downe her cheeke. Then doth she trowle to me the bowle, Even as a manlt-worme sholde, And saytli, sweete harte, I took my parte Of this joly good ale and olde. Chorus. — Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. "Xow let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, They shall not mysse to have the blisse, Good ale doth bring men to ; And all poore sonles that have scowred bowles, Or have them lustily trolde, v God save the lyves of them and their wives, Whether they be yonge or olde. Chorus. — Backe and syde go bare, go bare," etc. LITTLE BRITAIN. 43 from this jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into a confectioner's window, or snuffing up the steams of a cook- shop. There are two annual events which produce great stir and sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholomew's fair, and the Lord Mayor's day. During the time of the fair, which is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gossiping and gadding about. The late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with an irruption of strange figures and faces; every tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from the tap-room, morning, noon, and night; and at each window may be seen some group of boon companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling, and prosing, and sing- ing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum of private families, which I must say is rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors, is no proof against this Saturnalia. There is no such thing as keeping maid-servants within doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding with Punch and the Puppet Show; the Flying Horses; Signior Polito; the Fire- Eater; the celebrated Mr. Paap; and the Irish Giant. The children too lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt gin- gerbread, and fill the house with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles. But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The I i< »r< I Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth; his gilt coach with six horses as the summit of human splendor; and his procession, with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his train, as the grandest of earthly pageants. How they exult in the idea, that the King 44 THE SKETCH BOOK. himself dare not enter the city without first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar, and asking permission of the Lord Mayor: for if he did, heaven and earth ! there is no knowing what might be the consequence. The man in armor who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, has orders to cut down everybody that offends against the dignity of the city : and then there is the little man with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at the window of the state coach, and holds the city sword, as long as a pike-staff — Odd's blood! If he once draws that sword, Majesty itself is not safe! Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an effectual barrier against all interior foes; and as to foreign in- vasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into the Tower, call in the train-bands, and put the standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid defiance to the world! Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its own opinions. Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart to this great fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy John Bullism were garnered up, like seed corn, to renew the national character, when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony that pre- vailed throughout it; for though there might now and then be a few clashes of opinion between the adherents of the cheese- monger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial societies, yet these were but transient clouds, and soon passed away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted with a shake of the hand, and never abused each other except behind their backs. I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at LITTLE BRITAIN. 45 which I have been present; where we played at All-Fours, Pope-Joan, Toin-come-tickle-me, and other choice old panes; and where we sometimes had a good old English country dance to the tune of Sir Eoger de Coverley. Once a year also the neighbors would gather together, and go on a gipsy party to Epping Forest. It would have done any man's heart good to see the merriment that took place here as we banqueted on the grass under the trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wag-staff and the merry undertaker! After dinner, too, the young folks would play at blind-man's-buff and hide-and-seek; and it was amusing to see them tangled among the briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now and then squeak from among the bushes. The elder folks would gather round the cheesemonger and the apothecary, to hear them talk politics ; for they generally brought out a news- paper in their pockets, to pass away time in the country. They would now and then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument; but their disputes were alwaj^s adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella-maker in a double chin, who, never exact- ly comprehending the subject, managed somehow or other to decide in favor of both parties. All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innovation creep in ; factions arise ; and families now and then spring up, whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into confusion. Thus in latter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners threatened with total subversion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. The family of the Lambs had long been among the most thriving and popular in the neighborhood: the Miss Lambs 46 THE SKETCH BOOK. were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased when Old Lamb had made money enough to shut ujd shop, and put his name' on a brass plate on his door. In an evil hour, how- ever, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of being a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, on which .occasion she wore three towering ostrich feathers on her head. The family never got over it; they were immediately smitten with a passion for high life ; set up a one-horse carriage LITTLE BRITAIN. 47 put a bit of gold lace round the errand boy's hat, and have been the talk and detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since. They could no longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or blind- man's-buff; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain ; and they took to reading novels, talking bad French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother, too, who had been articled to an attor- ney, set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto un- known in these parts ; and he confounded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, the opera, and the Edin- burgh Keview. What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors; but they had a great deal of genteel company from Theobald's Road, Red-Lion Square, and other parts towards the west. There were several beaux of their brother's acquaintance from Grays Inn Lane and Hatton Garden ; and not less than three Alder- men's ladies with their daughters. This was not to be forgotten or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar with the smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the rat- tlingand the jingling of hackney coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping their night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by ; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that kept a look-out from a house just opposite the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every one that knocked at the door. This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements with her quality acquaintance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some of her old cronies, "quite," as 48 THE SKETCH BOOK. she would say, "in a friendly way;" and it is equally true that her invitations were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would con- descend to strum an Irish melody for them on the piano; and they would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family, of Portsokenward. and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched-Frhirs; but then they relieved their consciences, and averted the re- proaches of their confederates, by canvassing at the next gossip- ing convocation every thing that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout all to pieces. The only one of the family that could not be made fashiona- ble was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe brush, and a broad lace mottled like his own beef. It was in vain that the daughters always spoke of him as "the old gentleman.'" addressed him as "papa," in tones of infinite softness, and endeavored to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habit-. Do what they might, there was no keeping down tin 1 butcher. His sturdy nature would break through all their glozings. He had a hearty vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible. His very jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder; and he persisted in wearing his blue-cotton coat of a, morning, dining at two o'clock, and having a "bit ol' sausage with his tea." He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his family.' 11.' found his old comrades gradually growing cold and civil to him; no longer laughing at his jokes; and now and then throwing out a fling at "some people," and a hint LITTLE BEITAIN. 49 about "quality binding." This both nettled and perplexed the honest butcher; and his wife and daughters, with the con- summate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advantage of the circumstance, at length jjrevailed upon him to give up his after- noon's pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's; to sit after dinner by himself, and take his pint of port — a liquor he detested — and to nod in his chair in solitary and dismal gentility. The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux; and talking and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves of every good Lady within hearing. They even went so far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced a French dancing-master to set up in the neighborhood; but the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such precipitation, that he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely the over- flowing of their zeal for good old English manners, and their horror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent contempt they were so vociferous in expressing, for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection had taken hold ; and that my neighbors, a tier condemning, were beginning to follow their example. I overheard my landlady importuning her husband to let their ( laughters have one quarter at French and music, and that they might take a few lessons in quadrille. I even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than five French bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little Britain. 50 THE SKETCH BOOK. I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die away; that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood; might die, or might run away with attorneys' apprentices; and that quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the community. But unluckily a rival power arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a widow with a large jointure and a family of buxom daughters. The young ladies had long been repining in secret at the parsimony of a prudent father, which kept down all their elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being now no longer restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly took the field against the family of the butcher. It is true that the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances; but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be behindhand : and though they might not boast of as good com- pany, yet they had double the number, and were twice as merry. The whole community has at length divided itself into fash- ionable factions, under the banners of these two families. The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely discarded ; there is no such thing as getting up an honest coun- try dance ; and on my attempting to kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed; the Miss Lambs having pronounced it "shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the most fashionable part of Little Britain ; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross- Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholo- mew's. LITTLE BRITAIN. 51 Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears; and what will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, with jill his talent at prognostics, to determine; though I appre- hend that it will terminate in the total downfall of genuine John Bullism. The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle, good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore in high favor with both parties, and have to hear all their cabinet councils and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have committed myself most horribly with both parties, by abusing their opponents. I might manage to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly accommodating one, but I cannot to my apprehension— if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation, and compare notes, I am ruined ! I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and ;ini actually looking out for some other nest in this great city, where old English manners are still kept up; where French is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken; and where there are no fashionable families of retired tradesmen. This found; I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old house about my ears ; bid a long, though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode, and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trotters to divide the distracted empire of Little Britain. b"Y : -< Hfi STEATFOKD-ON-AYON. 'Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream; The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head." GrAEEICK. TO a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of something like independence and territorial consequence, when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little parlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of 53 54 THE SKETCH BOOK. certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of life; it is a sunny moment, gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day: and he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of exist- ence, knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?" thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about the little parlor of the Eed Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing through my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I under- stood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an end* so abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid hieing deposed, and putting the ''Stratford Guide-Book" under my arm, as a pillow com- panion, 1 went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspeare, the jubilee, and David Garrick. The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which we sometimes have in early spring; for it was about the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way; the north wind had spent its last gasp; and a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty. I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first visit was to the house where Shakspeare was born, and where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his lather's craft of wool-combing. It is a small, mean-looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to STRATFORD-ON AVON. 55 delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and condi- tions, from the prince to the peasant ; and present a simple, but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. 56 THE SKETCH BOOK. The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very match-lock with which Shakspeare shot the deer, on his j:>oaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box ; which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh: the sword also with which he played Hamlet; and the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb! There was an ample supply also of Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross ; of which there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shaks- peare's chair. It stands in the chimney-nook of a small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolv- ing spit with all the longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the custom of every one that visits the house to sit: whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say, I merely mention the fact; and mine hostess privately assured me, that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be new bottomed at least once in -three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the history of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair STRATFORD-ON-AVON 57 of the Arabian enchanter; for though sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old chimney corner. I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs ii' »ihing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men; and would advise all travellers who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to us, whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality? There is nothing like resolute good-humored credulity in these matters ; and on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, luckily, for mv faith, she put into my hands a play of her own composition, which set all belief in her consanguinity at defiance. From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and retired: the river runs murmuring at the foot of the churchyard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown with grass; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend old buildino- Small birds have built their nests among the cornices and 58 THE SKETCH BOOK. fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirp- ing; and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty gray spire. In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows; and was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which per- vade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low white- washed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Eows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and Prayer Book, and the drawer contained the family library, composed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that im- portant article of cottage furniture, ticked on the opposite side of the room; with a bright warming-pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In one corner sat the old man's granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the oppo- site corner was a superannuated crony, whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his compan- ion from childhood. They had played together in infancy; they had worked together in manhood; they were now tottering about 'and gossiping away the evening of life ; and in a short time they will probably be buried together in the neighboring churchyard. It is not often that we see two streams of exist- STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 59 ence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom scenes" of life that they are to be met with. I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the 60 THE SKETCH BOOK. bard from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing new to impart. The long interval during which Shakspeare's writings lay in comparative neglect has spread its shadow over his history ; and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely any thing remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures. The sexton and his companion had been employed as car- penters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who superintended the arrangements, and. who, according to the sexton, was "a short punch man, very lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakspeare's mul- berry-tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale: no don l>t a sovereign quickener of literary conception. I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspeare house, John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her valuable collection of relics, particularly her remains of the mulberry -tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to Shakspeare having been born in her house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb; the latter having comparatively but few visit- ors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge into different channels even at the fountain-head. "We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the archi- tecture and embellishments superior to those of most country churches. There are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry,, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, ana banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The torn!) of STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 61 Shakspeare is in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepul- chral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps up a low. perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where g2 THE SKETCH BOOK. the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, and which have in them some- thing extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds. "Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare To dip; the dust enclosed here. Blessed be he that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones." Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely arched forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear indica- tions of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he was as much characterized among his contemporaries as by the vast- ness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age at the time of his decease — fifty-three years; an untimely death for the world: for what fruit might not have been expected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favor. The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, through which one might have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with his remains so awfully guarded by a malediction; and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, should be tempted to commit STRATFOBD-ON-AVON. 63 depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished and the aperture closed again. He told me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones ; nothing but dust. . It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakspeare. Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe of usurious memory; on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on any thing that is not connected with Shakspeare. His idea pervades the place ; the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence : other traces of him may be false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement, there was something intense and thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakspeare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place ; and as I passed through the churchyard, I plucked a branch from one of the yew-trees, the only relic that I have brought from Stratford. I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys, at Cliarlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shakspeare, in company with some of the roysters of Stratford, committed his youthful offence of deer-stealing. In this hare-brained exploit we are told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in doleful cap- tivity. When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy 64 THE SKETCH BOOK. his treatment must have been galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the park gate at Charlecot* This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer- stalker. Shakspeare did not wait to brave the united puissance of a knight of the shire and a country attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon and his paternal trade; wandered away to London; became a hanger-on to the theatres; then an actor; and, finally, wrote for the stage; and thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber, and the world gained an im- mortal poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself in his writings; but in the sportive way of a good- natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by the justice's armorial bearings, which, like those of the knight, had white lucesf in the quarterings. Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften and explain away this early transgression of the poet; * The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon: — " A parliament member, a justice of peace, At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, Then Lucy is lowsie. whatever befall it. He thinks himself great : Yet an asse in his state. We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, . Then sing lowsie Lucy. whatever befall it." f The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot. STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 65 1 . 1 1 1 L look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his situation and turn of mind. Shakspeare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic temperament has naturally something in it of the vagabond. When left to itself it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in every thing eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall turn out a great rogue or a great poet; and had not Shakspeare's mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have as daring- ly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws. I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was to be found in the company of all kinds of odd anomalous charac- ters ; that he associated with all the madcaps of the place, and was one of those unlucky urchins, at mention of whom old men shake their heads, and predict that they will one day come to the gallows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and, as yet untamed, imagination, as something delightfully adventurous.* * A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in his youthful days, may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his "Picturesque Views on the Avon." About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. Among others, the people of Strat- ford were called out to prove the strength of their heads; and in the number of the champions was Shakspeare, who, in spite of the proverb that "they who drink beer will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to carry them off' the field. They had scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they were forced to lie down under a crab-tree, g5 THE SKETCH BOOK. The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly interesting, from being connected with this whimsical but eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house stood but little more than three miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from which Shaks- peare must have derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of the weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this first awakening of spring; to feel its warm breath stealing over the senses; to see the moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the green sprout and the tender blade: and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. The cold snow-drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before the cot- tages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard where they passed the night. It is still standing, and goes by the name of Shakspeare's tree. In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drank with v " Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, Budging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford." " The 'villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the epithets thus given them: the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the pipe and tabor. Hilborough .is now called Haunted Hilborough ; and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 67 from the fields. The sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves and budding hedges; the robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain; and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind Shakspeare's exquisite little song in Cymbeline: "And winking mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes ; With every thing that pretty bin, My lady sweet arise I" Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground: every thing is associated with the idea of Shakspeare. Every old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boy- hood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popular amuse- ment in winter evenings "to sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, G8 THE SKETCH BOOK. dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars."* My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and wind- ings through a wide and fertile valley, sometimes glittering from among willows, which fringed its borders; sometimes disappearing among groves, or beneath green banks; and sometimes rambling out into full view, and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the Eed Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the * Scot, iii his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these fireside fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins. elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus. Robin-good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such toher buf domestic life that I met with was a white cat, stealing with wary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial power which was so strenuously manifested in the case of the bard. After prowling about for some time, I at length found my way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to the mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old house- keeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness of her order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater part has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modem tastes and modes of living: there is a line old oaken staircase; and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still retains much of the appearance it must have had in the days of Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty; and at one end is a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons STRATFORD-OX-AVON. 73 and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family portraits. There is a wide hospitable fireplace, calculated for an ample old- fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying place of winter festivity. On the opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow- window, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the court- yard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bear- ings of the Lucy family for many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to observe in the quarterings the three white luces, by which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having "beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken into his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offences of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the family pride and vindictive 74 THE SKETCH BOOK. threats of the puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pom- pous indignation of Sir Thomas. "Shallow. Sir Hugh persuade me not: I will make a Star-Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, lie shall not abuse Sir Robert Shallow. Esq. Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. Shallow. Ay. cousin Slender, and custalorum. Slender. Ay. and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, master parson; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, Armigero. Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred years. Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't. and all his ancestors that come after him may; they may give the dozen white liters in their coat. . . . Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no fear of Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. Shallow. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it!" Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of Charles the Second: the old housekeeper shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me that this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of the family estate, among which was that part of the park' where Shakspeare and his comrades had killed the ' deer. The lands thus lost had not been entirely regained by the family even at the present day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm. The picture which most attracted my attention was a great painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy' and his family, who inhabited the hall in the latter part of Shakspeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vin- dictive knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me that it was his son; the only likeness extant of the former being an effigy upon his tomb in the church of the neighboring hamlet STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 75 of Charlecot * The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet: white shoes with roses in them; and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, a "cane-colored heard."' His lady is seated on the opposite side of the picture in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children have a most * This effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in complete armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb is the following inscription; which, if really composed by her husband, places him quite above the intellectual level of Master Shallow: - Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sr Thomas Lucy of Charlecot in yo county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire who departed out of this wretched world to her hea- venly kingdom ye 10 day of February in yeyeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true and faytliful servant of her good God, never detected of any cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband most faythful and true. In friendship most constant; to what in trust 76 THE SKETCH BOOK. venerable stiffness and formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family group; a hawk is seated on his perch in the foreground, and one of the children holds a bow ; — all intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, and archery — so indispensable to an accomplished gentleman in those days.* I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow- chair of carved oak, in which the country squire of former days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural domains; and in which it might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state when the recreant Shakspeare was brought before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the morning after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded by his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving-men, with their badges; while the luckless culprit was brought was committed unto her most secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of her house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did converse with her moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospitality. Greatly esteemed of her betters ; misliked of none unless of the envyous. When all is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled by any. As shee lived most virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowe what hath byn written to be true. ''Thomas Lucye." * Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes, " His housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs and serving-men attend, ant on their kennels; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his dis- course. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly am- bitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, "He kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and had hawks of all kinds both long and short, winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow- bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, iay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels." STKATFOED-ON-AVON. 77 in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half-open doors ; while from the gallery the fair daughters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful prisoner with that pity "that dwells in woman- hood.' 1 Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority of a country squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the delight of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, the dictator to the human mind, and was to confer immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence "to a last vear's 78 THE SKETCH BOOK. pippin of his own grafting, with a dish of caraways;" but I had already spent so much of the day in my ramblings that I was obliged to give up any further investigations. When about to take my leave I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I would take some refreshment : an instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to say, we castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the present representative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shakspeare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing instances to Falstaff. " By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night ... I will not excuse you; you shall not bo excused; excuses shall not he admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not he excused . . . Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged hens; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William < 'ook." I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually living among them. Every thing brought them as it were before my eyes; and as the door of the dining-room opened, I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth his favorite ditty : "'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, And welcome merry shrove-tide!" On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the sin- gular gift of the poet; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the very face of nature: to give to things and places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this "working-day world" into a perfect fairy-land. He is indeed STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 79 the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shakspeare I had been walking all day in a com- plete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings ; with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power; yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jacques solilo- quize beneath his oak; had beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring through the woodlands ; and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions ; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures in my checkered path; and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life ! As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction, which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor could his name have derived from being mingled in dusty companionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude? What would a crowd- ed corner in Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum! The solicitude about the grave may be but the offspring of an over-wrought sensibility ; but human nature is made up of foibles and prejudices; and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with these factitious feelings. 80 THE SKETCH BOOK. He who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honor among his kindred and his early friends. . And when the weary heart and failing head begin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly, as does the infant to the mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should return to it covered with renown ; that his name should become the boast and glory of his native jnace ; that his ashes should be religiously guard- ed as its most precious treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! H 4b- 79 '«*cr .v* O. s^, :W^?> a>«* :^i^° ,5^ r o V" V -\ * , ,0 ■ ^0 X 4°* ,4° "o V L >V s ^ O • » 4 V < j. . . * 4 * U 1 * ^ H u ^ v"* v«0 4 o.