Class J3?$L2i££>£2_ Bonk . A i Copightlf \3£G&j COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. WASHINGTON IRVING MAYNARD'S ENGLISH CLASSIC SERIES— SPECIAL NUMBER THE SKETCH-BOOK of Geoffrey Crayon Gent BY WASHINGTON IRVING WITH INTRODUCTORY AND EXPLANATORY NOTES NEW YORK MAYNARD, MERRILL, & CO. •\ LIBRARY of CONGRESS TVCnoies Received SEP 1 »906 Covyngiu Entry CLASS /«- XXc No. /S + +OZ COPY B. A .0* •V Copyright, 1880, by G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS Copyright, 1906, by MAYNARD, MERRILL, & CO. TTbe fmtcftetrbocfeer pteee, Hew IPorft IRVING'S WORKS. RED IN 1807 Salmagundi. 1809 Knickerbocker' 8 Histoid of New York. 1818 The Sketch-Book. 1822 Bracebridge Hall. 1824 Tales of a Traveler. 1828 Life and Voyages of Columbus. 1829 Conquest of Oranada. 1831 Companions of Columbus. 1832 The Alhamlyra. 1835 Legends of the Conquest of Spain. 44 A Tour of the Prairies. 44 Recollections of Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey. 1836 Astoria. 1837 Adventures of Captain Bonneville. 1849 Oliver Goldsmith. 1850 Matwmet and His Successors. 1855 Wolferfs Boost. " Life of Washington, Volume I. 1859 Life of Washington, Fifth and last Volume. BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM. Pierre M. Irving. Life of Washington Irving. 4 vols. The standard biography. Charles Dudley Warner. Life of Irving. American Men of Letters Series. David J. Hill. Life of Irving. American Authors' Series. Hazlitt. Spirit of the Age. Jeffrey. Bracebridge Hall. William C. Bryant. Address before the New York Historical Society, 1860. H. W. Longfellow. Address before the Massachusetts Historical Society, 1860. Curtis. Literary and Social Essays. Howells. My Literary Passions. Lowell. Fable for Critics. Studies of Irving. Containing Essays and Addresses by Warner, Bryant, and George P. Putnam. Encyclopaedia Britannica. Vol. XIII. An article by Richard Garnett. William Makepeace Thackeray. Nil nisi Bonum, in Roundabout Papers. LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. Washington Irving was born in New York City April 3, 1783, the youngest of eleven children of William and Sarah Irving. His father, a Scotch seaman, settled in New York twenty years before and was established in trade. He was a man of great probity and honor, but a strict disciplinarian. From his mother Irving inherited that geniality which dis- tinguished him in life as well as in his writings. Irving's father, though not a wealthy man, gave two of his sons a college education, but the youngest did not have this advantage, perhaps because of ill health. His educa- tion began when he was four years old and continued in a desultory fashion until 1799. For some years after the latter date he pursued the study of law in an irregular way. His health, however, was not of the best, and in 1804 he was sent abroad in the hope of improving it. He was successful in his search for strength, and also in the attainment of those refinements which the Old World could offer to a sus- ceptible mind. The grandeur of Eome, the gay beauty of Paris, and the busy throngs of London all had their influence on him. He saw Nelson's fleet going to Trafalgar, and later was awed at the scene of the great admiral lying in state. The actress, Mrs. Siddons, charmed him, — the theater was a forbidden pleasure of his youth, — and by many another experience was his mind stocked with the impressions which colored his later work. In 1806 Irving returned to New York, and with his brother William, and James K. Paulding, founded Salma- gundi, a periodical of the same type as the Spectator. At ii LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. {{[ this time, too, occurred an event which had great influence on his life and gave his writings a deeper and richer note. This was the death of Miss Hoffman, daughter of his legal instructor, to whom he was attached with an affection that lasted till his death. " When I became once more calm and collected," writes Irving, " I applied myself, by way of occu- pation, to the finishing of my work." This work was the " History of New York," by Dietrich Knickerbocker. The book is a burlesque history of New York under the dominion of the Dutch, filled with boister- ous humor, and giving a lifelike picture of the town where " burgomasters were chosen by weight." When it was pub- lished, in 1809, it met with an immediate success and established the author's reputation so well that when, in 1815, he sailed for Europe the second time, he was assured of admission to the literary circles of the Old World. In the meantime Irving had become a partner in a com- mercial house established by his brother in England and' New York. At the time of his arrival in Europe this business was seriously threatened. He worked with unusual energy to resuscitate the lost prosperity, but the firm failed in 1818 and Irving was thrown on his resources. He refused the offer of a position in the navy department with a salary of $2500, feeling that he could do better with his pen. His feeling was justified, for in 1819 the first papers of his " Sketch-Book " began to appear in New York and Philadel- phia, and in the following year John Murray published the work in London. It was received with enthusiasm, and Irving was at once recognized as one of the leading writers of the day. All approved his kindliness, his gentle humor, — more refined than in his earlier work, — and the charming fancy which, though it be not the fire of imagination pos- sessed by the supreme writers, nevertheless imparts a lasting iv LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. attraction to his work. In 1822 appeared " Bracebridge Hall " ; in 1824, " Tales of a Traveler." Soon after the publication of the latter work, having been commissioned to make some translations from the Spanish, Irving proceeded to Madrid. Here he wrote " The Life of Columbus/' which brought him forward as a serious his- torian. To this stay we also owe those delightful books, " The Conquest of Granada " and " Tales of the Alhambra," the latter published at the end of a stay of three years in London as Secretary of Legation. In 1832, the recipient of many honors, Irving set sail for the home from which he had been absent seventeen years. He was received by the nation with enthusiasm and was much sought after by all, never losing, however, his characteristic modesty. During the next ten years, residing at Sunnyside, his home on the Hudson, and traveling over his native country, he produced his "Tour on the Prairies" (1835), "Astoria" (1836), and "Adventures of Captain Bonne- ville " (1837). In 1842 he was appointed Minister to Spain, where he remained four years, returning in 1846. His remaining works were biographies, with the exception of "Wolfert's Roost " (1854). In 1849 appeared the " Life of Mahomet " and the " Life of Goldsmith," — the latter a subject for which Irving was especially fitted by the sympathy of his spirit with that of the poet, — and finally, in 1859, appeared the fifth and last volume — the first came out in 1852 — of hi3 "Life of Washington." This presents a clear, accurate, and often vivid picture of the great general and his times, but it lacks some of the vigor and charm of Irving's earlier works. His last years were passed at Sunnyside, in the midst of the beautiful scenes which he has immortalized. He died LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. v November 28, 1859, the same year with Prescott the his- torian, and Macaulay. A friend who saw much of our author in his latter days thus describes him: " He had dark gray eyes, a handsome straight nose, which might perhaps be called large; a broad, high, full forehead, and a small mouth. I should call him of medium height, about five feet and nine inches, and inclined to be a trifle stout. His smile was exceedingly genial, lightening up his whole face, and rendering it very attractive; while, if he were about to say anything humorous, it would beam forth from his eyes even before his words were spoken." In one of his charming Easy Chair essays, George William Curtis says: "Irving was as quaint a figure as the Dietrich Knickerbocker in the preliminary advertisement of the 'History of New York/ Thirty years ago he might have been seen on an autumnal afternoon, tripping with an elastic step along Broadway, with low quartered shoes neatly tied, and a Talma cloak — a short garment like the cape of a coat. There was a chirping, cheery, old-school air in his appearance which was undeniably Dutch, and most harmoni- ous with the association of his writing. He seemed, indeed, to have stepped out of his own books; and the cordial grace and humor of his address, if he stopped for a passing chat, were delightfully characteristic. He was then our most famous man of letters, but he was simply free from all self- consciousness and assumption and dogmatism." CRITICAL ESTIMATES. "Washington Irving! Why, gentlemen, I don't go up- stairs to bed two nights out of the seven without taking Washington Irving under my arm." — Charles Dickens. "I know of no books which are oftener lent than those that bear the pseudonym of ' Geoffrey Crayon.' Few, very few, can show a long succession so pure, so graceful, and so varied, as Mr. Irving." — Mary Russell Mitford. " Eich and original humor, great refinement of feeling and delicacy of sentiment. Style accurately finished, easy, and transparent. Accurate observer: his descriptions are cor- rect, animated, and beautiful." — George 8. Hillard. " If he wishes to study a style which possesses the charac- teristic beauties of Addison's, its ease, simplicity, and elegance, with greater accuracy, point, and spirit, let him give his days and nights to the volumes of Irving." — Edward Everett's "Advice to a Student." "He seems to have been born with a rare sense of literary proportion and form; into this, as into a mold, were run his apparently lazy and really acute observations of life. That he thoroughly mastered such literature as he fancied there is abundant evidence; that his style was influenced by the purest English models is also apparent. But there re- mains a large margin for wonder how, with his want of training, he could have elaborated a style which is distinctly his own, and is as copious, felicitous in the choice of words, CRITICAL ESTIMATES. vii flowing, spontaneous, flexible, engaging, clear, and as little wearisome when read continuously in quantity as any in the English tongue." — Charles Dudley Warner. " He was born almost with the republic; the pater patriae had laid his hand on the child's head. He bore Washing- ton's name: he came amongst us bringing the kindest sympathy, the most artless, smiling good will . . . Received in England with extraordinary tenderness and friendship (Scott, Southey, Byron, a hundred others have borne witness to their liking for him), he was a messenger of good will and peace between his country and ours. 'See, friends! * he seems to say, c these English are not so wicked, rapacious, callous, proud, as you have been taught to believe them. I went amongst them a humble man; won my way by my pen; and, when known, found every hand held out to me with kindliness and welcome. . . . "... In America the love and regard for Irving were a national sentiment ... It seemed to me, during a year's travel in the country, as if no one ever aimed a blow at Irving. . . . The country takes pride in the fame of its men of letters. The gate of his own charming little domain on the beautiful Hudson River was forever swinging before visitors who came to him. He shut out no one. . . . " And how came it that this house was so small, when Mr. Irving's books were sold by hundreds of thousands, — nay, millions, — when his profits were known to be large, and the habits of life of the good old bachelor were notoriously modest and simple? . . . " Irving had such a small house and such narrow rooms, because there was a great number of people to occupy them. He could only afford to keep the old horse (which, lazy and aged as it was, managed once or twice to run away with that viu CRITICAL ESTIMATES. careless old horseman) . . . Irving could only live very modestly, because the wifeless, childless man had a number of children to whom he was as a father. He had as many as nine nieces, I am told — I saw two of these ladies at his house — with all of whom the dear old man had shared the produce of his labor and genius. " ' Be a good man, my dear. 9 One can't but think of these last words of the veteran Chief of Letters, who had tasted and tested the value of worldly success, admiration, prosper- ity. Was Irving not good, and, of his works, was not his life the best part? In his family, gentle, generous, good- humored, affectionate, self-denying: in society, a delightful example of complete gentlemanhood; quite unspoiled by prosperity; never obsequious to the great (or, worse still, to the base and mean, as some public men are forced to be in his and other countries); eager to acknowledge every con- temporary's merit; always kind and affable to the young members of his calling; in his professional bargains and mer- cantile dealings delicately honest and grateful; one of the most charming masters of our lighter language; the constant friend to us and our nation; to men of letters doubly dear, not for his wit and genius merely, but as an exemplar of goodness, probity, and pure life." — William Makepeace Thackeray. "The 'Sketch-Book' is a timid, beautiful work; with some childish pathos in it; some rich, pure, bold poetry; some courageous writing, some wit, and a world of humor; so happy, so natural, so altogether unlike that of any other man, dead or alive, that we would rather have been the writer of it, fifty times over, than of everything else he has ever written." — Blackwood, 1825. INTRODUCTION. 1 IY. CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. H83. Birth, 3 April, New York. 1*199. Enters a law-office. 1804. Travels in Europe. 1806. Returns home, and is admitted to the Bar. 1801. Writes Salmagundi. 1809. Death of Matilda Hoffman. 1809. Publication of Knickerbocker's New York. 1810. Becomes a partner in the business of his brothers. 1814. Becomes Colonel on the Governor's staff. 1815. Sails for England. 1818. Bankruptcy in business. 1819. First part of Sketch Book published. 1822. Publication of Bracebridge Hall. 1824. Publication of Tales of a Traveller. 1826. Goes to Spain. 1828. Publishes Columbus. 1829. Publishes Conquest of Granada. 1829. Receives appointment of Secretary of Legation at London. 1831. Publishes Companions of Columbus. 1831. Receives degree of LL.D. from Oxford. 1832. Alhambra published. 1832. Returns to United States. 1832. Travels in the South and West. 2 INTRODUCTION. 1835. Purchases " Sunnyside." 2842. Appointed Minister to Spain. 1846. Returns home. 1848. Revised edition of his complete Works begun. 1849. Publication of Goldsmith and Mahomet. 1855. Publication of his first volume of Washington. 1859. Publication of last volume of Washington. 1859. Death, 28 November. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION. PAGE I. — Life and Character. , .- v II. — Some Defects in Irving's Style xiii III.— The Sketch Book xvii IV. — Chronological Table xxiii THE SKETCH BOOK. Preface to the Revised Edition 5 The Author's Account of Himself 15 The Voyage 20 Roscoe -»< 29 The Wife 39 Rip Van Winkle 50 English Writers on America 77 Rural Life in England 90 The Broken Heart 101 The Art of Book-Making 109 A Royal Poet « 119 The Country Church 140 The Widow and her Son 148 A Sunday in London 159 The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap 162 The Mutability of Literature 179 3 4 CONTENTS. PAGE Rural Funerals 195 The Inn Kitchen 212 The Spectre Bridegroom 215 Westminster Abbey 238 Christmas 254 The Stage Coach 262 Christmas Eve , 272 Christmas Day 289 The Christmas Dinner 309 London Antiques. 330 Little Britain 339 Stratford-on-Avon 361 Traits of Indian Character 389 Philip of Pokanoket 406 John Bull 431 The Pride of the Village 448 The Angler 461 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 474 L'Envoy 5«2 Appendix 527 Notes 533 Peeface to the Revised Edition. HE following papers, with two exceptions, were written in England, and formed but part of an intended series, for which I had made notes and memorandums. Before I could mature a plan, how- ever, circumstances compelled me to send them piece- meal to the United States, where they were published from time to time in portions or numbers. It was not my intention to publish them in England, being con- scious that much of their contents would be interesting only to American readers, and in truth, being deterred by the severity with which American productions had been treated by the British press. By the time the contents of the first volume had ap- peared in this occasional manner, they began to find their way across the Atlantic, and to be inserted, with many kind encomiums, in the London Literary Gazette. It was said, also, that a London bookseller intended to publish them in a collective form. I determined, there- 5 6 PREFACE. fore, to bring them forward myself, that they might at least have the benefit of my superintendence and revi- sion. I accordingly took the printed numbers which I had received from the United States, to Mr. John Mur- ray, the eminent publisher, from whom I had already received friendly attentions, and left them with him for examination, informing him that should he be inclined to bring them before the public, I had materials enough on hand for a second volume. Several days having elapsed without any communication from Mr. Murray, I addressed a note to him, in which I construed his silence into a tacit rejection of my work, and begged that the numbers I had left with him might be returned to me. The fol- lowing was his reply : My dear Sir, — I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind inten- tions towards me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned respect for your most tasteful talents. My house is completely filled with work-peo- ple at this time, and I have only an office to transact business in ; and yesterday I was wholly occupied, or 1 should have done myself the pleas- ure of seeing you. If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your present work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the nature of it which would enable me to make those satisfactory accounts between us, without which I really feel no satisfaction in engaging — but I will do all I can to promote their circulation, and shall be most ready to attend to any future plan of yours. With much regard, I remain, dear sir, Your faithful servant, John Murray, PREFACE. This was disheartening, and might have deterred me from any further prosecution of the matter, had the question of republication in Great Britain rested entirely with me ; but I apprehended the appearance of a spu- rious edition. I now thought of Mr. Archibald Constable as publisher, having been treated by him with much hos- pitality during a visit to Edinburgh; but first I deter- mined to submit my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, being encouraged to do so by the cordial reception I had experienced from him at Abbotsford a few years pre- viously, and by the favorable opinion he had expressed to others of my earlier writings. I accordingly sent him the printed numbers of the Sketch-Book in a parcel by coach, and at the same time wrote to him, hinting that since I had had the pleasure of partaking of his hospital- ity, a reverse had taken place in my affairs which made the successful exercise of my pen all-important to me ; I begged him, therefore, to look over the literary articles I had forwarded to him, and, if he thought they would bear European republication, to ascertain whether Mr. Con- stable would be inclined to be the publisher. The parcel containing my work went by coach to Scott's address in Edinburgh; the letter went by mail to his residence in the country. By the very first post I received a reply, before he had seen my work. "I was down at Kelso," said he, "when your letter reached Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, and will converse with Constable, and do all in my power to 8 PREFACE. forward your views — I assure you nothing will give me more pleasure." The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had struck the quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical and efficient good will which belonged to his nature, he had already devised a way of aiding me. A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about to be set up in Edinburgh, supported by the most respectable talents, and amply furnished with all the necessary information. The appointment of the editor, for which ample funds were provided, would be five hun- dred pounds sterling a year, with the reasonable pros- pect of further advantages. This situation, being ap- parently at his disposal, he frankly offered to me. The work, however, he intimated, was to have somewhat of a political bearing, and he expressed an apprehension that the tone it was desired to adopt might not suit me. "Yet I risk the question," added he, "because I know no man so well qualified for this important task, and perhaps be- cause it will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If my proposal does not suit, you need only keep the matter secret, and there is no harm done. ' And for my love I pray you wrong me not.' If, on the contrary, you think it could be made to suit you, let me know as soon as possi- ble, addressing Castle-street, Edinburgh." In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, "I am just come here, and have glanced over the Sketch- Book. It is positively beautiful, and increases my desire PREFACE. 9 to crimp you, if it be possible. Some difficulties there always are in managing such a matter, especially at the outset ; but we will obviate them as much as we possibly can." The following is from an imperfect draught of my re- ply, which underwent some modifications in the copy sent: " I cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. I had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwar- rantable liberty ; but, somehow or other, there is a genial sunshine about you that warms every creeping thing into heart and confidence. Your literary proposal both sur- prises and flatters me, as it evinces a much higher opin- ion of my talents than I have myself." I then went on to explain that I found myself pecu- liarly unfitted for the situation offered to me, not merely by my political opinions, but by the very constitution and habits of my mind. " My whole course of life," I observed, " has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any periodically recurring task, or any stipulated labor of body or mind. I have no command of my talents, such as they are, and have to watch the varyings of my mind as I would those of a weather-cock. Practice and train- ing may bring me more into rule ; but at present I am as useless for regular service as one of my own country Indians or a Don Cossack. "I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun ; writing when I can, not when I would. I shall 10 PREFACE. occasionally shift my residence and write whatever is suggested by objects before me, or whatever rises in my imagination; and hope to write better and more copi- ously by and by. " I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of answering your proposal than by showing what a very good-for-nothing kind of being I am. Should Mr. Con- stable feel inclined to make a bargain for the wares I have on hand, he will encourage me to further enter- prise ; and it will be something like trading with a gipsy for the fruits of his prowlings, who may at one time have nothing but a wooden bowl to offer, and at another time a silver tankard." In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my declining what might have proved a troublesome duty. He then recurred to the original subject of our correspondence ; entered into a detail of the various terms upon which arrangements were made between au- thors and booksellers, that I might take my choice ; ex- pressing the most encouraging confidence of the success of my work, and of previous works which I had produced in America. " I did no more," added he, " than open the trenches with Constable ; but I am sure if you will take the trouble to write to him, you will find him disposed to treat your overtures with every degree of attention. Or, if you think it of consequence in the first place to see me, I shall be in London in the course of a month, and what- ever my experience can command is most heartily at your PREFACE. 11 command. But I can add little to what I have said above, except my earnest recommendation to Constable to enter into the negotiation." * Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, how- ever, I had determined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch, but to throw my work before the public at my own risk, and let it sink or swim according to its merits. I wrote to that effect to Scott, and soon received a reply : " I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth in Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to publish on one's own account; for the booksellers set their face against the circulation of such works as do not pay an amazing toll to themselves. But they have lost the art of altogether damming up the road in such cases between the author and the public, which they were once able to do as effectually as Diabolus in John Bunyan's * I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph of Scott's letter, which, though it does not relate to the main subject of our corre- spondence, was too characteristic to be omitted. Some time previously I had sent Miss Sophia Scott small duodecimo American editions of her father's poems published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes ; showing the ' ' nigromancy " of the American press, by which a quart of wine is con- jured into a pint bottle. Scott observes : "In my hurry, 1 have not thanked you in Sophia's name for the kind attention which furnished her with the American volumes. I am not quite sure I can add my own, since you have made her acquainted with much more of papa's folly than she would ever otherwise have learned ; for I had taken special care they should never see any of those things during their earlier years. I think I told you that Walter is sweeping the firmament with a feather like a may- pole, and indenting the pavement with a sword like a scythe — in other words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 18th dragoons." 12 PREFACE. Holy War closed up the windows of my Lord Under- standing's mansion. I am sure of one thing, that you have only to be known to the British pablic to be ad- mired by them, and I would not say so unless I really was of that opinion. " If you ever see a witty but rather local publication called Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, you will find some notice of your works in the last number: the author is a friend of mine, to whom I have introduced you in your literary capacity. His name is Lockhart, a young man of very considerable talent, and who will soon be intimately connected with my family. My faithful friend Knickerbocker is to be next examined and illus- trated. Constable was extremely willing to enter into consideration of a treaty for your works, but I foresee will be still more so when Your name is up, and may go From Toledo to Madrid. And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in London about the middle of the month, and promise my- self great pleasure in once again shaking you by the hand." The first volume of the Sketch-Book was put to press in London as I had resolved, at my own risk, by a book- seller unknown to fame, and without any of the usual arts by which a work is trumpeted into notice. Still some attention had been called to it by the extracts which PREFACE. 13 had previously appeared in the Literary Gazette, and by the kind word spoken by the editor of that periodical, and it was getting into fair circulation, when my worthy bookseller failed before the first month was over, and the sale was interrupted. At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him for help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more propitious than Hercules, he put his own shoulder to the wheel. Through his favorable representations, Murray was quickly induced to undertake the future publication of the work which he had previously declined. A further edition of the first volume was struck off and the second volume was put to press, and from that time Murray be- came my publisher, conducting himself in all his deal- ings with that fair, open, and liberal spirit which had ob- tained for him the well-merited appellation of the Prince of Booksellers. Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Wal- ter Scott, I began my literary career in Europe ; and I feel that I am but discharging, in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to the memory of that golden-hearted man in acknowledging my obligations to him. — But who of his literary contemporaries ever applied to him for aid or counsel that did not experience the most prompt, gen- erous, and effectual assistance ! W.L The Sketch-Book. THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. " I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her shel was turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on ; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would." Ltlt's Euphues. WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town-crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my obser- vations. My holiday afternoons were spent in rambles about the surrounding country. I made myself familiar with all its places famous in history or fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had been com- mitted, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighboring vil- lages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by 15 16 THE SKETCH-BOOK. noting their habits and customs, and conversing with their sages and great men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the summit of the most distant hill, whence I stretched my eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find how vast a globe I inhabited. This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exer- cises of the school. How wistfully would I wander about the pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to distant climes— with what longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagination to the ends of the earth ! Further reading and thinking, though they brought this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own country ; and had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek else- where its gratification, for on no country have the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver ; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints ; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes ; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verdure ; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean ; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the THE ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 17 magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine ; — no, never need an American look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. But Europe held forth the charms of storied and poeti- cal association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, the refinements of highly-cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My na- tive country was full of youthful promise : Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, and every mouldering stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes of renowned achievement — to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle— to meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in short, from the commonplace realities of the present, and lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great men of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in America : not a city but has an ample share of them. I have mingled among them in my time, and been almost withered by the shade into which they cast me ; for there is nothing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a great one, particularly the great man of a city. But I was anxious to see the great men of Europe ; for I had read in the works of various philosophers, that all animals degenerated in America, and man among the number. A great man of Europe, thought I, must there- fore be as superior to a grea!; man of America, as a peak 3 18 THE SKETCH-BOOK. of the Alps to a highland of the Hudson ; and in this idea I was confirmed, by observing the comparative import- ance and swelling magnitude of many English travellers among us, who, I was assured, were very little people in their own country. I will visit this land of wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic race from which I am degenerated. It has been either my good or evil lot to have my rov- ing passion gratified. I have wandered through different countries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher ; but rather with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to another ; caught some- times by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their port-folios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of my friends. When, however, I look over the hints and memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost fails me at finding how my idle humor has led me aside from the great objects studied by every regular traveller who would make a book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky landscape painter, who had travelled on the con- tinent, but, following the bent of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His THE ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 19 sketch-book was accordingly crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins ; but lie had neglected to paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum ; the cascade of Terni, or the bay of Naples ; and had not a single glacier or volcano in his whole collection. THE VOYAGE. Ships, ships, I will descrie you Amidst the main, I will come and try you, What you are protecting, And projecting, What's your end and aim. One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, Another stays to keep his country from invading, A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. Halloo ! my f ancie, whither wilt thou go ? Old Poem. O an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new. and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition, by which, as in Europe, the features and population of one country blend almost imperceptibly with those of an- other. From the moment you lose sight of the land you have left all is vacancy until you step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and nov- elties of another world. 20 THE VOYAGE. 21 In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene and a connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separation. We drag, it is true, " a lengthening chain," at each remove of our pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken : we can trace it back link by link ; and we feel that the last still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our homes — a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, and uncer- tainty, rendering distance palpable, and return precarious. Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all most dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might occur in it— what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence ; or when he may return ; or whether it may ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the expression. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects 22 THE SKETCH-BOOK. for meditation; but then they are the wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quar- ter-railing, or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a sum- mer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; — to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with which I looked down from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world be- neath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth ; and of those wild phan- tasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument of human invention ; which has in a manner triumphed over wind and wave ; has brought the ends TEE VOYAGE. 23 of the world into communion ; has established an inter- change of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months ; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew ? Their struggle has long been over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest — their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home! How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened 24 THE SKETCH-BOOK. into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and dread into de- spair ! Alas ! not one memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port, " and was never heard of more ! " The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal anecdotes. ' This was particularly the case in the evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden storms which will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of ship- wreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one related by the captain. " As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine stout ship across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead even in the daytime ; but at night the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' a 'sail ahead!' — it was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, and had THE CAPTAIN'S 8T0BT. 25 neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amid- ships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel bore her down below the waves ; we passed over her and were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sink- ing beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half- naked wretches rushing from her cabin ; they just started from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall never forget that cry! It was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors : but all was silent — we never saw. or heard anything of them more." I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black col- ume of clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning which quivered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging among these roar- 26 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ing caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water : her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rig- ging sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey : the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she appears — how she seems to lord it over the deep ! I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voy- age, for with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is time to get to shore. It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of "land!" was given from the mast-head None but those THE ARRIVAL. 27 who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom, when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associations with the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with every thing of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered. From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants along the coast; the headlands of Ire^ land, stretching out into the channel; the Welsh moun- tains, towering into the clouds ; all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighboring hill — all were characteristic of England. The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people ; some, idle lookers-on, others, eager expect- ants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the mer- chant to whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his pockets; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been ac- corded him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary 28 THE SKETCH-BOOK. importance. There were repeated cheerings .and saluta- tions interchanged between the shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognize each other. I particularly noticed one young "woman of humble dress, but interest- ing demeanor. She was leaning forward from among the crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seem- ed disappointed and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. "When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so increased, that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghast- ly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features ; it read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony. All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of ac- quaintances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers — but felt that I was a stranger in the land. ROSCOE. -In the service of mankind to be A guardian god below ; still to employ The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, And make us shine forever — that is life. Thomson. INE of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liverpool is the Athenaeum. It is es- tablished on a liberal and judicious plan; it contains a good library, and spacious reading-room, and is the great literary resort of the place. Go there at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study of newspapers. As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention was attracted to a person just entering the room. He was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once have been commanding, but it was a little bowed by time — perhaps by care. He had a noble Ro- man style of countenance; a head that would have pleased a painter ; and though some slight furrows on Jiiis brow showed that wasting thought had been busy as 30 THE SKETCH-BOOK. there, yet his eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was something in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a different order from the bustling race around him. I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Roscoe. I drew back with an involuntary feeling of ven- eration. This, then, was an author of celebrity ; this was one of those men, whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth ; with whose minds I have communed even in the solitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, to know European writers only by their works, we cannot conceive of them, as of other men, en- grossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling with the crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass before our imaginations like superior beings, radiant with the emanations of their genius, and sur- rounded by a halo of literary glory. To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici, mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical ideas ; but it is from the very circumstances and situation in which he has been placed, that Mr. Ros- coe derives his highest claims to admiration. It is inter- esting to notice how some minds seem almost to create themselves, springing up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disap- pointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear legitimate dulness to maturity ; and to glory in the vigor MR. ROSCOE. 31 and luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of the world, and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of early adver- sity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. Such has been the case with Mr. Koscoe. Born in a place apparently ungenial to the growth of literary tal- ent ; in the very market-place of trade ; without fortune, family connections, or patronage ; self-prompted, self-sus- tained, and almost self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, and, having be- come one of the ornaments of the nation, has turned the whole force of his talents and influence to advance and embellish his native town. Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particularly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his literary merits, he is but one among the many distinguished authors of this intellectual na- tion. They, however, in general, live but for their own fame, or their own pleasures. Their private history pre- sents no lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty and inconsistency. At best, they are prone to steal away from the bustle and commonplace of busy existence ; to indulge in the selfishness of lettered 32 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ease ; and to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusive en- joyment. Mr. Koscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the accorded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth into the highways and thoroughfares of life ; he has planted bowers by the way-side, for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, and has opened pure foun- tains, where the laboring man may turn aside from the dust and heat of the day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge. There is a " daily beauty in his life," on which mankind may meditate and grow better. It ex- hibits no lofty and almost useless, because inimitable, example of excellence ; but presents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, which are within every man's reach, but which, unfortunately, are not exercised by many, or this world would be a paradise. But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the citizens of our young and busy country, where lit- erature and the elegant arts must grow up side by side with the coarser plants of daily necessity ; and must de- pend for their culture, not on the exclusive devotion of time and wealth, nor the quickening rays of titled pat- ronage, but on hours and seasons snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests, by intelligent and public- spirited individuals. He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely ROSCOE. 33 it can give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo De' Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed his eye as on a pure model of antiquity, he has in- terwoven the history of his life with the history of his native town, and has made the foundations of its fame the monuments of his virtues. Wherever you go ■ in Liv- erpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channels of traffick ; he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh the garden of literature. By his own example and constant exertions he has ef- fected that union of commerce and the intellectual pur- suits, so eloquently recommended in one of his latest writings : * and has practically proved how beautifully they may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. The noble institutions for literary and scientific purposes, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse to the public mind, have mostly been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, by Mr. Roscoe ; and when we consider the rapidly in- creasing opulence and magnitude of that town, which promises to vie in commercial importance with the me- tropolis, it will be perceived that in awakening an ambi- tion of mental improvement among its inhabitants, he has effected a great benefit to the cause of British literature. In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — * Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 3 34 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. in Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was told of his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far above the reach of pity. Those who live only for the world, and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of adversity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by the reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in upon the resources of his own mind ; to the supe- rior society of his own thoughts ; which the best of men are apt sometimes to neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthy associates. He is independent of the world around him. He lives with antiquity and pos- terity ; with antiquity, in the sweet communion of studi- ous retirement ; and with posterity, in the generous aspir- ings after future renown. The solitude of such a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited by those elevated meditations which are the proper aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the wilderness of this world. While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Eoscoe. I was riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. After riding a short distance, we came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the Gre- cian style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was delightful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps of trees, E08C0B. 35 so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a va- riety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green meadow-land ; while the Welsh mountains, blended with clouds, and melting into distance, bordered the horizon. This was Eoscoe's favorite residence during the days of his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospi- tality and literary retirement. The house was now silent and deserted. I saw the windows of the study, which looked out upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows were closed — the library was gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were loitering about the place, whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It was like visiting some classic fountain, that had once welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles. I inquired after the fate of Mr. Eoscoe's library, which had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histo- ries. It had passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was dispersed about the country. The good people of the vicinity thronged like wreckers to get some part of the noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associations, we might imagine something whimsical in this strange irruption in the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the armory of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons 36 THE SKETCH-BOOK which they could not wield. We might picture to our- selves some knot of speculators, debating with calculat- ing brow over the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete author ; of the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with which some successful purchaser attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain he had secured. It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Koscoe's misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious mind, that the parting with his books seems to have touched upon his tenderest feelings, and to have been the only circumstance that could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and in- nocent hours become in the seasons of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only re- tain their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these only continue the unaltered counte- nance of happier days, and cheer us with that true friend- ship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of Liverpool had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Eoscoe and themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat with others that might seem merely fanciful ; but it certainly appears to me such an opportunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling under mis- ROSCOE. 37 fortunes, by one of the most delicate, but most expres- sive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He becomes mingled and confounded with other men. His great qualities lose ...their novelty, we become too familiar with the common materials which form the basis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Koscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a man of business ; others as a politician ; all find him engaged like themselves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points of worldly wis- dom. Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity of character, which gives the nameless grace to real ex- cellence, may cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who do not know that true worth is always void of glare and pretension. But the man of letters, who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Koscoe. — The intelligent traveller who visits it inquires where Eoscoe is to be seen. — He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the distant scholar. — He is, like Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic dignity. The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Koscoe to his books on parting with them, is alluded to in the preced- ing article. If anything can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction, that the whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful tran- script from the writer's heart. 38 THE SKETCH-BOOK. TO MY BOOKS. As one who, destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile To share their converse and enjoy their smile, And tempers as he may affliction's dart ; Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore : When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, And kindred spirits meet to part no more. THE WIFE. The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the conceal 'd comforts of a man Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air Of blessings, when I come but near the house. What a delicious breath marriage sends forth . . . The violet bed's not sweeter. MlDDLETON. HAYE often had occasion to remark the forti- tude with which women sustain the most over- whelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and depen- dence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while tread- ing the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and support of her hus- band under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, 39 40 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shat- tered boughs ; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly support- ing the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest af- fection. "I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, in- deed, I have observed that a married man falling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one ; partly because he is more stim- ulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humil- iation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some deserted mansion, for want of an "inhabitant. These observations call to mind a little domestic story, THE LESLIES. ±\ of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Les- lie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. — "Her life," said he, "shall be like a fairy tale." The very difference in their characters produced an harmonious combination : he was of a romantic and some- what serious cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon . her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path of early and well-suited mar- riage with a fairer prospect of felicity. It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations ; and he had not been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found 42 THE SKETCH-BOOK. himself reduced almost to penury. For a time lie kept Lis situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a pro- tracted agony ; and what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerful- ness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek — the song will die away from those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard him through I inquired, " Does your wife know all this?" — At the question he burst into an agony of tears. " For God's sake ! " cried he, " if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife ; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness ! " THE LESLIES. 43 " And why not ? " said I. " She must know it sooner or later ; you cannot keep it long from her, and the intel- ligence may break upon her in a more startling manner, than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the hardest tidings. Besides, you are de- priving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together — an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that some- thing is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love will not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and out- raged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are con- cealed from it." " Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of society — to shrink with me into indi- gence and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have con- tinued to move in constant brightness — the light of every eye — the admiration of every heart ! — How can she bear poverty ? she has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect ? she has been the idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart— it will break her heart ! — " I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm 44 THE SKETCH-BOOK. had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mourn- fully, but positively. " But how are you to keep it from her ? It is neces- sary she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You must change your style of living nay," observing a pang to pass across his countenance, " don't let that af- flict you. I am sure you have never placed your hap- piness in outward show — you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary " " I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, " in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty and the dust ! — I could — I could — God bless her ! — God bless her ! " cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. " And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasping him warmly by the hand, " believe me she can be the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosper- ity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the THE LESLIES. 45 dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is — until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; and following up the impression I had made, I finished by persuading him to go home and un- burden his sad heart to his wife. I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one whose life has been a round of pleasures? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark downward path of low humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifications, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. — In short, I could not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. "And how did she bear it? " " Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately made me unhappy. — But, poor girl," added he, " she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract ; she has only read of it in poetry, where it is 46 THE SKETCH-BOOK. allied to love. She feels as yet no privation; she suf- fers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." "But," said I, "now that you have got over the severest task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then it is a single misery, and soon over : whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipa- tion, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. Some days afterwards he called upon me in the even- ing. He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself ; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; for THE LESLIES. 47 some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had leaned over that instrument, and list- ened to the melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and, as it was a fine evening, I of- fered to accompany him. He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. " Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. " And what of her ? " asked I : " has any thing hap- pened to her ? " "What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habita- tion?" "Has she then repined at the change? " "Eepined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her ; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort! " "Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, my friend ; you never were so rich — you never 48 THE SKETCH-BOOK. knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that woman." " Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience ; she has been intro- duced into a humble dwelling — she has been employed all day in arranging its miserable equipments — she has, for the first time, known the fatigues of domestic employ- ment — she has, for the first time, looked round her on a home destitute of every thing elegant, — almost of every thing convenient ; and may now be sitting down, ex- hausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty." There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look, A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it ; and I ob- served several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grass-plot in front. A small wicket gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm ; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of THE LESLIES. 49 the most touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and vanished — a light footstep was heard - — and Mary came tripping forth to meet us : she was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — I had nevei seen her look so lovely. "My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are come ! I have been watching and watching for you ; and running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I've been gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of them — and we have such excellent cream — and everything is so sweet and still here — Oh ! " said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his face, " Oh, we shall be so happy ! " Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom — he folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and again — he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has often assured me, that though the world has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity. RIP VAN WINKLE. Jl POSTHUMOUS WHITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. By Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, Truth is a thing that ever I will keep Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre Cartwright. % [The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men ; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics ; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch fam- ily, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading syca- more, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book-worm. The result of all these researches was a history of the province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely established ; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that his time might have been much better employed in weightier la- 50 THE KAAT8K1LL8. 51 Dors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way ; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest defer- ence and affection ; yet his errors and follies are remembered " more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected, that he never in- tended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folks, whose good opinion is well worth having ; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes ; and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's Farthing.] HOEVEE has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appala- chian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, 'indeed, every hour of the day, pro- duces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky ; but, sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, 52 THE SKETCH-BOOK. whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuy- vesant, (may he rest in peace !) and there were some of bhe houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks. In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple good-natured fellow of the name of Eip Yan Winkle. He was a descendant of the Yan Winkles who figured so gal- lantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He in- herited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple good- natured man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter cir- cumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity ; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tem- pers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the RIP VAN WINKLE. 53 frery furnace of domestic tribulation ; and a curtain lec- ture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing ; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual, with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles ; and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hang- ing on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. The great error in Rip's composition was an insupera- ble aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up 54 THE SKETCH-BOOK. hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pig- eons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all coun- try frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone- fences ; the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word Eip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his own ; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country ; every thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were con- tinually falling to pieces ; his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do ; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm in the neighborhood. His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his RIP'S DOB. 55 father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. Eip Yan Winkle, however, was one of those happy mor- tals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bring- ing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Eip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife ; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. Eip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — but 56 THE SKETCH-BOOK what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-be- setting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The moment Wolf entered the honse his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Yan Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broom- stick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping pre- cipitation. Times grew worse and worse with Eip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mel- lows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philos- ophers, and other idle personages of the village; which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, desig- nated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village gos- sip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate NICHOLAS VEDDER. 57 upon public events some months after they had taken place. The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and land- lord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accu- rately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When any thing that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent and angry puffs ; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds ; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. From even this stronghold the unlucky Eip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the members all to naught ; nor was that august person- age, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. Poor Kip was at last reduced almost to despair , and 58 THE SKETCH-BOOK. his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with "Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow- sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Bip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favor- ite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Pant- ing and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening be- tween the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its si- lent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleep- ing on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. On the other side he looked down into a deep moun- tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled JRIP VAN WINKLE. 59 with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Eip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, "Eip Van Winkle ! Eip Van Winkle ! " He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow wing- ing its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air; "Eip Van Winkle ! Eip Van Winkle ! " — at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fear- fully down into the glen. Eip now felt a vague appre- hension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toil- ing up the rocks, and bending under the weight of some- thing he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a griz- 60 THE SKETCE-BOOR. zled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist — several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Eip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and dis- trustful of this new acquaintance, Eip complied with his usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, be- tween lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path con- ducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he pro- ceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by per- pendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impend- ing trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion had la- bored on in silence ; for though the former marvelled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity. THE GAME OF NINE-PINS. §\ On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine- pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fash- ion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enor- mous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar : one had a large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes : the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmount- ed by a white sugar-loaf hat set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance ; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high -heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Eip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settle- ment. What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious si- lence, jjid were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, 62 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling ; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste .pro- voked another ; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," thought Rip, " I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor — the HIP'S AWAKING. 63 mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks — the woe-begone party at nine-pins — the flagon — "Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon! " thought Kip — "what excuse shall I make to Dame Yan Winkle ! " He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him ' of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled- after him and shouted his name, but all in vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, ' and wanting in his usual activity. " These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, " and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Yan Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the glen : he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening ; but to his astonish- ment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leap- ing from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its 64 THE SKETCH-BOOK. sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path. At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high im- penetrable wall over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog ; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, se- cure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done ? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shoul- dered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. As he approached the village he met a number of peo- ple, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. RIP'S RETURN. 65 fhey all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long! He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered ; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors — strange faces at the windows — every thing was strange. His mind now misgave him ; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native vil- lage, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been — Eip was sorely perplexed — "That flagon last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head sadly!" It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expect- ing every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof 5 66 THE SKETCH-BOOK. fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Eip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed — "My very dog," sighed poor Eip, " has forgotten me ! " He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This deso- lateness overcame all his connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife and children — the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "the Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but even this was sin- gularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed foi RIP'S BETUBN. 67 one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand in- stead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, Genebal Washington. There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Eip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Yedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco- smoke instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — members of congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy- six — and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. The appearance of Bip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired "on which side he voted?" Bip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in 68 THE SKETCH-BOOK his ear, "Whether he was Federal or Democrat?" Eip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question ; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Yan Winkle, with one arm akim- bo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, "what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?" — "Alas! gentlemen," cried Kip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him ! " Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — "A tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him ! " It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order ; and, having as- sumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. "Well — who are they? — name them." Eip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where's Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Yedder! why, RIP'S RETURN*. 69 he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the church-yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." "Where's Brom Dutcher?" " Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back " Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ? " " He went off to the wars too, was a great militia gen- eral, and is now in congress." Kip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treat- ing of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand : war — congress — Stony Point ; — he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Eip Van Winkle?" " Oh, Kip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three, " Oh, to be sure! that's Kip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." Kip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of him- self, as he went up the mountain: apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now com- pletely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst 70 THE SKETCH-BOOK. of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name ? "God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!" The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. " Hush, Bip," cried she, " hush, you little fool ; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. " What is your name, my good woman? " asked he. "Judith Gardenier." " And your father's name ? " " Ah, poor man, Hip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since- -his dog came RIP'S RETURN. 71 home without him ; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with a faltering voice : "Where's your mother? " " Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England peddler." There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli- gence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I am your father ! " cried he — " Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Yan Winkle now ! — Does nobody know poor Rip Yan Winkle ? " All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough ! it is Rip Yan Winkle — it is himself ! Welcome home again, old neighbor — Why, where have you been these twenty long years ? " Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks : and the self- important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon which 72 THE SKETCH-BOOK. there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Yanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the pro- vince. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the vil- lage, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Eip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon ; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Eip's daughter took him home to live with her ; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Eip recollected for one of the RIP'S QUIET OLD AGE. 73 urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Eip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm ; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to any thing else but his business. Eip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred mak- ing friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times " before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war — that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England — and that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him ; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Happily that was at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dread- 74 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ing the tyranny of Dame Yan Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Eip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunderstorm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins ; and it is a com- mon wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighbor- hood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Yan Winkle's flagon. NOTE. The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Fred- erick der RotKbart, and the Kypphaiiser mountain : the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity : POSTSCRIPT. 75 "The story of Rip Van Winkle, may seem incredible to many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson ; all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no conscien- tious person could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, 1 have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. D. K." POSTSCRIPT. The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr. Knickerbocker : The Kaatsberg, or Catskill mountains, have always been a region full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influ- enced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly propi- tiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air ; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web ; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys ! In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud 76 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ho ! ho ! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or rag- ing torrent. The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock 01 cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in its neigh- borhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes bask- ing in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the surface. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the bold- est hunter would not pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had lost his way, penetrated to the garden rock, where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry of his re- treat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hudson, and con- tinues to flow to the present day ; being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill. ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. ' Methinks I see iD my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks : methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam. " Milton on the Liberty of the Press. » T is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary animosity daily growing up between | England and America. Great curiosity has been awakened of late with respect to the United States, and the London press has teemed with volumes of trav- els through the Kepublic ; but they seem intended to diffuse error rather than knowledge ; and so successful have they been, that, notwithstanding the constant in- tercourse between the nations, there is no people con- cerning whom the great mass of the British public have less pure information, or entertain more numerous pre- judices. English travellers are the best and the worst in the world. Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal them for profound and philosophical views of society, or faithful and graphical descriptions of external objects ; but when either the interest or reputa- 77 78 THE SKETCH-BOOK tion of their own country comes in collision with that of another, they go to the opposite extreme, and forget their usual probity and candor, in the indulgence of splenetic remark, and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the more remote the country described. I would place im- plicit confidence in an Englishman's descriptions of the regions beyond the cataracts of the Nile; of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea ; of the interior of India ; or of any other tract which other travellers might be apt to picture out with the illusions of their fancies ; but I would cautiously receive his account of his immediate neighbors, and of those nations with which he is in hab- its of most frequent intercourse. However I might be dis- posed to trust his probity, I dare not trust his prejudices. It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be visited by the worst kind of English travellers. While men of philosophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from England to ransack the poles, to pene- trate the deserts, and to study the manners and customs of barbarous nations, with which she can have no per- manent intercourse of profit or pleasure ; it has been left to the broken-down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the wandering mechanic, the Manchester and Birming- ham agent, to be her oracles respecting America. From such sources she is content to receive her information respecting a country in a singular state of moral and physical development; a country in which one of the ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA, 79 greatest political experiments in the history of the world is now performing ; and which presents the most pro- found and momentous studies to the statesman and the philosopher. That such men should give prejudicial accounts of America is not a matter of surprise. The themes it of- fers for contemplation are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The national character is yet in a state of fermentation ; it may have its frothiness and sediment, but its ingredients are sound and wholesome ; it has al- ready given proofs of powerful and generous qualities ; and the whole promises to settle down into something substantially excellent. But the causes which are oper- ating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indica- tions of admirable properties, are all lost upon these purblind observers ; who are only affected by the little asperities incident to its present situation. They are capable of judging only of the surface of things ; of those matters which come in contact with their private inter- ests and personal gratifications. They miss some of the snug conveniences and petty comforts which belong to an old, highly-finished, and over-populous state of society; where the ranks of useful labor are crowded, and many earn a painful and servile subsistence by studying the very caprices of appetite and self-indulgence. These minor comforts, however, are all-important in the estima- tion of narrow minds ; which either do not perceive, or will not acknowledge, that they are more than counter- 80 THE SKETCHBOOK. balanced among us by great and generally diffused bless- ings. They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some unreasonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have pictured America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold and silver abounded, and the natives were lacking in sagacity ; and where they were to become strangely and suddenly rich, in some unforeseen, but easy manner. The same weakness of mind that indulges ab- surd expectations produces petulance in disappointment. Such persons become embittered against the country on finding that there, as everywhere else, a man must sow before he can reap ■ must win wealth by industry and talent; and must contend with the common difficulties of nature, and the shrewdness of an intelligent and en- terprising people. Perhaps, through mistaken, or ill-directed hospitality, or from the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the stranger, prevalent among my countrymen, they may have been treated with unwonted respect in America ; and having been accustomed all their lives to consider them- selves below the surface of good society, and brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant on the common boon of civility : they attribute to the lowliness of others their own elevation ; and underrate a society where there are no artificial distinctions, and where, by any chance, such individuals as themselves can rise to consequence. ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 81 One would suppose, however, that information coming from such sources, on a subject where the truth is so de- sirable, would be received with caution by the censors of the press ; that the motives of these men, their veracity, their opportunities of inquiry and observation, and their capacities for judging correctly, would be rigorously scru- tinized before their evidence was admitted, in such sweep- ing extent, against a kindred nation. The very reverse, however, is the case, and it furnishes a striking instance of human inconsistency. Nothing can surpass the vigi- lance with which English critics will examine the credi- bility of the traveller who publishes an account of some distant, and comparatively unimportant country. How warily will they compare the measurements of a pyramid, or the descriptions of a ruin ; and how sternly will they censure any inaccuracy in these contributions of merely curious knowledge : while they will receive, with eager- ness and unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations of coarse and obscure writers, concerning a country with which their own is placed in the most important and delicate relations. Nay, they will even make these apoc- ryphal volumes text-books, on which to enlarge with a zeal and an ability worthy of a more generous cause. I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hack- neyed topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the undue interest apparently taken in it by my country- men, and certain injurious effects which I apprehend it might produce upon the national feeling. We attach too 82 THE SKETCH-BOOK. much consequence to these attacks. They cannot do us any essential injury. The tissue of misrepresentations attempted to be woven round us are like cobwebs woven round the limbs of an infant giant. Our country contin- ually outgrows them. One falsehood after another falls off of itself. We have but to live on, and every day we live a whole volume of refutation. All the writers of England united, if we could for a mo- ment suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy a combination, could not conceal our rapidly-growing importance, and matchless prosperity. They could no« conceal that these are owing, not merely to physical and local, but also to moral causes — to the political liberty the general diffusion of knowledge, the prevalence o- sound moral and religious principles, which give force and sustained energy to the character of a people ; and which, in fact, have been the acknowledged and wonder- ful supporters of their own national power and glory. But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of England ? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by the contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us ? It is not in the opinion of England alone that honor lives, and reputation has its being. The world at large is the arbiter of a nation's fame ; with its thousand eyes it wit- nesses a nation's deeds, and from their collective testi- mony is national glory or national disgrace established. For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but lit- tle importance whether England does us justice or not ; it ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 83 *s, perhaps, of far more importance to herself. She is in- stilling anger and resentment into the bosom of a youth- ful nation, to grow with its growth and strengthen with its strength. If in America, as some of her writers are laboring to convince her, she is hereafter to find an in- vidious rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank those very writers for having provoked rivalship and irritated hostility. Every one knows the all-pervading influence of literature at the present day, and how much the opin- ions and passions of mankind are under its control. The mere contests of the sword are temporary ; their wounds are but in the flesh, and it is the pride of the generous to forgive and forget them ; but the slanders of the pen pierce to the heart; they rankle longest in the noblest spirits ; they dwell ever present in the mind, and render it morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is but seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities between two nations ; there exists, most commonly, a previous jealousy and ill-will; a predisposition to take offence. Trace these to their cause, and how often will they be found to originate in the mischievous effusions of mercenary writers ; who, secure in their closets,. and for ignominious bread, concoct and circulate the venom that is to inflame the generous and the brave. I am not laying too much stress upon this point ; for it applies most emphatically to our particular case. Over no nation does the press hold a more absolute control than over the people of America ; for the universal edu- 84 THE SKETCH-BOOK. cation of the poorest classes makes every individual a reader. There is nothing published in England on the subject of our country that does not circulate through every part of it. There is not a calumny dropped from English pen, nor an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an English statesman, that does not go to blight good-will, and add to the mass of latent resentment. Possessing, then, as England does, the fountain-head whence the lit- erature of the language flows, how completely is it in her power, and how truly is it her duty, to make it the medium of amiable and magnanimous feeling — a stream where the two nations might meet together, and drink in peace and kindness. Should she, however, persist in turning it to waters of bitterness, the time may come when she may repent her folly. The present friendship of America may be of but little moment to her ; but the future destinies of that country do not admit of a doubt; over those of England there lower some shadows of un- certainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive ; should these reverses overtake her, from which the proudest em- pires have not been exempt ; she may look back with re- gret at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a na- tion she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying her only chance for real friendship beyond the boundaries of her own dominions. There is a general impression in England, that the peo- ple of the United States are inimical to the parent coun- try. It is one of the errors which have been diligently ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 85 propagated by designing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberality of the English press ; but, generally speaking, the prepossessions of the people are strongly in favor of England. Indeed, at one time, they amounted, in many parts of the Union, to an absurd degree of big- otry. The bare name of Englishman was a passport to the confidence and hospitality of every family, and too often gave a transient currency to the worthless and the ungrateful. Throughout the country there was some- thing of enthusiasm connected with the idea of England. We looked to it with a hallowed feeling of tenderness and veneration, as the land of our forefathers — the au- gust repository of the monuments and antiquities of our race — the birthplace and mausoleum of the sages and heroes of our paternal history. After our own country, there was none in whose glory we more delighted — none whose good opinion we were more anxious to possess — none towards which our hearts yearned with such throb- bings of warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, whenever there was the least opportunity for kind feel- ings to spring forth, it was the delight of the generous spirits of our country to show that, in the midst of hostil- ities, they still kept alive the sparks of future friendship. Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden band of kindred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken for ever? — Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an illusion which might have kept us in mental 86 THE SKETCH-BOOK. vassalage ; which might have interfered occasionally with our true interests, and prevented the growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give up the kindred tie ! and there are feelings dearer than interest — closer to the heart than pride — that will still make us cast back a look of regret, as we wander farther and far- ther from the paternal roof, and lament the waywardness of the parent that would repel the affections of the child. Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of England may be in this system of aspersion, recrimi- nation on our part would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt and spirited vindication of our country, nor the keenest castigation of her slanderers — but I al- lude to a disposition to retaliate in kind ; to retort sar- casm, and inspire prejudice ; which seems to be spread- ing widely among our writers. Let us guard particularly against such a temper, for it would double the evil in- stead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and an unprofitable contest. It is the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted into petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. If England is willing to per- mit the mean jealousies of trade, or the rancorous ani- mosities of politics, to deprave the integrity of her press, and poison the fountain of public opinion, let us beware of her example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse error, and engender antipathy, for the purpose of check- ing emigration ; we have no purpose of the kind to serve. AMERICAN ANSWERS. 87 Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to gratify, for as yet, in all our rivalships with England, we are the rising and the gaining party. There can be no end to answer, therefore, but the gratification of resentment — a mere spirit of retaliation; and even that is impotent. Our retorts are never republished in England ; they fall short, therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a querulous and peevish temper among our writers; they sour the sweet flow of our early literature, and sow thorns and brambles among its blossoms. What is still worse, they circulate through our own country, and, as far as they have effect, excite virulent national prejudices. This last is the evil most especially to be deprecated. Governed, as we are, entirely by public opinion, the utmost care should be taken to preserve the purity of the public mind. Knowledge is power, .and truth is knowledge ; whoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, wilfully saps the foundation of his country's strength. The members of a republic, above all other men, should be candid and dispassionate. They are, individ- ually, portions of the sovereign mind and sovereign will, and should be enabled to come to all questions of na- tional concern with calm and unbiased judgments. From the peculiar nature of our relations with England, we must have more frequent questions of a difficult and del- icate character with her than with any other nation ; questions that affect the most acute and excitable feel- ings ; and as, in the adjusting of these, our national meas- 88 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ures must ultimately be determined by popular senti- ment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all latent passion or prepossession. Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every portion of the earth, we should receive all with im- partiality. It should be our pride to exhibit an example of one nation, at least, destitute of national antipathies, and exercising not merely the overt acts of hospitality, but those more rare and noble courtesies which spring from liberality of opinion. What have we to do with national prejudices ? They are the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and ignorant ages, when nations knew but little of each other, and looked beyond their own boundaries with distrust and hostility. We, on the contrary, have sprung into national existence in an enlightened and philosophic age, when the different parts of the habitable world, and the various branches of the human family, have been indefatigably studied and made known to each other ; and we forego the advantages of our birth, if we do not shake off the national prejudices, as we would the local superstitions of the old world. But above all let us not be influenced by any angry feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is really excellent and amiable in the English char- acter. We are a young people, necessarily an imitative one, and must take our examples and models, in a great degree, from the existing nations of Europe. There is no DUTY OF AMERICAN WRITERS. 89 country more worthy of our study than England. The spirit of her constitution is most analogous to ours. The manners of her people — their intellectual activity — their freedom of opinion — their habits of thinking on those subjects which concern the dearest interests and most sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to the American character; and, in fact, are all intrinsically excellent ; for it is in the moral feeling of the people that the deep foundations of British prosperity are laid ; and however the superstructure may be time-worn, or over- run by abuses, there must be something solid in the basis, admirable in the materials, and stable in the struc- ture of an edifice, that so long has towered unshaken amidst the tempests of the world. Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the illiberality of British authors, to speak of the English nation without prejudice, and with determined candor. While they rebuke the indiscriminating bigotry with which some of our countrymen admire and imitate every thing English, merely because it is English, let them frankly point out what is really worthy of approbation. We may thus place England before us as a perpetual vol- ume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deductions from ages of experience ; and while we avoid the errors and absurdities which may have crept into the page, we may draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, where- with to strengthen and to embellish our national character. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! COWPER. HE stranger who would form a correct opinion of the English character must not confine his observations to the metropolis. He must go forth into the country ; he must sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cot- tages ; 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 festi- vals ; and cope with the people in all their conditions, and all their habits and humors. In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent society, and the country is in- habited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In Eng- land, on the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering- place, or general rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of 90 BUBAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 9] gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The various orders of society are therefore diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom;, and the most retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the different ranks. The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beau- ties of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the country. This passion seems inher- ent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occupation. The 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-gar- den, and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the con- duct of his business, 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 din- gy quarters of the city, the drawing-room window resem- bles 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 92 THE SKETCH-BOOK. form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thou- sand engagements that dissipate time, thought, and feel- ing, in this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too com- monly 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 friend- ly 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 tran- sient meetings, they can but deal briefly in common- places. They present but the cold superficies of charac- ter — its rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed into a flow. It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formalities and negative civilities of town; throws off his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to collect round him all the conveniences and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country-seat abounds with every re- quisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratifica- tion, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint either upon his guests or himself, but in the true spirit of hospitality provides the means of BUBAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 93 enji fment, 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 ex- quisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious com- binations. Those charms, 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 imposing than the magnificence of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage: the solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them; the hare, bounding away to the covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing: the brook, taught to wind in natural meanderings or expand into a glassy lake: the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the 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 94 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromis- ing and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Eng- lishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabili- ties, and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees ; the cautious pruning of others ; the nice distribu- tion of flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage ; the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf ; the par- tial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water : all these are managed with a delicate tact, a per- vading 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 grassplot before the door, the little flower-bed bor- dered with snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice, the pot of flowers in the window, the holly, providently planted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside : all these bespeak the influence of taste, flow- ing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest BUBAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 95 levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant. The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the English has had a great and salutary effect upon the national character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which characterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a robustness of 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 recre- ations of the country. These hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of manners, which even the follies and dis- sipations 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 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 substantial farmers, down to the laboring peasantry ; and while it has thus banded the ex- tremes of society together, has infused into each inter- mediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be 96 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 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 debas- ing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural gran • deur and beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevat- ing of external influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refine- ment, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heart- felt enjoyments of common life. Indeed the very amuse- ments of the country bring men more and more together ; and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the no- bility 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 gener- ally at the uuequal distribution of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 97 British literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incomparable descriptions of nature that abound in the British poets, that have continued down from "the Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British 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 violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupations has been wonderful on the face of the coun- try. A great part of the island is rather level, and would be monotonous, were it not for the charms of cul- ture : but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gar- dens. It does not abound in grand and sublime pros- pects, 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 to groves 98 ZBE SKETCH BOOK and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succes- sion of small landscapes of captivating loveliness. The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well- established principles, of hoary usage and reverend cus- tom. Every thing seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The old church of re- mote architecture, with its low massive portal ; its gothic tower ; its windows rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preservation; its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil; its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose pro- geny still plough the same fields, and kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly anti- quated, 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 fore- fathers of the present race have sported — the antique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural do- main, but looking down with a protecting air on the sur- rounding scene : all these common features of English landscape evince a calm and settled security, and heredi- tary transmission of homebred virtues and local attach- MURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 99 ments, 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 rud- dy faces and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the hum- ble 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 enjoyments; and I cannot close these desultory remarks better, than by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who has depicted it with remarkable felicity : Through each gradation, from the castled hall, The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, But chief from modest mansions numberless, In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof 'd shed ; This western isle hath long been famed for scenes Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place ; Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, (Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) Can centre in a little quiet nest All that desire would fly for through the earth : That can, the world eluding, oe itself 100 THE SKETCH-BOOK. A world enjoy'd ; that wants no witnesses But its own sharers, and approving heaven ; That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.* * From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Rever end Rann Kennedy, A.M. THE BROKEN HEART, I never heard Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. MlDDLETON. T is a common practice with those who have outlived the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the gay heartlessness cf dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of novelists and poets. My observations on human nature have in- duced me to think otherwise. They have convinced me, that however the surface of the character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are some- times desolating in their effects. Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it? — I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love. I do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my 101 102 THE SKETCH-BOOK. own sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave. Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world : it is there her ambition strives for empire ; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure ; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it blasts some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being — he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleas- ure ; or, if the scene of disappointment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking as it were the wings of the morning, can " fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest." But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and meditative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings ; and if they are turned to minis- ters of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? Her lot is to be wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her THE BROKEN HEART. 103 love, her heart is like some fortress that has been cap- tured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when for- tunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet re- freshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — " dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury. Look for her, after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, should so speedily be brought down to " darkness and the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition, that laid her low ; — but no one knows of the mental malady which previously sapped 104 THE SKETCH-BOOK her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shed- ding leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest ; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay. I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death through the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known in the country where they happened, and I shall but give them in the manner in which they were related. Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E , the Irish patriot ; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland, he- was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so every thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His THE BROKEN HEART. 105 conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country — the eloquent vindication of his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation — all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer for- tunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and inter- esting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish bar- rister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose whole soul was occupied by his image ! Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth — who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed. But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so dishonored ! there was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender though melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those 106 THE SKETCH-BOOK. blessed tears, sent like the dews of, heaven to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul — which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude ; walking about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and " heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely." The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, THE BROKEN HEART. lO'J lonely and joyless, where all around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibil- ity to the garish scene, she began, with the capricious- ness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears. The story of one so true and tender could not but ex- cite great interest in a country remarkable for enthu- siasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length suc- ceeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance, that her heart was unalterably another's. 108 THE SKETCH-BOOK. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. Sne wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet* composed the following lines : She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking — Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! He had lived for his love — for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him — Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him ! Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow ; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own loved island of sorrow I THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. " If that severe doom of Synesius be true — ' It is a greater offence to steal dead men's labor, than their clothes,' what shall become of most writers ? " Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. Ite-w^ll HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity t^lPPl °* ^ ie P ress > auc ^ now ^ comes to pass that so I^S^l many heads, on which nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, should teem with volu- minous productions. As a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out some very simple cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, and at once put an end to my astonishment. I was one summer's day loitering through the great sa- loons of the British Museum, with that listlessness with which one is apt to saunter about a museum in warm weather ; sometimes lolling over the glass cases of min- erals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyp- tian mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the 109 110 THE SKETCH-BOOK. lofty ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant door, at the end of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but every now and then it would open, and some strange-favored being, generally clothed in black, would steal forth, and glide through the rooms, without noticing any of the sur- rounding objects. There was an air of mystery about this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown regions beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with that facility with which the portals of enchanted castles yield to the adventurous knight-errant. I found myself in a spacious chamber, surrounded with great cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged a great number of black-looking portraits of ancient authors. About the room were placed long tables, with stands for reading and writing, at which sat many pale, studious personages, poring intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned through this mys- terious apartment, excepting that you might hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occasionally, the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his position to turn over the page of an old folio ; doubtless arising from that hollowness and flatulency incident to learned researoh. Now and then one of. these personages would write IN THE BRITISH LIBRARY. \\\ something on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar would appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of the room, and return short- ly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon which the other would fall tooth and nail with famished voracity. I had no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a body of magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher shut up in an enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, which opened only once a year ; where he made the spirits of the place bring him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at the end of the year, when the magic portal once more swung open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be able to soar above the heads of the multitude, and to control the powers of nature. My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged an interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose. I found that these mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally authors, and in the very act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room of the great British Library — an immense collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom read : one of these sequestered pools of obsolete litera- ture, to which modern authors repair, and draw buckets 112 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. full of classic lore, or " pure English, undefiled," where- with to swell their own scanty rills of thought. Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner, and watched the process of this book manufac- tory. I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently constructing some work of profound erudition, that would be purchased by every man who wished to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open upon his table ; but never read. I observed him, now and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustion of the stomach produced by much pondering over dry works, I leave to harder students than myself to determine. There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-col- ored clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of countenance, who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with his bookseller. After considering him attentively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works, which bustled off well with the trade. I was curious to see how he manufactured his wares. He made more stir and show of business than any of the others ; dipping into various books, fluttering over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, "line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little." The contents of THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 113 his book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' caldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a thumb, toe of frog and blind-worm's sting, with his own gossip poured in like " baboon's blood," to make the medley " slab and good." After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be implanted in authors for wise purposes ; may it not be the way in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in spite of the inevitable decay of the works in which they were first produced ? We see that nature has wisely, though whimsically, provided for the convey- ance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of certain birds ; so that animals, which, in themselves, are little better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunder- ers of the orchard and the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are caught up by these flights of predatory writers, and cast forth again to flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of time. Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring up under new forms. What was formerly a pon- derous history revives in the shape of a romance — an old legend changes into a modern play— and a sober philo- sophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clear- ing of our American woodlands ; where we burn down a 8 114 THE SKETCH-BOOK. forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in their place : and we never see the prostrate trunk of a tree mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe of fungi. Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit to the great law of nature, which declares that all sublu- nary shapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, but which decrees, also, that their elements shall never perish. Generation after generation, both in animal and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital principle is transmitted to posterity, and the species continue to flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and having produced a numerous progeny, in a good old age they sleep with their fathers, that is to say, with the authors who preceded them — and from whom they had stolen. Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I had leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether it was owing to the soporific emanations from these works ; or to the profound quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude arising from much wandering ; or to an un- lucky habit of napping at improper times and places, with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, however, my imagination continued busy, and indeed the same scene remained before my mind's eye, only a little changed in some of the details. I dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with the MY DREAM. 115 portraits of ancient authors, but that the number was in- creased. The long tables had disappeared, and, in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying about the great repository of cast-off clothes, Monmouth-street. Whenever they seized upon a book, by one of those incongruities common to dreams, methought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique fashion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, however, that no one pretended to clothe himself from any particular suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, while some of his original rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I ob- served ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the volumin- ous mantle of one of the old fathers, and, having pur- loined the gray beard of another, endeavored to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking commonplace of his countenance set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly-looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of sev- eral old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an illu- minated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from " The Paradise of Daintie Devices," and hav- ing put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A 116 THE SKETCH-BOOK. third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front ; but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I per- ceived that he had patched his small-clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin author. There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is -true, who only helped themselves to a gem or so, which spar- kled among their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; but I grieve to say, that too many were apt to array themselves from top to toe in the patchwork manner I have mentioned. I shall not omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and an Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural wanderings had been confined to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of the Kegent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one side, went about with a fantastical lack- a-daisical air, "babbling about green fields." But the personage that most struck my attention was a pragmati- cal old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably large and square, but bald head. He entered the room wheezing, and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon MY DREAM, 117 his head, and swept majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry sud- denly resounded from every side, of " Thieves ! thieves ! " I looked, and lo ! the portraits about the wall became animated ! The old authors thrust out, first a head, then a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously, for an instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all description. The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to escape with their plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern professor ; on another, there was sad devastation carried into the ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As to the dap- per little compiler of farragos, mentioned some time since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants about him, as about the dead body of Patro- clus. I was grieved to see many men, to whom I had been accustomed to look up with awe and reverence, fain to steal off with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just then my eye was caught by the pragmatical old gen- tleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore affright with half a score of authors in full 118 THE SKETCH-BOOK. cry after him ! They were close upon his haunches : in a twinkling off went his wig ; at every turn some strip of raiment was peeled away ; until in a few moments, from his domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, " chopped bald shot," and made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his back. There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tu- mult and the scuffle were at an end. The chamber re- sumed its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk back into their picture-frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage of book-worms gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound never before heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity. The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him, but I soon found that the library was a kind of literary " preserve," subject to game-laws, and that no one must presume to hunt there without special license and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipi- tate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors let loose upon me. A EOYAL POET. Though your body be confined, And soft love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind Neither check nor chain hath found. Look out nobly, then, and dare Even the fetters that you wear. Fletcher. N a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May, I made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied and poetical asso- ciations. The very external aspect of the proud old pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its irregular walls and massive towers, like a mural crown, round the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal banner in the clouds, and looks down, with a lordly air, upon the surrounding world. On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous vernal kind, which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's temperament, filling his mind with music, and dis- posing him to quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through the magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle, I passed with indiffer- ence by whole rows of portraits of warriors and states- 119 120 THE SKETCH-BOOK. men, but lingered in the chamber, where hang the likenesses of the beauties which graced the gay court of Charles the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, de- picted with amorous, half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus enabled me to bask in the re- flected rays of beauty. In traversing also the "large green courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, and glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was en- grossed with the image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and his account of his loiterings about them in his stripling days, when enamored of the Lady Geraldine — " With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the ancient Keep of the Castle, where James the First of Scotland, the pride and theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for many years of his youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large gray tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good preserva- tion. It stands on a mound, which elevates it above the other parts of the castle, and a great flight of steps leads to the interior. In the armory, a Gothic hall, furnished with weapons of various kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging against the wall, which had once belonged to James. Hence I was con- A ROYAL POET. 121 ducted up a staircase to a suite of apartments of faded magnificence, hung with storied tapestry, which formed his prison, and the scene of that passionate and fanci- ful amour, which has woven into the web of his story the magical hues of poetry and fiction. The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince is highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent from home by his father, Robert III., and destined for the French court, to be reared under the eye of the French monarch, secure from the treachery and danger that surrounded the royal house of Scot- land. It was his mishap in the course of his voyage to fall into the hands of the English, and he was de- tained prisoner by Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce existed between the two countries. The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy father. " The news," we are told, " was brought to him while at supper, and did so overwhelm him with grief, that he was almost ready to give up the ghost into the hands of the servant that attended him. But being car- ried to his bed-chamber, he abstained from all food, and in three days died of hunger and grief at Rothesay." * James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; but though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the respect due to his rank. Care was taken to in- * Buchanan. 122 THE SKETCH-BOOK. struct him in all the branches of useful knowledge culti- vated at that period, and to give him those mental and personal accomplishments deemed proper for a prince. Perhaps, in this respect, his imprisonment was an advan- tage, as it enabled him to apply himself the more exclu- sively to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish those elegant tastes, which have given such a lustre to his memory. The picture drawn of him in early life, by the Scottish historians, is highly captivating, and seems rather the description of a hero of romance, than of a character in real history. He was well learnt, we are told, " to fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, to wrestle, to sing and dance ; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty in playing both of lute and harp, and sundry other instru- ments of music, and was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry." * With this combination of manly and delicate accom- plishments, fitting him to shine both in active and ele- gant life, and calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous existence, it must have been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, to pass the spring-time of his years in monotonous captivity. It was the good fortune of James, however, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and to be visited in his prison by the choicest in- spirations of the muse. Some minds corrode and grow * Ballenden's Translation of Hector Boyce. A ROYAL POET. 123 inactive, under the loss of personal liberty ; others grow morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of con- finement. He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody. Have you not seen the nightingale, A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, How doth she chant her wonted tale, In that her lonely hermitage I Even there her charming melody doth prove That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.* Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is shut out, it can create a world for itself, and with a necromantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, to make solitude pop- ulous, and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may con- sider the " King's Quair," composed by James, during his captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful break- ings-forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison house. The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane * Roger L'Estrange. 124 THE SKETCH-BOOK. Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a prin- cess of the blood royal of England, of whom he became enamored in the course of his captivity. What gives it a peculiar value, is that it may be considered a transcript of the royal bard's true feelings, and the story of his real loves and fortunes. It is not often that sovereigns write poetry, or that poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to the pride of a common man, to find a monarch thus suing, as it were, for admission into his closet, and seeking to win his favor by administering to his pleasures. It is a proof of the honest equality of intellectual competition, which strips off all the trappings of factitious dignity, brings the candidate down to a level with his fellow-men, and obliges him to depend on his own native powers for dis- tinction. It is curious, too, to get at the history of a monarch's heart, and to find the simple affections of hu- man nature throbbing under the ermine. But James had learnt to be a poet before he was a king : he was schooled in adversity, and reared in the company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their hearts, or to meditate their minds into poetry; and had James been brought up amidst the adulation and gayety of a court, we should never, in all probability, have had such a poem as the Quair. I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concern- ing his situation, or which are connected with the apart- ment in the tower. They have thus a personal and local A ROYAL POET. 125 sharm, and are given with such circumstantial truth, as to make the reader present with the captive in his prison, and the companion of his meditations. Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit, and of the incident which first suggested the idea of writing the poem. It was the still midwatch of a clear moonlight night; the stars, he says, were twinkling as fire in the high vault of heaven : and " Cyn- thia rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius." He lay in bed wakeful and restless, and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. The book he chose was Boetius' Consolations of Philosophy, a work popular among the writers of that day, and which had been translated by his great prototype Chaucer. From the high eulogium in which he indulges, it is evident this was one of his favorite volumes while in prison: and indeed it is an admirable text-book for meditation under adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and the trains of eloquent but simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear up against the various ills of life. It is a talisman, which the unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, or, like the good King James, lay upon his nightly pillow. After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own 126 THE SKETCHBOOK. life, and the evils that had overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to matins; but its sound, chiming in with his melancholy fancies, seems to him like a voice exhorting him to write his story. In the spirit of poetic errantry he determines to comply with this intimation: he there- fore takes pen in hand, makes with it a sign of the cross to implore a benediction, and sallies forth into the fairy land of poetry. There is something extremely fanciful in all this, and it is interesting as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the simple manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are some- times awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to the mind. In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the peculiar hardness of his fate ; thus doomed to lonely and inactive life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world, in which the meanest animal in- dulges unrestrained. There is a sweetness, however, in his very complaints ; they are the lamentations of an ami- able and social spirit at being denied the indulgence of its kind and generous propensities ; there is nothing in them harsh nor exaggerated ; they flow with a natural and touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered more touching by their simple brevity. They contrast finely with those elaborate and iterated repinings, which we sometimes meet with in poetry ; — the effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries of their own creating, A ROYAL POET. 127 and venting their bitterness upon an unoffending world. James speaks of his privations with acute sensibility, but having mentioned them passes on, as if his manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. When such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, however brief, we are aware how great must be the suffering that ex- torts the murmur. We sympathize with James, a roman- tic, active, and accomplished prince, cut off in the lusti- hood of youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and vigorous delights of life ; as we do with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes forth brief, but deep-toned lamentations over his perpetual blindness. Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we might almost have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy reflection were meant as preparative to the brightest scene of his story; and to contrast with that refulgence of light and loveliness, that exhilarating ac- companiment of bird and song, and foliage and flower, and all the revel of the year, with which he ushers in the lady of his heart. It is this scene, in particular, which throws all the magic of romance about the old Castle Keep. He had risen, he says, at daybreak, according to custom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a sleep- less pillow. "Bewailing in his chamber thus alone," de- spairing of all joy and remedy, " fortired of thought and wobegone," he had wandered to the window, to indulge the captive's miserable solace of gazing wistfully upon 128 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. the world from which he is excluded. The window- looked forth upon a small garden which lay at the foot of the tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned with arbors and green alleys, and protected from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges. Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall, A garden faire, and in the corners set An arbour green with wandis long and small Railed about, and so with leaves beset Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, That lyf * was none, walkyng there f orbye That might within scarce any wight espye. So thick the branches and the leves grene, Beshaded all the alleys that there were, And midst of every arbour might be sene The sharpe, grene, swete juniper, Growing so fair, with branches here and there, That as it seemed to a lyf without, The boughs did spread the arbour all about. And on the small grene twistis f set The lytel swete nightingales, and sung So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, That all the garden and the wallis rung Right of their song It was the month of May, when every thing was in * Lyf, Person. f Twistis, small boughs or twigs. Note.— The language of the quotations is generally modernized. A ROYAL POET. 129 bloom ; and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the language of his enamored feeling : Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May, For of your bliss the kalends are begun, And sing with us, away, winter, away, Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the birds, he gradually relapses into one of those tender and undefinable reveries, which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious season. He wonders what this love may be, of which he has so often read, and which thus seems breathed forth in the quickening breath of May, and melting all nature into ecstasy and song. If it really be so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally dis- pensed to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone cut off from its enjoyments ? Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be, That love is of such noble myght and kynde ? Loving his f olke, and such prosperitee Is it of him, as we in books do find : May he oure hertes setten * and unbynd : Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye ? Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? For giff he be of so grete excellence, That he of every wight hath care and charge, What have I gilt f to him, or done offense, That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large ? * Setten, incline. j Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. 130 THE SKETCH-BOOK. In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye down- ward, he beholds "the fairest and the freshest young floure " that ever he had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking _in the garden to enjoy the beauty of that "fresh May morrowe." Breaking thus suddenly upon his sight, in the moment of loneliness and excited sus- ceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the ro- mantic prince, and becomes the object of his wandering wishes, the sovereign of his ideal world. There is, in this charming scene, an evident resem- blance to the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale ; where Palamon and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual fact to the incident which he had read in Chaucer may have induced James to dwell on it in his poem. His description of the Lady Jane is given in the picturesque and minute manner of his mas- ter ; and being doubtless taken from the life, is a perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He dwells, with the fondness of a lover, on every article of her apparel, from the net of pearl, splendent with emeralds and sapphires, that confined her golden hair, even to the "goodly chaine of small orfeverye " * about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire burning upon her white bosom. Her dress of white tissue was looped up to enable her to walk * Wrought gold. A ROYAL POET. 131 with more freedom. She was accompanied by two female attendants, and about her sported a little hound decor- ated with bells ; probably the small Italian hound of ex- quisite symmetry, which was a parlor favorite and pet among the fashionable dames of ancient times. James closes his description by a burst of general eulogium : In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature ; God better knows than my pen can report, Wisdom, largesse,* estate, f and cunning:): sure, In every point so guided her measure, In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, That nature might no more her child advance. The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amorous illusion that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his captivity, and he relapses into lone- liness, now rendered tenfold more intolerable by this passing beam of unattainable beauty. Through the long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when evening approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully ex- presses it, had " bade farewell to every leaf and flower," he still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon the cold stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and Sorrow, until, gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of the twilight hour, he lapses, " half sleeping, half swoon," * Largesse, bounty. f Estate, dignity. % Cunning, discretion. 132 THE SKETCH-BOOK. into a vision, which occupies the remainder of the poem, and in which is allegorically shadowed out the history of his passion. When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his stony pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflections, questions his spirit, whither it has been wan- dering ; whether, indeed, all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has been conjured up by preceding cir- cumstances ; or whether it is a vision, intended to com- fort and assure him in his despondency. If the latter, he prays that some token may be sent to confirm the prom- ise of happier days, given him in his slumbers. Sud- denly, a turtle dove, of the purest whiteness, comes fly- ing in at the window, and alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch of red gilliflower, on the leaves of which is written, in letters of gold, the following sen- tence : Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring The newis glad that blissful is, and sure Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing, For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread ; reads it with rapture : and this, he says, was the first token of his succeeding happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, or whether the Lady Jane did ac- tually send him a token of her favor in this romantic way, remains to be determined according to the faith or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem, by in- A ROYAL POET. 133 timating that the promise conveyed in the vision and by the flower is fulfilled, by his being restored to lib- erty, and made happy in the possession of the sover- eign of his heart. Such is the poetical account given by James of his love adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to conjecture : let us not, however, reject every romantic incident as incompatible with real life ; but let us sometimes take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely those parts of the poem immediately connected with the tower, and have passed over a large part, written in the allegorical vein, so much cultivated at that day. The language, of course, is quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely be perceived at the present day ; but it is impossible not to be charmed with the gen- uine sentiment, the delightful artlessness and urbanity, which prevail throughout it. The descriptions of nature too, with which it is embellished, are given with a truth, a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most cul- tivated periods of the art. As an amatory poem, it is edifying in these days of coarser thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite delicacy which pervade it; banishing every gross thought or immodest expression, and presenting female loveliness, clothed in all its chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace. 134 THE SKETCH-BOOK. James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. Indeed, in one of his stanzas he ac- knowledges them as his masters ; and, in some parts of his poem, we find traces of similarity to their produc- tions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There are always, however, general features of resemblance in the works of contemporary authors, which are not so much borrowed from each other as from the times. Writers, like bees, toll their sweets in the wide world ; they in- corporate with their own conceptions the anecdotes and thoughts current in society; and thus each generation has some features in common, characteristic of the age in which it lived. James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our literary history, and establishes the claims of his country to a participation in its primitive honois. "Whilst a small cluster of English writers are constant- ly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name of their great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in si- lence ; but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little constellation of remote but never-failing lumi- naries, who shine in the highest firmament of litera- ture, and who, like morning stars, sang together at the bright dawning of British poesy. Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scot- tish history (though the manner in which it has of late been woven with captivating fiction has made it a uni^ A ROYAL POET. 135 versal study), may be curious to learn something of the subsequent history of James, and the fortunes of his love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it was the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release, it being imagined by the court that a connection with the blood royal of England would attach him to its own interests. He was ultimately restored to his lib-\ erty and crown, having previously espoused the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and made him a most tender and devoted wife. He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities of a long interregnum to strengthen them- selves in their possessions, and place themselves above the power of the laws. James sought to found the basis of his power in the affections of his people. He attached the lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, the temperate and equable administration of justice, the en- couragement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of every thing that could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent enjoyment through the humblest ranks of soci- ety. He mingled occasionally among the common people in disguise ; visited their firesides ; entered into their cares, their pursuits, and their amusements; informed himself of the mechanical arts, and how they could best be patronized and improved ; and was thus an all-pervad- ing spirit, watching with a benevolent eye over the mean- est of his subjects. Having in this generous manner 136 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. made himself strong in the hearts of the common people, he turned himself to curb the power of the factious nobility; to strip them of those dangerous immunities which they had usurped ; to punish such as had been guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring the whole into proper obedience to the crown. For some time they bore this with outward submission, but with secret impatience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy was at length formed against his life, at the head of which was his own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too old himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, insti- gated his grandson Sir Eobert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham, and others of less note, to commit the deed. They broke into his bedchamber at the Domini- can Convent near Perth, where he was residing, and bar- barously murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to throw her tender body between him and the sword, was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to shield him from the assassin ; and it was not until she had been forcibly torn from his person, that the murder was accomplished. It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, and of the golden little poem which had its birth- place in this Tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than common interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the image of the gallant and ro- mantic prince vividly before my imagination. I paced A ROYAL POET. 137 the deserted chambers where he had composed his poem ; I leaned upon the window, and endeavored to persuade myself it was the very one where he had been vis- ited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot where he had first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joyous month ; the birds were again vying with each other in strains of liquid melody ; every thing was burst- ing into vegetation, and budding forth the tender prom- ise of the year. Time, which delights to obliterate the sterner memorials of human pride, seems to have passed lightly over this little scene of poetry and love, and to have withheld his desolating hand. Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot of the Tower. It occupies what was once the moat of the Keep ; and though some parts have been separated by dividing walls, yet others have still their arbors and shaded walks, as in the days of James, and the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. There is a charm about a spot that has been printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations of the poet, which is heightened, rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry to hal- low every place in which it moves ; to breathe around nature an odor more exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical than the blush of morning. Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a warrior and legislator; but I have delighted to view him 138 THE SKETCH-BOOK. merely as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefac- tor of the human heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which has since be- come so prolific of the most wholesome and highly-fla- vored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner regions of the north all the fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He did every thing in his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts, which soften and refine the character of a people, and wreathe a grace round the loftiness of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, which, unfortunately for the fulness of his fame, are now lost to the world; one, which is still preserved, called "Christ's Kirk of the Green," shows how diligently he had made himself acquainted with the rustic sports and pastimes, which constitute such a source of kind and social feeling among the Scottish peasantry ; and with what simple and happy humor he could enter into their enjoyments. He contributed greatly to improve the national music ; and traces of his tender sentiment, and elegant taste, are said to exist in those witching airs, still piped among the wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected his image with whatever is most gracious and endearing in the national character ; he has Smbalmed his memory in song, and floated his name to after ages in the rich streams of Scottish melody. The recollection of these A ROYAL POET. 139 things was kindling at my heart as I paced the silent scene of his imprisonment. I have visited Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto ; but I have never felt more poetical devotion than when contemplating the old Tower and the little garden at Windsor, and musing over the romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Royal Poet of Scotland. THE COUNTEY CHURCH. A gentleman ! What, o' the woolpack ? or the sugar-chest ? Or Ksts of velvet? which is't, pound, or yard, You vend your gentry by ? Beggar's Bush. HEBE are few places more favorable to the study of character than an English country church. I was once passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, the appearance of which particularly struck my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity which give such a peculiar charm to English landscape. It stood in the midst of a country filled with ancient families, and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. The interior walls were incrusted with monuments of every age and style. The light streamed through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts of the church were tombs of knights, and high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their effigies in colored marble. On every side the eye was struck with some instance of 140 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 141 aspiring mortality ; some haughty memorial which hu- man pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this temple of the most humble of all religions. The congregation was composed of the neighboring people of rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and cushioned, furnished with richly - gilded prayer- books, and decorated with their arms upon the pew doors; of the villagers and peasantry, who rilled the back seats, and a small gallery beside the organ ; and of the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. The service was performed by a snuffling well-fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged guest at all the tables of the neigh- borhood, and had been the keenest fox-hunter in the country; until age and good living had disabled him from doing any thing more than ride to see the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner. Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impos- sible to get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place : so, having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another person's threshold, I oc- cupied myself by making observations on my neighbors. I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to no- tice the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that there was the least pretension where there was the most acknowledged title to respect. I was par- 142 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ticularly struck, for instance, with the family of a noble- man of high rank, consisting of several sons and daugh- ters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than their appearance. They generally came to church in the plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble cottagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, with an expression of high refine- ment, but, at the same time, a frank cheerfulness, and an engaging affability. Their brothers were tall, and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but simply; with strict neatness and propriety, but without any mannerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with that lofty grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak freeborn souls that have never been checked in their growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness about real dignity, that never dreads contact and communion with others, how- ever humble. It is only spurious pride that is morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see the manner in which they would con- verse with the peasantry about those rural concerns and field-sports, in which the gentlemen of this coun- try so much delight. In these conversations there was neither haughtiness on the one part, nor servility on the other; and you were only reminded of the differ- ence of rank by the habitual respect of the peasant. THE COUNTRY CHTTBCE 143 In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citi- zen, who had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having pur- chased the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighborhood, was endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. The family always came to church en prince. They were rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen, in gorgeous liveries, with huge bou- quets, and gola-headed canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with peculiar state- line ss of motion. The very horses champed their bits, arched their necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly than common horses ; either because they had caught a little of the family feeling, or were reined up more tightly than ordinary. I could not but admire the style with which this splen- did pageant was brought up to the gate of the church- yard. There Was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall ; — a great smacking of the whip, straining and scrambling of horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through gravel. This was the mo- ment of triumph and vainglory to the coachman. The horses were urged and checked until they were fretted 144 THE SKETCH-BOOK. into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers sauntering quietly to church, opened precipi- tately to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that produced an immediate stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to alight, pull down the steps, and prepare every thing for the descent on earth of this august family. The old citi- zen first emerged his round red face from out the door, looking about him with the pompous air of a man accus- tomed to rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little pride in her composition. She was the picture of * broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with her ; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, every thing was fine about her : it was nothing but driving about, and visiting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one long Lord Mayor's day. Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They certainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air, that chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. They were ultra-fashionable in dress ; and, though no one could deny the richness of their decora- tions, yet their appropriateness might be questioned THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 145 amidst the simplicity of a country church. They de- scended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over the burly faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the nobleman's family, when their countenances immediately brightened into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed they were but slight acquaintances. I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of dress which marks the man of question- able pretensions to style. They kept entirely by them- selves, eyeing every one askance that came near them, as if measuring his claims to respectability ; yet they were without conversation, except the exchange of an occa- sional cant phrase. They even moved artificially; for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, had been disciplined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had done every thing to accomplish them as men of fashion, but nature had denied them the name- less grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the common purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious assumption which is never seen in the true gentleman. I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of 10 146 THE SKETCH-BOOK these two families, because I considered them specimens of what is often to be met with in this country — the un- pretending great, and the arrogant little. I have no re- spect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true nobility of soul; but I have remarked in all countries where artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. Those who are well assured of their own standing are least apt to trespass on that of others : whereas nothing is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor. As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable from good breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a con- tinual consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambition of being the wonders of a rural congregation. The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the service. He took the whole burden of family devo- tion upon himself, standing bolt upright, and uttering the responses with a loud voice that might be heard all over the church. It was evident that he was one of those thorough church and king men, who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty ; who consider the Deity, somehow or other, of the government party, and religion " a very THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 147 excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced and kept up." When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more by way of example to the lower orders, to show them that, though so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious ; as I have seen a turtle-fed alder- man swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, smack- ing his lips at every mouthful, and pronouncing it " ex- cellent food for the poor." When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sisters, as the day was fine, pre- ferred strolling home across the fields, chatting with the country people as they went. The others departed as they came, in grand parade. Again were the equi- pages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the glit- tering of harness. The horses started off almost at a bound ; the villagers again hurried to right and left ; the wheels threw up a, cloud of dust; and the aspiring family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. THE WIDOW AND HER SON. Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd. Marlowe's Tambuklaine. HOSE who are in the habit of remarking such matters, must have noticed the passive quiet of an English landscape on Sunday. The clack- ing of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the flail, the din of the blacksmith's hammer, the whistling of the ploughman, the rattling of the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor are suspended. The very farm dogs bark less frequently, being less disturbed by passing travel- lers. At such times I have almost fancied the winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny landscape, with its fresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm. Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky. Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, has its moral influence ; every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel the natural re- 148 THE WIDOW AND HER SON 149 ligion of the soul gently springing up within us.. For my part, there are feelings that visit me, in a country church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere else ; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the seven. During my recent residence in the country, I used frequently to attend at the old village church. Its shad- owy aisles; its mouldering monuments; its dark oaken panelling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation ; but being in a wealthy aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into the sanctuary ; and I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The lin- gerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupu- lously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society ; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in 150 THE SKETCH-BOOK. prayer; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart ; I felt per- suaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently at- tracted me. It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach o.f soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew-trees which seemed al- most coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows gener- ally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning, watching two laborers who were dig- ging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of the church-yard; where, from the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the ap- proach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of pov- erty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 151 before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe ; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased— the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was pen- niless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased — " George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, but I could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body, 152 THE SKETCH-BOOK. and a convulsive motion of her lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart. Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection ; directions given in the cold tones of business : the striking of spades into sand and gravel ; which, at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like con- solation — " Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental obstruction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in standing by, and gazing idly on this THE WIDOW AND HER SON 153 scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. "When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and desti- tution, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ! they have friends to soothe— pleasures to beguile— a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young ! Their growing minds soon close above the wound— their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure— their green and ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe— the sorrows of the. aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth f joy— the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years ; these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impo- tency of consolation. It was some time before I left the church-yard. On my way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter : she was just returning from accompanying the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest 154 THE SKETCH-BOOK. cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and led a happy and a blame- less life. They had one son, who had grown up to be the staff and pride of their age. — " Oh, sir ! " said the good woman, " he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents ! It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to church — for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm, than on her good man's ; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was not in the country round." Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the ser- vice of one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been long in this employ when he was entrapped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their mail) prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heart- less and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a kind feeling toward her throughout the vil- lage, and a certain respect as being one of the oldest in- habitants. As no one applied for the cottage, in which she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted THE WIDOW AND HER 80N. 155 to remain in it, where she lived solitary and almost help- less. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her little garden, which the neighbors would now and then cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the time at which these cir- cumstances were told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage door which faced the garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's clothes, was emaci- ated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened to- wards her, but his steps were faint and faltering; he sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wan- dering eye — "Oh, my dear, dear mother! don't you know your son? your poor boy, George ? " It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of his childhood. I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blended : still he was alive ! he was come home ! he might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age ! Na- ture, however, was exhausted in him ; and if any thing had been wanting to finish the work of fate, the desola- tion of his native cottage would have been sufficient. He 156 THE SKETCH-BOOK. stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, to talk — he could only look his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant ; and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other hand. There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has lan- guished, even in advanced life, in sickness and despon- dency ; who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land ; but has thought on the mother "that looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to her son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity : — and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in THE WIDOW AND HER SON 157 spite of his disgrace ; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from his sight ; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. Sne would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her bending over him ; when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep, with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died. My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of afflic- tion was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and admin- ister pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do every thing that the case admitted : and as the poor know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for her son ; and nothing could be more touch- ing than this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a black ribbon or so — a faded black handker- chief, and one or two more such humble attempts to ex- press by yatward signs that grief which passes show. 158 THE SKETCH-BOOK. When I looked round upon the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sor- row, at the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the congregation, and they were moved by it. They ex- erted themselves to render her situation more comfort- able, and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left the neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never parted. A SUNDAY IN LONDON.* N a preceding paper I have spoken of an Eng- lish Sunday in the country, and its tranquilliz- ing effect upon the landscape ; but where is its sacred influence more strikingly apparent than in the very heart of that great Babel, London? On this sa- cred day, the gigantic monster is charmed into repose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week are at an end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges and man- ufactories are extinguished ; and the sun, no longer ob- scured by murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober, yellow radiance into the quiet streets. The few pedes- trians we meet, instead of hurrying forward with anxious countenances, move leisurely along; their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles of business and care ; they have put on their Sunday looks, and Sunday manners, with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as well as in person. .And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his mansion the family of the decent trades- * Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions. 159 160 THE SKETCH-BOOK. man, the small children in the advance ; then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed by the grown-up daugh- ters, with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after them from the window, admiring the finery of the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile from her young mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted. Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city, peradventure an alderman or a sheriff; and now the patter of many feet announces a procession of charity scholars, in uniforms of antique cut, and each with a prayer-book under his arm. The ringing of bells is at an end; the rumbling of the carriage has ceased; the pattering of feet is heard no more ; the flocks are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and corners of the crowded city, where the vigilant beadle keeps watch, like the shepherd's dog, round the threshold of the sanctuary. For a time every thing is hushed; but soon is heard the deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and vibrating through the empty lanes and courts; and the sweet chanting of the choir making them resound with melody and praise. Never have I been more sensible of the sanctifying effect of church music, than when I have heard it thus poured forth, like a river of joy, through the inmost recesses of this great metropolis, elevating it, as it were, from all the sordid pollutions A SUNDAY IN LONDON. 161 of the week; and bearing the poor world-worn soul on a tide of triumphant harmony to heaven. The morning service is at an end. The streets are again alive with the congregations returning to their homes, but soon again relapse into silence. Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which, to the city tradesman, is a meal of some importance. There is more leisure for social enjoyment at the board. Members of the family can now gather together, who are separated by the la- borious occupations of the week. A school-boy may be permitted on that day to come to the paternal home ; an old friend of the family takes his accustomed Sun- day seat at the board, tells over his well-known stories, and rejoices young and old with his well-known jokes. On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural environs. Satirists may say what they please about the rural enjoyments of a London citizen on Sunday, but to me there is something delightful in beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty city enabled thus to come forth once a week and throw himself upon the green bosom of nature. He is like a child restored to the mother's breast; and they who first spread out these noble parks and magnificent pleasure-grounds which surround this huge metropo- lis, have done at least as much for its health and morality, as \i they had expended the amount of cost n* hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries. 11 THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAE A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH. "A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. 1 have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfather should say, that it was an old proverb when his great-grandfather was a child, that 'it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine.' " Mother Bombib. |T is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to honor the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the number of these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the dark- ness of his little chapel; another may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy ; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beatified father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax; the eager zealot his seven-branched candlestick, and even the mendicant pil- grim is by no means satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased, unless he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to obscure ; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost 163 THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN. 163 smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of his followers. In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shak- speare. Every writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some portion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations ; the common herd of editors send up mists of obscurity from their notes at the bottom of each page ; and every casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy or research, to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated in every attempt at a new reading ; every doubtful line had been explained a dozen different ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation; and as to fine passages, they had all been amply praised by previous admirers ; nay, so completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with panegyric by a great German critic, that it was difficult now to find even a fault that had not been argued into a beauty. In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV., and was, in a moment, completely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly 164 THE SKETCH-BOOK. and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and with such force and consistency are the characters sus- tained, that they become mingled up in the mind with the facts and personages of real life. To few readers does it occur, that these are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of merry roysters ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of East- cheap. For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to me as a hero of history that existed a thou- sand years since : and, if I may be excused such an insen- sibility to the common ties of human nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient chroni- cle. What have the heroes of yore done for me, or men like me ? They have conquered countries of which I do not enjoy an acre ; or they have gained laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf ; or they have furnished examples of hair-brained prowess, which I have neither the oppor- tunity nor the inclination to follow. But, old Jack Fal- staff! — kind Jack Falstaff! — sweet Jack Falstaff! — has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment : he has added vast regions of wit and good humor, in which the poorest man may revel; and has bequeathed a never- failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier and better to the latest posterity. A thought suddenly struck me : " I will make a pil- grimage to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, " and TEE BOAR'S BEAD TAVERN. 165 see if the old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests ; at any rate, there will be a kindred pleasure, in treading the halls once vocal with their mirth, to that the toper enjoys in smelling to the empty cask once filled with generous wine." The resolution was no sooner formed than put in exe cution. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I encountered in my travels ; of the haunted regions of Cock Lane ; of the faded glories of Little Brit- ain, and the parts adjacent ; what perils I ran in Cateaton- street and old Jewry ; of the renowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and the terror of all unlucky urchins ; and how I visited Lon- don Stone, and struck my staff upon it, in imitation of that arch rebel, Jack Cade. Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry Eastchear^ that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane bears testimony even at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old Stowe, " was always famous for its convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals : there was clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas ! how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring days of Falstaff and old Stowe ! The madcap royster has given place to the plodding tradesman ; the clattering of pots and the sound of " harpe and sawtrie," to the din of 166 THE SKETCH-BOOK. carts and the accursed dinging of the dustman's bell ; and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain of some siren from Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The only relic of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in stone, which formerly served as the sign, but at present is built into the parting line of two houses, which stand on the site of the renowned old tavern. For the history of this little abode of good fellowship, I was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who had been born and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to as the indisputable chronicler of the neigh- borhood. I found her seated in a little back parlor, the window of which looked out upon a yard about eight feet square, laid out as a flower-garden ; while a glass door opposite afforded a distant peep of the street, through a vista of soap and tallow candles : the two views, which comprised, in all probability, her prospects in life, and the little world in which she had lived, and moved, and had her being, for the better part of a century. To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, from London Stone even unto the Monument, was doubtless, in her opinion, to be acquainted with the his- tory of the universe. Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal communi- cative disposition, which I have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies, knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood. THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN. 167 Her information, however, did not extend far back into antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of the Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly es- poused the valiant Pistol, until the great fire of London, when it was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon re- built, and continued to flourish under the old name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for dou- ble scores, bad measures, and other iniquities, which are incident to the sinful race of publicans, endeavored to make his peace with heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, towards the sup- porting of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there ; but it was observed that the old Boar never held up his head under church govern- ment. He gradually declined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years since. The tavern was then turned into shops ; but she informed me that a picture of it was still preserved in St. Michael's Church, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my determination ; so, having informed myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legendary lore, and furnished an important incident in the history of her life. It cost me some difliculty, and much curious inquiry, to ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore Crooked Lane, and diverse little alleys, and elbows, and dark passages, with which this old city is 158 THE SKETCHBOOK. perforated, like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At length I traced him to a corner of a small court surrounded by lofty houses, where the in- habitants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven, as a community of frogs at the bottom of a well. The sexton Avas a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bowing, lowly habit : yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and, if encouraged, would now and then hazard a small pleasantry ; such as a man of his low estate might venture to make in the company of high churchwardens, and other mighty men of the earth. I found him in com- pany with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's augels, discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and settling the affairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale — for the lower classes of English seldom deliber- ate on any weighty matter without the assistance of a eool tankard to clear their understandings. I arrived at fche moment when they had finished their ale and their argument, and were about to repair to the church to put it in order ; so having made known my wishes, I received their gracious permission to accompany them. The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many fishmongers of renown; and as every profession has its galaxy of glory, and its constellation of great men, I presume the monument of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with as much reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets THE BOAR' 8 HEAD TAVERN. 169 /eel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the monument of a Marlborough or Turenne. I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illus^ trious men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains also the ashes of that doughty champion, Wil- liam Walworth, knight, who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of arms : — the sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned as the most pacific of all potentates.* * The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this worthy ; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration. Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, William Walworth callyd by name ; Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere ; Who, with courage stout and manly myght, Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. For which act done, and trew entent, The Kyng made him knyght incontinent; And gave him armes, as here you see, To declare his fact and chivaldrie. He left this lyff the yere of our God Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd. An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the vener- able Stowe. "Whereas," saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by such testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders, or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man ; the second was John, or Jack, Straw," etc., etc. Stowe's London. 170 THE SKETCH-BOOK. Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immedi- tely under the back window of what was once the Boar's Head, stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since this trusty drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career, and was thus quietly deposited within call of his customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from his epitaph, the little sexton drew me on one side with a mysterious air, and informed me in a low voice, that once upon a time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling, and whistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirling weathercocks, so that the liv- ing were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of hon- est Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the church-yard, was attracted by the well-known call of "waiter" from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was singing a stave from the " mirre gar- land of Captain Death ; " to the discomfiture of sundry train-band captains, and the conversion of an infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and was never known to twist the truth afterwards, except in the way of business. I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for the authenticity of this anecdote; though it is well known that the church-yards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very much infested with per- THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN. 171 turbed spirits; and every one must have heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower, which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of their wits. Be all this as it may, this Kobert Preston seems to have been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally prompt with his " anon, anon, sir ; " and to have transcended his predecessor in honesty ; for Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack ; whereas honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his measure.* The worthy dignitaries of the church, however, did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of the tapster; the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up * As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the production of some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's Head. Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, Produced one sober son, and here he lies. Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd The charms of wine, and every one beside. O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 172 THE SKETCH-BOOK among full hogsheads ; and the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a significant wink, and a dubious shake of the head. Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disappointed me in the great object of my quest, the picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the church of St. Michael. " Marry and amen ! " said I, " here endeth my research ! " So I was giving the matter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be curious in every thing relative to the old tavern, offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had been handed down from remote times, when the parish meet- ings were held at the Boar's Head. These were de- posited in the parish club-room, which had been trans- ferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the neighborhood. A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the "bully- rock" of the establishment. It is one of those little taverns which abound in the heart of the city, and form the centre of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered the bar-room, which was narrow and darkling ; for in these close lanes but few rays of reflected light are enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN. 173 partitioned into boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the guests were of the good old stamp, and divided their day equally, for it was but just one o'clock. At the lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, before which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the man- telpiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in this medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall, that carried me back to earlier times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, but every thing had that look of order and neatness, which bespeaks the superintendence of a notable English house- wife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered into a little misshapen back- room, having at least nine corners. It was lighted by a skylight, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evi- dently appropriated to particular customers, and I found a shabby gentleman, in a red nose and oil-cloth hat seated in one corner, meditating on a half-empty pot of P °The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air of profound importance imparted to her my er- rand. Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substitute for that paragon of 174 THE SKETCH-BOOK. hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity to oblige ; and hurrying up stairs to the archives of her house, where the precious vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and courtesying, with them in her hands. The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobac- co-box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked at their stated meetings, since time immemorial; and which was never suffered to be pro- faned by vulgar hands, or used on common occasions. I received it with becoming reverence ; but what was my delight, at beholding on its cover the identical painting of which I was in quest ! There was displayed the out- side of the Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was to be seen the whole convivial group, at table, in full revel; pictured with that wonderful fidelity and force, with which the portraits of renowned generals and com- modores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mis- take, the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliterated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Eichard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was " repaired and beau- tified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful description of this august and venerable relic; and I question whether the learned Scriblerius THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN. 175 contemplated his Roman shield, or the. Knights of the Bound Table the long-sought san-greal, with more exul- tation. While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the inter- est it excited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which also belonged to the vestry, and was descended from the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of having been the gift of Francis Wythers, knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being consid- ered very " antyke." This last opinion was strengthened by the shabby gentleman in the red nose and oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal de- scendant from the valiant Bardolph. He suddenly roused from his meditation on the pot of porter, and, casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, " Ay, ay ! the head don't ache now that made that there article ! " The great importance attached to this memento of ancient revelry by modern churchwardens at first puzzled me ; but there is nothing sharpens the apprehension so much as antiquarian research ; for I immediately per- ceived that this could be no other than the identical " parcel-gilt goblet " on which Falstaff made his loving, but faithless vow to Dame Quickly ; and which would, of course, be treasured up with care among the regalia of her domains, as a testimony of that solemn contract.* * Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting ui my Dol- phin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday, in 176 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet had been handed down from generation to gener- ation. She also entertained me with many particulars concerning the worthy vestrymen who have seated them- selves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roysters of Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honor of Shakspeare. These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should not be as curious in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes concerning him still ex- tant among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, which they give as transmitted down from their fore- fathers; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, whose shop stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, has several dry jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the books, with which he makes his customers ready to die of laughter. I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive med- itation. His head had declined a little on one side; a deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach ; and, though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, Whitsunweek, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing man at Windsor ; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it ?— Henry IV., Part 2. THE BOAR '£ HEAD TA VEBN. 177 yet a moisture was evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye through the door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on the savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness before the fire. I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my re- condite investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, and, putting in his hand a small token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed, with a hearty benediction on him, Dame Honeyball, and the Parish Club of Crooked Lane ; — not forgetting my shabby, but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account of this interesting research, for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, I can only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, so deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware that a more skilful illustrator of the immortal bard would have swelled the materials I have touched upon, to a good merchantable bulk ; comprising the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and Eobert Preston ; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of St. Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and little; private anecdotes of Dame Honeyball, and her pretty daughter, whom I have not even mentioned ; to say nothing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb, (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass, with a neat foot and ankle ;) — the whole enlivened by the 12 178 THE SKETCH-BOOK. riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of London. AH this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future commentators; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco- box, and the "parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus brought to light, the subjects of future engravings, and almost as fruitful of voluminous dissertations and dis- putes as the shield of Achilles, or the far-famed Portland vase. THE MUTABILITY OF LITEKATURE. A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTEK ABBEY. I know that all beneath the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought, In time's great period shall return to nought. I know that all the muse's heavenly lays, With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. Drummond of Hawthobnden. HEKE are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries and build our air castles undis- turbed. In such a mood I was loitering about the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that lux- ury of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection; when suddenly an inter- ruption of madcap boys from Westminster School, play- ing at foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. I sought to take re- fuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the 179 180 THE SKETCHBOOK. solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers for admission to the library. He conducted me through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage leading to the chapter-house and the chamber in which doomsday book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small door on the left. To this the verger applied a key ; it was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if seldom used. We now ascended a dark narrow staircase, and, passing through a second door, entered the library. I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof sup- ported by massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a con- siderable height from the floor, and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallery were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polem- ical writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In the centre of the library was a solitary table with two or three books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It was buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then the shouts of the school- boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 181 a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away; the bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through the dusky hall. I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated my- self at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, however, I was beguiled by the solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place, into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves, and apparently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but consider the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion. How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some ach- ing head ! how many weary days ! how many sleepless nights ! How have their authors buried othemselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves up from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of nature ; and devoted themselves to painful research and intense reflection ! And all for what? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf— to have the title of their works read now and then in a future age, by some drowsy church- man or casual straggler like myself ; and in another age 182 THE SKETCH-BOOK. to be lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound; like the tone of that bell which has just tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment — lingering transiently in echo — and then passing away like a thing that was not. While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these unprofitable speculations with my head resting on my hand, I was thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosened the clasps; when, to my utter astonishment, the little book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking from a deep sleep ; then a husky hem; and at length began to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider had woven across it ; and having probably contracted a cold from long exposure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it became more dis- tinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent con- versable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation, what, in the present day, would be deemed barbarous ; but I shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in mod- ern parlance. It began with railings about the neglect of the world — about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly that it had not been opened for more THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 183 than two centuries. That the dean only looked now and then into the library, sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then re- turned them to their shelves. " What a plague do they mean," said the little quarto, which I began to perceive was somewhat choleric, " what a plague do they mean by keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and watched by a set of old vergers, like so many beau- ties in a harem, merely to be looked at now and then by the dean ? Books were written to give pleasure and to be enjoyed ; and I would have a rule passed that the dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a year ; or if he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster among us, that at any rate we may now and then have an airing." "Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, "you are not aware how much better you are off than most books of your generation. By being stored away in this ancient library, you are like the treasured remains of those saints and monarchs, which lie enshrined in the adjoining chap- els ; while the remains of your contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned to dust." " Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and look- ing big, " I was written for all the world, not for the book- worms of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like other great contemporary works ; but here have I been clasped up for more than two centuries. 184 THE SKETCH-BOOK. and might have silently fallen a prey to these worms that are playing the very vengeance with my intestines, if you had not by chance given me an opportunity of uttering a few last words before I go to pieces." " My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been left to the circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this have been no more. To judge from your physiogno- my, you are now well stricken in years : very few of your contemporaries can be at present in existence ; and those few owe their longevity to being immured like yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me to add, instead of liken- ing to harems, you might more properly and gratefully have compared to those infirmaries attached to religious establishments, for the benefit of the old and decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering and no employment, they often endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of your contemporaries as if in circulation — where do we meet with their works ? what do we hear of Robert Groteste, of Lincoln ? No one could have toiled harder than he for immortality. He is said to have writ- ten nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are scattered in various libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philoso- pher, theologian, and poet ? He declined two bishoprics, that he might shut himself up and write for posterity; TEE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 185 but posterity never inquires after his labors. What of Henry of Huntingdon, who, besides a learned history of England, wrote a treatise on the contempt of the world, which the world has revenged by forgetting him ? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical composition ? Of his three great heroic poems one is lost forever, excepting a mere fragment ; the others are known only to a few of the curious in litera- ture ; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. What is in current use of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life ? Of William of Malmsbury ; — of Simeon of Durham ; — of Benedict of Peterborough ; — of John Han- vill of St. Albans ;— of " "Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, " how old do you think me ? You are talking of authors that lived long before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that they in a manner expatriated them- selves, and deserved to be forgotten;* but I, sir, was ushered into the world from the press of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native tongue, at a time when the language had become fixed ; and indeed I was considered a model of pure and elegant English." * In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes there ben some that speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as good a antasye as we have in hearying of Frenchmen's Englishes Chwfw* Testament of Love. 186 THE SKETCH-BOOK. (I should observe that these remarks were couched in such intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty in rendering them into modern phraseology.) "I cry your mercy," said I, "for mistaking your age; but it matters little : almost all the writers of your time have likewise passed into forgetfulness ; and De "Worde's publications are mere literary rarities among book-col- lectors. The purity and stability of language, too, on which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even back to the times of the worthy Kobert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon.* Even now many talk of Spenser's ' well of pure English undefiled,' as if the language ever sprang from a well 01 fountain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence oi various tongues, perpetually subject to changes and in- termixtures. It is this which has made English litera- ture so extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be committed to some- thing more permanent and unchangeable than such a medium, even thought must share the fate of every thing else, and fall into decay. This should serve as a check ' * Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, "afterwards, also, by deligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Ber- rie, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to their great praise and immortal commendation." THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 187 upon the vanity and exultation of the most popular writer. He finds the language in which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject to the dilapida- tions of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back and beholds the early authors of his country, once the favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers. A few short ages have covered them with obscurity, and their merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired in its day, and held up as a model of purity, will in the course of years grow antiquated and obsolete; until it shall become almost as unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Eunic inscriptions said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I, with some emotion, " when I contemplate a modern library, filled with new works, in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; like the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of military array, and re- flected that in one hundred years not one of them would be in existence ! " "Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see how it is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors. I suppose nothing is read nowa- days but Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays, and Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine-spun eu- phuisms of the ' unparalleled John Lyly.' " 188 THE SKETCH-BOOK. "There you are again mistaken," said I; "the writers whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly predicted by his ad- mirers,* and which, in truth, is full of noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity ; and even Lyly, though his writings were once the delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, have likewise gone down, with all their writings and their controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that some industrious diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification of the curious. "For my part," I continued, "I consider this muta- bility of language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason from analogy, we daily behold * Live ever sweete booke ; the simple image of his gentle witt, and the golden-pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto the world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey-bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the tonge of Suada in the chamber, the sprite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellency in print. — Harvey Pierce's Supererogation. THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 189 the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their suc- cessors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of na- ture would be a grievance instead of a blessing. The earth would groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface become a tangled wilderness. In like manner the works of genius and learning decline, and make way for subsequent productions. Language grad- ually varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors who have flourished their allotted time; other- wise, the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, and the mind would be completely bewil- dered in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly there were some restraints on this excessive multipli- cation. Works had to be transcribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious operation ; they were written either on parchment, which was expensive, so that one work was often erased to make way for another; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely perish- able. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to mon- asteries. To these circumstances it may, in some meas- ure, be owing that we have not been inundated by the intellect of antiquity ; that the fountains of thought have not been broken up, and modern genius drowned 190 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. in the deluge. But the inventions of paper and the> press have put an end to all these restraints. They have made every one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. The consequences are alarm- ing. The stream of literature has swollen into a tor- rent — augmented into a river — expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library ; but what would you say to libraries such as actually exist, containing three or four hundred thousand volumes ; legions of authors at the same time busy ; and the press going on with fear- fully increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number? Unless some unforeseen mortality should break out among the progeny of the muse, now that she has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be sufficient. Cri- ticism may do much. It increases with the increase of literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks on population spoken of by economists. All possible encouragement, therefore, should be given to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain ; let criticism do what it may, writers will write, print- ers will print, and the world will inevitably be over- stocked with good books. It will soon be the employ- ment of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of passable information, at the present day, reads scarcely anything but reviews ; and before long a man of THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. \§\ erudition will be little better than a mere walking cata- logue." "My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most drearily in my face, "excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author who was making some noise just as I left the world. His reputation, however, was considered quite temporary. The learned shook their heads at him, for he was a poor half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and nothing of Greek* and had been obliged to run the country for deer-stealing. I think his name was Shakspeare. I presume he soon sunk into oblivion." " On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that very man that the literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the ordinary term of English liter- ature. There rise authors now and then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, because they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream; which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them from be- ing swept away by the ever-flowing current, and hold up many a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakspeare, whom we behold defying the encroachments of time, 192 THE 8KETCH-B00R. retaining in modern use the language and literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indifferent author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant that upholds them." Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of laughter that had well nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpulency. " Mighty well ! " cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, " mighty well ! and so you would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a man with- out learning ; by a poet, forsooth — a poet ! " And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flourished in a less polished age. I determined, never- theless, not to give up my point. " Yes," resumed I, positively, " a poet ; for of all writ- ers he has the best chance for immortality. Others may write from the head, but he writes from the heart* and the heart will always understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of nature, whose features are always the same ; and always interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy ; their pages are crowded with common' THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 193 places, and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by every thing that h-> sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which inclose within a small compass the wealth of the language — its family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a portable form to poster- ity. The setting may occasionally be antiquated, and re- quire now and then to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dulness, filled with monkish legends and academical controver- sies ! what bogs of theological speculations ! what dreary wastes of metaphysics ! Here and there only do we be- hold the heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like beacons on their widely-separate heights, to transmit the pure light of poetical intelligence from age to age." * * Thorow earth and waters deepe, The pen by skill doth passe : And featly nyps the worldes abuse, And shoes us in a glasse, The vertu and the vice Of every wight alyve ; The honey comb that bee doth make Is not so sweet in hyve, 13 194 THE SKETCH-BOOK. I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a parting word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was silent ; the clasps were closed : and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two or three times since, and have endeavored to draw it into further con- versation, but in vain ; and whether all this rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never to this moment been able to discover. As are the golden leves That drop from poet's head ! Which doth surmount our common talke As farre as dross doth lead. Churchyard* RURAL FUNERALS. Here's a few flowers ! but about midnight more : The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night; Are strewings fitt'st for graves You were as flowers now wither'd ; even so These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. Cymbelihb. MONG the beautiful and simple-hearted cus- toms of rural life which still linger in some parts of England, are those of strewing flowers before the funerals, and planting them at the graves of departed friends. These, it is said, are the remains of some of the rites of the primitive church ; but they are of still higher antiquity, having been observed among the Greeks and Romans, and frequently mentioned by their writers, and were, no doubt, the spontaneous tributes of unlettered affection, originating long before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, or story it on the monument. They are now only to be met with in the most distant and retired places of the kingdom, where fashion and innovation have not been able to throng in, and trample out all the curious and interesting traces of the olden time. ids 196 THE SKETCH-BOOK. In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon thw corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : White his shroud as the mountain snow Larded all with sweet flowers ; Which be-wept to the grave did go, With true love showers. There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite ob- served in some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a female who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet of white flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterwards hung up in the church over the accustomed seat of the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside of them is generally a pair of white gloves. They are in- tended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the crown of glory which she has received in heaven. In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns : a kind of triumph, "to show," says Bourne, "that they have finished their course with joy, and are become con- querors." This, I am informed, is observed in some of the northern counties, particularly in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, to hear, of a still evening, in some lonely country scene, the mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a dis- BUBAL FUNEBALS. 197 tance, and to see the train slowly moving along the land- scape. Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground, And as we sing thy dirge, we will The daffodill And other flowers lay upon The altar of our love, thy stone. Herrick. There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to the passing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such spectacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep into the soul. As the mourning train ap- proaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by ; he then follows silently in the rear; sometimes quite to the grave, at other times for a few hundred yards, and, hav- ing paid this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and resumes his journey. The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pa- thetic customs, and in the solicitude shown by the com- mon people for an honored and a peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that some little respect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the " faire and happy milkmaid," observes, " thus lives she, and all her care is, that she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stucke upon her windingsheet." 198 THE SKETCH-BOOK. The poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a na- tion, continually advert to this fond solicitude about the grave. In "The Maid's Tragedy," by Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, de- scribing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted girl: When she sees a bank Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell Her servants, what a pretty place it were To bury lovers in ; and make her maids Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. The custom of decorating graves was once universally prevalent : osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the turf uninjured, and about them were planted ever- greens and flowers. " We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his Sylva, " with flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the life of man, which has been com- pared in Holy Scriptures to those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in dishonor, rise again in glory." This usage has now become extremely rare in England ; but it may still be met with in the church-yards of retired villages, among the "Welsh mountains ; and I recollect an instance of it at the small town of Ruthen, which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been told also by a friend, who was present at the funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that the female attendants had their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon as the body was interred, they stuck about the grave. BUBAL FUNEBALS. 199 He noticed several graves which had been decorated a the same manner. As the flowers had been merely «tuck in the ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might be seen in various states of decay; some drooping, others quite perished. They were afterwards to be supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens ; which on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tomb- stones. There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrangement of these rustic offerings, that had something in it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. "This sweet flower," said Evelyn, "borne on a branch set with thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are nat- ural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory life, which, making so fair a show for a time, is not yet without its thorns and crosses." The nature and color of the flowers, and of the ribbons with which they were tied, had often a particular reference to the qualities or story of the deceased, or were expressive of the feel- ings of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled "Cory- don's Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the decorations he intends to use : A garland shall be framed By art and nature's skill, Of sundry-color'd flowers, In token of good-will. iJOO THE SKETCHBOOK. And sundry-color'd ribands On it I will bestow ; But chiefly blacke and yellowe With her to grave shall go. I'll deck her tomb with flowers, The rarest ever seen ; And with my tears as showers, I'll keep them fresh and green. The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token of her spotless innocence ; though sometimes black ribbons were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose was occasionally used in remem- brance of such as had been remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in general were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not alto- gether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the coun- ty of Surrey, "where the maidens yearly planted and decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose- bushes." And Camden likewise remarks, in his Britan- nia : " Here is also a certain custom, observed time out of mind, of planting «©se-trees upon the graves, especially by the young men and maids who have lost their loves ; so that this church-yard is now full of them." When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they were of the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by RURAL FUNERALS. 201 Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the follow- ing stanza : Yet strew Upon my dismall grave Such offerings as you have, Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe ; For kinder flowers can take no birth Or growth from such unhappy earth. In "The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is intro- duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females who had been disappointed in love : Lay a garland on my hearse. Of the dismall yew, Maidens, willow branches wear, Say I died true. My love was false, but I was firm, From my hour of birth, Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth. The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity of sentiment and the unaffected elegance of thought which pervaded the whole of these funeral ob- servances. Thus, it was an especial precaution that none but sweet-scented evergreens and flowers should be em- ployed. The intention seems to have been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding over the disgraces of perishing mortality, and to asso- ciate the memory of the deceased with the most delicate 202 THE SKETCH-BOOK. and beautiful objects in nature. There is a dismal pro- cess going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kin- dred dust, which the imagination sinks from contemplat- ing; and we seek still to think of the form we have loved, with those refined associations which it awakened when blooming before us in youth and beauty. "Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring ! Herrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner embalms the dead in the recollections of the living. Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all Paradise : May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence Fat frankincense. Let balme and cassia send their scent From out thy maiden monument. * * . * * # * May all shie maids at wonted hours Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ! May virgins, when they come to mourn, Male incense burn Upon thine altar ! then return And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British poets who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, and delighted frequently to allude to them; RURAL FUNERALS. 203 but I have already quoted more than is necessary. I cannot however refrain from giving a passage from Shak- speare, even though it should appear trite ; which illus- trates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in these floral tributes ; and at the same time possesses that magic of language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands pre-eminent. With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor The azured harebell, like thy veins ; no, nor The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, Outsweeten'd not thy breath. There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the most costly monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower while the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave as affection is binding the osier round the sod; but pathos expires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled among the cold conceits of sculptured marble. It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly elegant and touching has disappeared from general use, and exists only in the most remote and insignificant vil- lages. But it seems as if poetical custom always shuns the walks of cultivated society. In proportion as people grow polite they cease to be poetical. They talk of poe- try, but they have learnt^ to check its free impulses, to 204 THE SKETCH-BOOK. distrust its sallying emotions, and to supply its most affecting and picturesque usages, by studied form and pompous ceremonial. Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than an English funeral in town. It is made up of show and gloomy . parade ; mourning carriages^ mourning horses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourn- ers, who make a mockery of grief. " There is a grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor, " and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the neighborhood, and when the daies are finished, they shall be, and they shall be remembered no more." The associate in the gay and crowded city is soon forgotten ; the hurrying succession of new intimates and new pleasures effaces him from our minds, and the very scenes and circles in which he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the country are solemnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider space in the village circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in every ear ; it steals with its pervading melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape. The fixed and unchanging features of the country also perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed them ; who was the companion of our most re- tired walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea is associated with every charm of nature ; we hear his voice in the echo which he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit haunts the grove which he once fre- quented ; we think of him in the wild upland solitude, or RURAL FUNERALS. 205 amidst the pensive beauty of the valley. In the fresh- ness of joyous morning, we remember his beaming smiles and bounding gayety; and when sober evening returns with its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet- souled melancholy. Each lonely place shall him restore, For him the tear be duly shed ; Belov'd, till life can charm no more ; And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the de- ceased in the country is that the grave is more imme- diately in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer, it meets their eyes when their hearts are softened by the exercises of devotion ; they linger about it on the Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures and present loves, and to sit down among the solemn mementos of the past. In North Wales the peasantry kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friends, for several Sundays after the in- terment ; and where the tender rite of strewing and plant- ing flowers is still practised, it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the season brings the companion of former festivity more vividly to mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest relatives and friends; no menials nor hirelings are em- 206 THE SKETCH-BOOK ployed ; and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult to offer compensation. I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love. The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive impulse of mere animal at- tachment. The latter must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its object ; but the love that is seated in the soul can live on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline with the charms which excited them, and turn with shuddering disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb ; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection rises, purified from every sensual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? "Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would for- get the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most RURAL FUNERALS. 207 loved ; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness ? — No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection ; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remem- brance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave! — the grave! — It buries every error — covers every defect — extinguishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering be- fore him. But the grave of those we loved — what a place for meditation ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thou- 208 THE SKETCH-BOOK. sand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy — there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tender- ness of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance — its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh ! how thrill- ing! — pressure of the hand! The faint, faltering ac- cents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! The last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us even from the threshold of existence ! Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited — every past endearment unre- garded, of that departed being, who can never — never — never return to be soothed by thy contrition ! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee — if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; — then be sure that every unkind look, every ungra- cious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging RURAL FUNERALS. 209 back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul- -then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear ; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quota- tions illustrative of particular rites, to be appended, by way of note, to another paper, which has been withheld. The article swelled insensibly into its present form, and this is mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a notice of these usages, after they have been amply and learnedly investigated in other works. I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this custom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other countries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much more general, and is observed even by the rich and fash- ionable ; but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, and to 14 210 THE SKETCH-BOOK. degenerate into affectation. Bright, in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, and re- cesses formed for retirement, with seats placed among bowers of greenhouse plants ; and that the graves gener- ally are covered with the gayest flowers of the season. He gives a casual picture of filial piety, which I cannot but transcribe ; for I trust it is as useful as it is delight- ful, to illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. " When I was at Berlin," says he, " I followed the celebrated Iff- land to the grave. Mingled with some pomp, you might trace much real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my attention was attracted by a young woman, who stood on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf, which she anxiously protected from the feet of the passing crowd. It was the tomb of her parent ; and the figure of this af- fectionate daughter presented a monument more striking than the most costly work of art." I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I once met with among the mountains of Switzer- land. It was at the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the Lake of Lucerne, at the foot of Mount Rigi. It was once the capital of a miniature republic, shut up between the Alps and the Lake, and accessible on the land side only by foot-paths. The whole force of the republic did not exceed six hundred fighting men ; and a few miles of circumference, scooped out as it were from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its terri- tory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the BUBAL FUNEBALS. 211 rest of the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a small church, with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of the graves were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some were affixed minia- tures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at like- nesses of the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused with interest at this scene ; I felt that I was at the source of poetical descrip- tion, for these were the beautiful but unaffected offerings of the heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more populous place, I should have suspected them to have been suggested by factitious sentiment, derived from books ; but the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; there was not a novel nor a love poem in the village ; and I question whether any peasant of the place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of poetical devotion,, and that he was practically a poet. THE INN KITCHEN. Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? Falstaff. UKING a journey that I once made through the Netherlands, I arrived one evening at the Pomme d' Or, the principal inn of a small Flem- ish village. It was after the hour of the table d'hote, so that I was obliged to make a solitary supper from the relics of its ampler board. The weather was chilly ; I was seated alone in one end of a great gloomy dining- room, and, my repast being over, I had the prospect before me of a long dull evening, without any visible means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and re- quested something to read; he brought me the whole literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an almanac in the same language, and a number of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, read- ing old and stale criticisms, my ear was now and then struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Every one that has travelled on the continent must know how favorite a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to the middle and inferior order of trav- ellers ; particularly in that equivocal kind of weather, 212 TEE INN KITCHEN 213 when a fire becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw aside the newspaper, and explored my way to the kitchen, to take a peep at the group that appeared to be so merry. It was composed partly of travellers who had arrived some hours before in a diligence, and partly of the usual attendants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round a great burnished stove, that might have been mistaken for an altar, at which they were worshipping. It was covered with various kitchen vessels of resplend- ent brightness ; among which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group, bringing out many odd features in strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the spa- cious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners ; except where they settled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected back from well-scoured utensils, that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her ears, and a necklace with a golden heart suspended to it, was the presiding priestess of the temple. Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most of them with some kind of evening potation. I found their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes, which a little swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of his love adventures ; at the end of each of which there was one of those bursts of hon- est unceremonious laughter, in which a man indulges in that temple of true liberty, an inn. 214 THE SKETCH-BOOK As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened to a variety of traveller's tales, some very extra- vagant, and most very dull. All of them, however, have faded from my treacherous memory except one, which I will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it derived its chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and the peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran trav- eller. He was dressed in a tarnished green travelling- jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of overalls, with buttons from the hips to the ankles. He was of a full, rubicund countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a pleasant, twinkling eye. His hair was light, and curled from under an old green velvet travelling-cap stuck on one side of his head. He was interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests, or the remarks of his auditors ; and paused now and then to replenish his pipe; at which times he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke for the buxom kitchen-maid. I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow lolling in a huge arm-chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a curiously twisted tobacco pipe, formed of genuine ecume de mer, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel — his head cocked on one side, and the whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he related the following story. THE SPECTEE BRIDEGEOOM A TRAVELLER'S TALE * He that supper for is dight, He lyes full cold, I trow, this night! Yestreen to chamber I him led, This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. Sib Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel. N the summit of one of the heights of the Oden- wald, a wild and romantic tract of Upper Ger- many, that lies not far from the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years since, the Castle of the Baron Yon Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech trees and dark firs ; above which, however, its old watch- tower may still be seen, struggling, like the former pos- sessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look down upon the neighboring country. The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellenbogen,t and inherited the relics of the prop- * The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will per- ceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place at Paris. f i. e., Cat's-Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very pow- erful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compli- ment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her fine arm. 215 £IQ THE SKETCH-BOOK. erty, and all the pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors had much im- paired the family possessions, yet the baron still en- deavored to keep up some show of former state. The times were peaceable, and the German nobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles' nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient residences in the valleys : still the baron remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing, with hereditary inveteracy, all the old family feuds ; so that he was on ill terms with some of his near- est neighbors, on account of disputes that had happened between their great-great-grandfathers. The baron had but one child, a daughter ; but nature, ♦vhen she grants but one child, always compensates by making it a prodigy ; and so it was with the daughter of the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins, assured her father that she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany ; and who should know better than they ? She had, moreover, been brought up with great care un- der the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some years of their early life at one of the little German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of knowledge necessary to the education of a fine lady. Under their instructions she became a miracle of accom- plishments. By the time she was eighteen, she could embroider to admiration, and had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry, with such strength of expres- THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 217 4ion in their countenances, that they looked like so many souls in purgatory. She could read without great difficulty, and had spelled her way through several church legends, and almost all the chiyalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made considerable pro- ficiency in writing ; could sign her own name without missing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could read it without spectacles. She excelled in making little ele- gant good-for-nothing lady-like nicknacks of all kinds; was versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day; played a number of airs on the harp and guitar ; and knew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieders by heart. Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely suffered out of their sight; never went beyond the domains of the castle, unless well attended, or rather well watched ; had continual lectures read to her about strict decorum and implicit obedience ; and, as to the men — pah ! — she was taught to hold them at such a distance, and in such absolute distrust, that, unless properly authorized, she would not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world — no, not if he were even dying at her feet. The good effects of this system were wonderfully ap- 218 THBf SKETCH-BOOK parent. The young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. While others were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable to be plucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection of those immaculate spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that though all the other young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen. But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be provided with children, his household was by no means a small one ; for Providence had enriched him with abundance of poor relations. They, one and all, possessed the affectionate disposition common to humble relatives ; were wonderfully attached to the baron, and took every possible occasion to come in swarms and en- liven the castle. All family festivals were commemorated by these good people at the baron's expense ; and when they were filled with good cheer, they would declare that there was nothing on earth so delightful as these family meetings, these jubilees of the heart. The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest man in the little world about him. He loved to tell long stories about the dark old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down from the walls around, and THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 219 he found no listeners equal to those that fed at his ex- pense. He was much given to the marvellous, and a firm believer in all those supernatural tales with which every mountain and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of his guests exceeded even his own : they listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be astonished, even though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Yon Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his little territory, and happy, above all things, in the persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age. At the time of which my story treats, there was a great family gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost importance : it was to receive the destined bridegroom of the baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the marriage of their children. The preliminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed without seeing each other ; and the time was appointed for the marriage ceremony. The young Count Yon Al- tenburg had been recalled from the army for the pur- pose, and was actually on his way to the baron's to re- ceive his bride. Missives had even been received from him, from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally de- tained, mentioning the day and hour when he might be expected to arrive. The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him 220 THE SKETCH-BOOK, a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended her toilet, and quarrelled the whole morning about every article of her dress. The young lady had taken advan- tage of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste ; and fortunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could desire ; and the flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of her charms. The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts were continually hovering around her ; for maiden aunts are apt to take great inter- est in affairs of this nature. They were giving her a world of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive the expected lover. The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in truth, nothing exactly to do ; but he was naturally a fuming bustling little man, and could not remain pas- sive when all the world was in a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite anxiety ; he continually called the servants from their work to exhort them to be diligent; and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day. In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed ; the forests had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen ; the kitchen was crowded with good cheer; the cellars had THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 221 yielded up whole oceans of Bkein-wein and Ferne-wein; and even the great Heidelburg tun had been laid under contribution. Every thing was ready to receive the dis- tinguished guest with Saus und Brans in the true spirit of German hospitality— but the guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that had poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits oi the mountains. The baron mounted the highest tower, and strained his eyes in hope of catching a distant sight of the count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them ; the sound of horns came floating from the valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A number of horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing along the road ; but when they had nearly reached the foot of the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction. The last ray of sunshine departed — the bats began to flit by in the twilight — the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view ; and nothing appeared stirring in it but now and then a peasant lagging homeward from his labor. While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a different part of the Odenwald. The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pur- suing his route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a man travels toward matrimony when his friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his hands, 222 THE SKETCHBOOK. and a bride is waiting for him, as certainly as a dinner at the end of his journey. He had encountered at Wurtz- burg, a youthful companion in arms, with whom he had seen some service on the frontiers ; Herman Yon Star- kenfaust, one of the stoutest hands, and worthiest hearts, of German chivalry, who was now returning from the army. His father's castle was not far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, although an hereditary feud rendered the families hostile, and strangers to each other. In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions. As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed to perform the rest of their journey together ; and, that they might do it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at a nearly hour, the count having given di- rections for his retinue to follow and overtake him. They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military scenes and adventures ; but the count was apt to be a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride, and the felicity that awaited him. In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly-wooded passes. It is well known that the forests of Germany have always been as much infested THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 223 by robbers as its castles by spectres ; and, at this time, the former were particularly numerous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering about the country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cava- liers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst of the forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered, when the count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the count had received a mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring convent, who was famous for his skill in administering to both soul and body; but half of his skill was superfluous ; the moments of the unfor- tunate count were numbered. "With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause of his not keeping his appointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that his mission should be speedily and courteously executed. "Unless this is done," said he, " I shall not sleep quietly in my grave ! " He re- peated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so impressive, admitted no hesi- tation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him to calm- ness ; promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed 224 THE SKETCH-BOOK. it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium— raved about his bride — his engagements — his plighted word; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the cas- tle of Landshort ; and expired in the fancied act of vault- ing into the saddle. Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the untimely fate of his comrade ; and then pondered on the awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head perplexed ; for he was to pre- sent himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there were certain whisperings of curios- ity in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of Katz- enellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his character that made him fond of all singular adventure. Previous to his departure he made all due arrange- ments with the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illus- trious relatives ; and the mourning retinue of the count took charge of his remains. It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more for their dinner; and to the worthy little baron, whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower. THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 225 Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats were already over- done ; the cook in an agony ; and the whole house- hold had the look of a garrison that had been reduced by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were seated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder from the walls. The baron hastened to receive his future son-in-law. The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The baron was a little mortified that he should have come in this simple, solitary style. His dig- nity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for the important occasion, and the important family with which he was to be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the conclusion, that it must have been youthful impatience which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants. 15 226 THE SKETCH-BOOK. " 1 am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon yon thus unseasonably " Here the baron interrupted him with a world of com- pliments and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy and eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the time the baron had come to a pause, they had reached the inner court of the castle ; and the stran- ger was again about to speak, when he was once more interrupted by the appearance of the female part of the family, leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear ; she made an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly raised ; gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger ; and was cast again to the ground. The words died away ; but there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek that showed her glance had not been unsatis- factory. It was impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for parley. The baron was peremptory, and defer- red all particular conversation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted banquet. THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 227 It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the tro- phies which they had gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked corslets, splintered jousting spears, and tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare ; the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned horribly among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched immediately over the head of the youthful bridegroom. The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration of his bride. He con- versed in a low tone that could not be overheard— for the language of love is never loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his manner, that appeared to have a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her color came and went, as she lis- tened with deep attention. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned away, she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic counte- nance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident that the young couple were completely enam- ored. The aunts, who were deeply versed in the myster- ies of the heart, declared that they had fallen in love with each other at first sight. The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the 228 THE SKETCH-BOOK. guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light purses and mountain air. The baron told his best and longest stories, and never had he told them so well, or with such great effect. If there was any thing marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment ; and if any thing facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one ; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excel- lent Hockheimer ; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were said by poorer and keener wits, that would not bear repeating, except on similar occasions ; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that almost convulsed them with suppressed laughter ; and a song or two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad-faced cousin of the baron, that absolutely made the maiden aunts hold up their fans. Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His counte- nance assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced ; and, strange as it may appear, even the baron's jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and restless wandering of the eye that be- spoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the bride became more and more earnest and mysteri- ous. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair seren* THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 229 ity of her brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame. All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom ; their spirits were infected ; whispers and glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew less and less frequent ; there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One dismal story pro- duced another still more dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the his- tory of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair Leonora ; a dreadful story, which has since been put into excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the world. The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. The baron was perfectly thunder-struck. "What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why, every thing was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was ready for him if he wished to retire." The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteri* 230 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ously ; " I must lay my head in a different chamber to- night ! " There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it was uttered, that made the baron's heart mis- give him ; but he rallied his forces, and repeated his hos- pitable entreaties. The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every offer; and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified — the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye. The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and snorting with impatience. — When they had reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral. "Now that we are alone," said he, "I will impart to you the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indis- pensable engagement — " " Why," said the baron, " cannot you send some one in your place ? " " It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person —I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral — " "Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 231 " No ! no ! " replied the stranger, with tenfold solemni- ty, " my engagement is with no bride — the worms ! the worms expect me ! I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers — my body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be buried — the grave is waiting for me — I must keep my appointment ! " He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw- bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night blast. The baron returned to the hall in the utmost conster- nation, and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the opinion of some, that this might be the wild huntsman, famous in German legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings, with which the good people of Germany have been so grievously harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to sug- gest that it might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him the indignation of the whole com- pany, and especially of the baron, who looked upon him as little better than an infidel ; so that he was fain to ab- jure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers. But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were completely put to an end by the arrival, next 232 THE SKETCH-BOOK. day, of regular missives, confirming the intelligence oi the young count's murder, and his interment in Wurtz- burg cathedral. The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could not think of aban- doning him in his distress. They wandered about the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles of so good a man ; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had even embraced him — and such a husband ! if the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what must have been the living man. She filled the house with lamentations. On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Ger- many, had just been recounting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote, and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as tney trembled on the leaves of an aspen-tree before the lattice. The castle-clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden. She rose THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 233 hastily from her bed, and stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. Heaven and earth ! she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom! A loud shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the music, and had followed her silently to the window, fell into her arms. When she looked again, the spectre had disappeared. Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady, there was something, even in the spectre of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was still the semblance of manly beauty; and though the shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared she would never sleep in that chamber again ; the niece, for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that she would sleep in no other in the castle : the conse- quence was, that she had to sleep in it alone : but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she should be denied the only melan- choly pleasure left her on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. How long the good old lady would have observed this promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the 234 THE SKETCH-BOOK. marvellous, and there is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story ; it is, however, still quoted in the neighborhood, as a memorable instance of female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week ; when she was suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by in- telligence brought to the breakfast table one morning that the young lady was not to be found. Her room was empty — the bed had not been slept in — the window was open, and the bird had flown ! The astonishment and concern with which the intelli- gence was received, can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. Even the poor rela- tions paused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher ; when the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, "The goblin ! the goblin ! she's carried away by the goblin." In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, and concluded that the spectre must have car- ried off his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the direful probability; for events of the kind are extremely common in Germany, as many well authenticated histories bear witness. What a lamentable situation was that of the poor THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 235 baron! What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a member of the great family of Katzen- ellenbogen! His only daughter had either been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have some wood-de- mon for a son-in-law, and, perchance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse, and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on a pal- frey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the baron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daugh- ter, and her companion — the Spectre Bridegroom ! The baron was astounded. He looked at his daughter, then at the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appearance since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye.. The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Stark- 236 THE SKETCH-BOOK. enfaust. He related his adventure with the young count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride had completely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth — had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's window — had wooed — had won — had borne away in triumph — and, in a word, had wedded the fair. Under any other circumstances the baron would have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal author- ity, and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but he loved his daughter ; he had lamented her as lost ; he rejoiced to find her still alive ; and, though her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed upon him of his being a dead man ; but several old friends present, who had served in the wars, assured him that every stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial privilege, having lately served as a \ rooper. - THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 237 Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with loving kindness ; he was so gallant, so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict seclusion, and passive obedience should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not having the windows grated. One of them was partic- ularly mortified at having her marvellous story marred, and that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantial flesh and blood — and so the story ends. WESTMINSTEE ABBEY. When I behold, with deep astonishment, To famous Westminster how there resorte Living in brasse or stoney monument, The princes and the worthies of all sorte ; Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, And looke upon offenselesse majesty, Naked of pomp or earthly domination ? And how a play-game of a painted stone Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, Whome all the world which late they stood upon Could not content or quench their appetites. Life is a frost of cold f elicitie, And death the thaw of all our vanitie. Chkistolero's Epigrams, by T. B. 1598„ |N one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and, as I passed its threshold, seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 239 I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain something of the quiet and seclusion of for- mer days. The gray walls are discolored by damps, and crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and ob- scured the death's heads, 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 touching and pleasing in its very decay. The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the 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 blue sky or a passing cloud ; and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure heaven. As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this 240 THE SKETCH-BOOK. mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes en- deavoring 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, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots ; the epitaphs were entirely effaced; the names alone re- mained, having no doubt been renewed in later times. (Vitalis Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176.) I remained some little while, musing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, tell- ing no tale but that such beings had been, and had per- ished; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint records will be obliterated, and the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these grave-stones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I pur- sued 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 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 241 clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to such an amazing height ; and man wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. The spacious- ness 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 sen- sible 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 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 16 242 THE SKETCH-BOOK. abbey. The monuments 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, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwith- standing the simplicity of these memorials, I have al- ways observed that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of friends and companions ; for indeed there is something of companionship between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of history, which is continually growing faint and obscure : but the intercourse be- tween the author and his fellow-men is ever new, ac- tive, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with dis- tant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cher- ish 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 wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 243 From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn I met with some illustrious name ; or the cognizance of some powerful house re- nowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effi- gies ; some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together : warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle ; prelates with crosiers and mitres ; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were tread- ing a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been suddenly transmuted into stone. I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm ; the hands were pressed together in supplica- tion upon the breast : the face was almost covered by the morion ; the legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader ; of one of those military enthusiasts, who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits form the connecting link between fact and fic- tion; between the history and the fairy tale. There is something extremely picturesque in the tombs of these 244 THE SKETCH-BOOK. adventurers, decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are generally found; and in considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic 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 vision- ary. 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 over -wrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound on modern monuments. I have been struck, also, with the superi- ority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of saying things sim- ply, and yet saying them proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and honorable lineage, than one which affirms, of a noble house, that " all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument which is among the most renowned achieve- WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 245 ments of modern art ; but which to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is repre- sented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from its 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 burst- ing 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 by 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. While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence from without occasionally reaches the ear ; — the rumbling of the passing equipage ; the murmur of the multitude ; or perhaps the light laugh of pleas- ure. The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around : and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating against the very walls of the sepulchre. I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, 246 THE SKETCH-BOOK. and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wear- ing away ; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent ; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers ; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to ad- mit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of ar- chitecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured de- tail. The very walls are wrought into universal orna- ment, incrusted with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonder ful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the 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 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 247 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 surrounded by a superbly-wrought brazen railing. There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this strange mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems of living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once borne before them, my imagina- tion conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land ; glittering with the splendor of jewelled rank and military array ; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring mul- titude. All had passed away ; the silence of death had settled again upon the place, interrupted only by the casual chirping of birds, which had found their way into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and pendants — sure signs of solitariness and desertion. When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were those of men scattered far and wide about the world, some tossing upon distant seas ; some under arms in distant lands ; some mingling in the busy intrigues of 248 THE SKETCHBOOK. courts and cabinets ; all seeking to deserve one more dis- tinction in this mansion of shadowy honors : the melan- choly reward of a monument. Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance of the equality of the grave ; which brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem — the this- tle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the cheq- uered and disastrous story of poor Mary. The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir ; these paused for a time, and WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 249 all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscu- rity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place : For in the silent grave no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, For nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust, and an endless darkness. Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled in- tensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepul- chre vocal ! — And now they rise in triumph and acclama- tion, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. — And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrill- ing thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the senses are 250 THE SKETCH-BOOK. overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening were gradually thickening round me ; the monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I de- scended the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres of various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs ; where warriors, prelates, courtiers and statesmen, lie mouldering in their "beds of darkness." Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical arti- fice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power ; here it was literally but a step from the throne WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 251 to the sepulchre. Would not one think that these incon- gruous mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness ? — to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive ; how soon that crown which encir- cles its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads them to sport with awful and hallowed things ; and there are base minds, which delight to revenge on the illus- trious dead the abject homage and grovelling servility which they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his remains de- spoiled of their funereal ornaments ; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some proof how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered ; some mutilated; some covered with ribaldry and insult— all more or less outraged and dishonored ! The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the painted windows in the high vaults above me ; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; the marble figures of the monuments as- 252 THE SKETCH-BOOK. sumed strange shapes in the uncertain light ; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, trav- ersing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the certainty of oblivion ! It is, indeed, the empire of death ; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever silently turning over his pages ; we are too much engrossed by the story of the present, to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection ; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. "Oul WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 253 fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, "find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be bur- ied in our survivors." History fades into fable ; fact be- comes clouded with doubt and controversy ; the inscrip- tion moulders from the tablet ; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand ; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust ? What is the security of a tomb, or the per- petuity of an embalmment? The remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. " The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." * What then is to insure this pile which now towers above me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet ; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower — when the gairish sun- beam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the fox- glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from record and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.f * Sir T. Brown. f For notes on Westminster Abbey, see Appendix. CHRISTMAS. But is old, old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair of hit good, gray, old head and beard left ? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of him. Hue and Cry after Christmas. A man might then behold At Christmas, in each hall Good fires to curb the cold, And meat for great and small. The neighbors were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true, The poor from the gates were not chidden When this old cap was new. Old Song. OTHING in England exercises a more delight- ful spell over my imagination, than the linger- ings of the holiday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that pcets had painted it; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous than at present. I regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, 254 CHRISTMAS. 255 being gradually worn away by time, but still more oblit- erated by modern fashion. They resemble those pic- turesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilap- idated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the addi- tions and alterations of later days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which it has derived so many of its themes— as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping together their tottering re- mains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and in- spiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings, than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony. 256 TEE SKETCB-BOOK. It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the an- nouncement of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connec- tions, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose ; of calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to as- semble about the paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementos of childhood. There is- something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy mag- nificence, all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreari- ness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy CRBI8TMAS. 257 days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe onr wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleas- ure of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concen- trated ; our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart ; and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving-kind- ness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms ; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity. The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial sum- mer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each countenance in a kindlier welcome. Where does the hon- est face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile — where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the case- ment, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which we look round upon the comforta- ble chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity ? The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit throughout every class of society, have always been fond 17 258 m E SKETCH-BOOK. of those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life ; and they were, in former days, particularly observant of the religious and social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete aban- donment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cot- tage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly — the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes and oft- told Christmas tales. One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has completely taken off the sharp touch- ings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and pol- ished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, CHRISTMAS. 259 are become matters of speculation and dispute among commentators.' They nourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heart- ily and vigorously; times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream ; and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlight- ened and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest fire- side delights. The traditionary customs of golden- hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial cas- tles and stately manor-houses in which they were cele- brated. They comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay drawing- rooms of the modern villa. Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive hon- ors, Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is gratifying to see that home feeling com- pletely aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The preparations making on every side for the social board that is again to unite friends and 260 THE SKETCHBOOK. kindred ; the presents of good cheer passing and repass- ing, those tokens of regard, and quickeners of kind feel- ings ; the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness ; all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the Waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid- watches of a winter night with the effect of per- fect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour, "when deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and, con- necting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial choir, an- nouncing peace and good- will to mankind. How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns every thing to melody and beauty ! The very crowing of the cock, heard some- times in the profound repose of the country, " telling the night watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the common people to announce the approach of this sacred festival. " Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long ; And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the CHRISTMAS. 261 spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can remain insensible ? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling — the season for kind- ling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of* home-dwelling joys, reani- mates the drooping spirit; as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though for me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy looks of those around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven ; and every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever- shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas. THE STAGE COACH Omne bene Sine poena Tempus est ludendi. Venit hora Absque mora Libros deponendi. Old Holiday School Song. N the preceding paper I have made some gen= eral observations on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country ; in perusing which I would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only for amusement. In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of de- licacies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears about THE STAGE COACH. 263 the coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked boys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit which I have observed in the children of this country. They were returning home for the holi- days in high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of anticipations of the meeting with the family and household, down to the very cat and dog ; and of the joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents with which their pockets were crammed ; but the meet- ing to which they seemed to look forward with the great- est impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more vir- tues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot! how he could run! and then such leaps as he would take— there was not a hedge in the whole coun- try that he could not clear. They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and im- portance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens 264 THE SKETCH-BOOK. stuck in the button-hole of his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so during this season, having so many com- missions to execute in consequence of the great inter- change of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untravelled readers, to have a sketch that may serve as a general representation of this very numerous and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to them- selves, and prevalent throughout the fraternity ; so that, wherever an English stage coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery. He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of the skin ; he is swelled into jolly di- mensions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad - brimmed, low-crowned hat; a huge roll of colored handkerchiei about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom; and has in summer time a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole ; the present, most prob- ably, of some enamored country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color, striped, and his small clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half way up his legs. All this costume is maintained with much precision; THE STAGE COACH. 265 he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent ma- terials ; and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which is almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consid- eration along the road; has frequent conferences with the village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and dependence ; and he seems to have a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives where the horses are to be changed he throws down the reins with some- thing of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler ; his duty being merely to drive from one stage to another. When off the box, his hands are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, and he rolls about the inn yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an ad- miring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle ; treasure up his cant phrases ; echo his opinions about horses and other topics of jockey lore ; and, above all, endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey. 266 THE SKETCH-BOOK Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance throughout the jour- ney. A stage coach, however, carries animation always with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends ; some with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the group that accompanies them. In the mean time, the coachman has a world of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public house ; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to some half-blush- ing, half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the village, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every side of fresh country faces and bloom- ing giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations there for the important purpose of seeing company pass ; but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle, whirls by ; the cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool ; and the sooty spectre, in THE STAGE COACH. 267 brown paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy. Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages ; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright-red berries, began to appear at the windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas preparations : — " Now capons and hens, beside turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton — must all die — for in twelve days a multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the contention of holly and ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler ; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation, by 268 THE SKETCH-BOOK. a shout from my little travelling companions. They had been looking out of the coach windows for the last few miles, recognizing every tree and cottage as they ap- proached home, and now there was a general burst of joy — " There's John ! and there's old Carlo ! and there's Bantam ! " cried the happy little rogues, clapping their hands. At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant in livery, waiting for them ; he was accompanied by a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Ban- tam, a little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the road- side, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited him. I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer ; who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of interest ; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first. Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog bounding and barking before him, and the others holding John's hands; both talking at once, and overpowering him with questions about home, and with school anec- dotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated; for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had THE STAGE COACH. 269 neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the horses, and on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, troop- ing along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight. In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- mined to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a rous- ing kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of con- venience, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious dimen- sions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly pol- ished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon, were sus- pended from the ceiling ; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef, and other hearty viands upon it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two 270 THE SKETCH-BOOK. high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim house- maids were hurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of a fresh, bustling landlady ; but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene completely realized Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of mid- winter : Now trees their leafy hats do bare To reverence Winter's silver hair ; A handsome hostess, merry host, A pot of ale now and a toast, Tobacco and a good coal fire, Are things this season doth require.* I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to the door. A young gentleman stept out, and by the light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly good-humored young fellow, with whom I had once tra- velled on the continent. Our meeting was extremely cor- dial, for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn was impossible ; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was merely * Pooi Robin's Almanac, 1684, THE STAGE COACH 271 making a tour of observation, lie insisted that I should give him a day or two at his father's country seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay at a few miles distance. " It is better than eating a soli- tary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and I can assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old- fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, and I must confess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, with his invitation : the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments I was on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges. CHEISTMAS EVE. Saint Francis and Saint Benedight Blesse this house from wicked wight ; From the night-mare and the goblin, That is hight good fellow Robin ; Keep it from all evil spirits, Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets: From curfew time To the next prime. Cartwright. T was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold ; our chaise whirled rapidly over the fro- zen ground ; the postboy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop. "He knows where he is going," said my com- panion, laughing, "and is eager to arrive in time for some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides himself upon keeping up something of old English hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely meet with nowadays in its purity, the old English country gentleman; for our men of fortune spend so much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, that the 272 CHRISTMAS EVE. 273 strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished away. My father, however, from early years, took honest Peacham* for his text-book, instead of Chesterfield ; he determined in his own mind, that there was no condition more truly honorable and enviable than that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and therefore passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural games and holiday observances, and is deeply read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed his favorite range of reading is among the authors who flourished at least two centuries since ; who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true Englishmen than any of their successors. He even re^ grets sometimes that he had not been born a few centu. ries earlier, when England was itself, and had its peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at some distance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, without any rival gentry near him, he has that most en- viable of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging the bent of his own humor without molesta- tion. Being representative of the oldest family in the neighborhood, and a great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked up to, and, in general, is known simply by the appellation of ' The Squire ;' a title which has been accorded to the head of the family since * Peacham's Complete Gentleman, 1623. 18 274 THE SKETCHBOOK. time immemorial. I think it best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, to prepare you for any ec- centricities that might otherwise appear absurd." We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns that supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir-trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which re- sounded through the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant barking of dogs, with which the mansion- house seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a little primitive dame, dressed very much in the antique taste, with a neat ker- chief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came courtesying forth, with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the house keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall ; they could not do without him, as he was the best hand at a song and story in the household. My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through the park to the hall, which was at no great dis- tance, while the chaise should follow on. Our road CHRISTMAS EVE. 275 wound through a noble avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon glittered, as she rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn be- yond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty crystal; and at a distance might be seen a thin transparent vapor, stealing up from the low grounds and threatening gradually to shroud the landscape. My companion looked around him with transport :— "How often," said he, "have I scampered up this avenue, on returning home on school vacations ! How often have I played under these trees when a boy ! I feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who have cherished us in childhood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and having us around him on family festivals. He used to direct and superintend our games with the strictness that some par- ents do the studies of their children. He was very par- ticular that we should play the old English games ac- cording to their original form ; and consulted old books for precedent and authority for every 'merrie disport; 5 yet I assure you there never was pedantry so delightful. It was the policy of the good old gentleman to make his children feel that home was the happiest place in the world; and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent could bestow." We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of all sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp and 276 THE SKETCH-BOOK hound, and curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ring of the porter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, open-mouthed, across the lawn. " The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me ! " uried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful animals. We had now come in full view of the old family man- sion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold moonshine. It was an irregular building, of some magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of different periods. One wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the foliage of which the small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French taste of Charles the Second's time, having been repaired and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his ances- tors, who returned with that monarch at the Restoration. The grounds about the house were laid out in the old formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubber- ies, raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, orna- mented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its origina] CHRISTMAS BVR 277 state. He admired this fashion in gardening ; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted imitation of nature in modern gardening had sprung up with modern repub- lican notions, but did not suit a monarchical govern- ment; it smacked of the levelling system — I could not help smiling at this introduction of politics into garden- ing, though I expressed some apprehension that I should find the old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. — Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the only instance in which he had ever heard his father meddle with politics ; and he believed that he had got this no- tion from a member of parliament who once passed a few weeks with him. The squire was glad of any argument to defend his clipped yew-trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally attacked by modern land- scape gardeners. As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must pro- ceed from the servants' hall, where a great deal of rev- elry was permitted, and even encouraged by the squire, throughout the twelve days of Christmas, provided every thing was done conformably to ancient usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple, and snap dragon: the Yule clog and Christmas candle were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe, with its white 278 THE SKETCHBOOK. berries, hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids.* So intent were the servants upon their sports that we had to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On our arrival being announced, the squire came out to receive us, accompanied by his two other sons ; one a young officer in the army, home on leave of ab- sence ; the other an Oxonian, just from the university. The squire was a fine, healthy-looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an open florid coun- tenance ; in which the physiognomist, with the advan- tage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might dis- cover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. The family meeting was warm and affectionate : as the evening was far advanced, the squire would not permit us to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, which was assembled in a large old- fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches of a numerous family connection, where there were the usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming coun- try cousins, half -fledged striplings, and bright -eyed boarding-school hoydens. They were variously occupied ; some at a round game of cards ; others conversing around * The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at Christ- mas ; and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the privilege ceases. CHRISTMAS EVE. 279 the fireplace ; at one end of the hall was a group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more ten- der and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game ; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a happy day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night. While the mutual greetings were going on between young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. I have called it a hall, for so it had cer- tainly been in old times, and the squire had evidently en- deavored to restore it to something of its primitive state. Over the heavy projecting fireplace was suspended a pic- ture of a warrior in armor, standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were in- serted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the cor- ners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other sporting implements. The furniture was of the cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some articles of modern convenience had been added, and the oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole pre- sented an odd mixture of parlor and hall. The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelm- ing fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and 280 THE SKETCH-BOOK. sending forth a vast volume of light and heat : this I understood was the Yule clog, which the squire was par- ticular in having brought in and illumined on a Christ- mas eve, according to ancient custom.* It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in his hereditary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly up in his master's face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, confident of kindness * The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Some- times it was accompanied by Christmas candles ; but in the cottages the only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule clog was to burn all night ; if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck. Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : — Come, bring with a noise, My merrie, merrie boyes, The Christmas log to the firing ; While my good dame, she Bids ye ail be free, And drink to your hearts desiring. The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in Eng- land, particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions con- nected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand remaining from the Yule clog is carefully put away to light the next year's Christmas fire. CHRISTMAS EVE. 281 and protection. There is an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before I found myself as much at home as if I had been one of the family. Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, and around which were several family portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly-polished beaufet among the family plate. The table was abundantly spread with substantial fare ; but the squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk, with rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the feast; and finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed of my pre- dilection, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance. The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Brace- bridge always addressed with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He was a tight brisk little man, with the air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped 282 THE SKETCB-BOOK. like the bill of a parrot ; his face slightly pitted with the small-pox, with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frost- bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery of ex- pression that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and innuen- does with the ladies, and making infinite merriment by harping upon old themes ; which, unfortunately, my ig- norance of the family chronicles did not permit me to en- joy. It seemed to be his great delight during supper to keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of the company, who laughed at every thing he said or did, and at every turn of his countenance ; I could not wonder at it, for he must have been a miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman of his hand, with the as- sistance of a burnt cork and pocket-handkerchief ; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature, that the young folks were ready to die with laughing. I was let briefly into his history by Frank Brace- bridge. He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, which, by careful management, was sufficient for all his wants. He revolved through the family system like a vagrant comet in its orbit; sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes another quite remote ; as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive connections CHRISTMAS EVE. 283 and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping buoyant disposition, always enjoying the present mo- ment ; and his frequent change of scene and company prevented his acquiring those rusty unaccommodating habits, with which old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and intermarriages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a great favorite with the old folks ; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually considered rather a young fellow, and he was master of the revels among the children ; so that there was not a more popular being in the sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Brace- bridge. Of late years, he had resided almost entirely with the squire, to whom he had become a factotum, and whom he particularly delighted by jumping with his humor in respect to old times, and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than Master Simon was called on for a good old Christmas song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a fal- setto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty. 284 THE SKETCH-BOOK. Now Christmas is come, Let us beat up the drum, And call all our neighbors together, And when they appear, Let us make them such cheer, As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had been strumming all the evening, and to all ap- pearance comforting himself with some of the squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and, though ostensibly a resident of the village, was oftener to be found in the squire's kitchen than his own home, the old gentleman being fond of the sound of " harp in hall." The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one ; some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire himself figured down several couple with a partner, with whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connecting link between the old times and the new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school ; but he had unluckily assorted himself with a little romp- ing girl from boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated all CHRISTMAS EVE. 285 his sober attempts at elegance :— such are the ill-as- sorted matches to which antique gentlemen are unfor- tunately prone ! The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thou- sand little knaveries with impunity : he was full of prac- tical jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins ; yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a uni- versal favorite among the women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the young officer and a ward of the squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of the evening, I suspected there was a little kindness grow- ing up between them ; and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and handsome, and, like most young British officers of late years, had picked up various small accom- plishments on the continent — he could talk French and Italian— draw landscapes, sing very tolerably— dance di- vinely ; but, above all, he had been wounded at Water- loo : — w lxat girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and per- fection ! The moment the dance was over, he caught up a gui- tar, and, lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the little French air of the Troubadour. The squire, however, exclaimed against having any thing on 286 THE SKETCH-BOOK. " Christmas eve but good old English; upon which the young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as if in an effort of memory, struck into another strain, and, with a charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's " Mght-Piece to Julia." Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee, And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of tire, befriend thee. No Will o' the Wisp mislight thee ; Nor snake nor slow- worm bite thee ; But on, on thy way, Not making a stay, Since ghost there is none to affright thee. Then let not the dark thee cumber ; What though the moon does slumber, The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me, And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, My soul I'll pour into thee. The song might or might not have been intended in compliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called; she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such application, for she never looked at the singer, CHRISTMAS EVE. 287 but kept her eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was suf- fused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance ; indeed, so great was her indifference, that she amused herself with plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by the time the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. The party now broke up for the night with the kind- hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall, on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the Yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not been the season when " no spirit dares stir abroad," t should have been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels about the hearth. My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponderous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days of the giants. The room was panelled with cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and gro- tesque faces were strangely intermingled ; and a row of black-looking portraits stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich, though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow win- dow. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed to break forth in the air just below the window. I listened, and found it proceeded from a band, which I concluded to be the waits from some neighboring village. 288 THE SKETCH-BOOK. They went round the house, playing under the windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them more distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the upper part of the case- ment, partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed to accord with the quiet and moon- light. I listened and listened — they became more and more tender and remote, and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, and I fell asleep. CHRISTMAS DAY. Dark and dull night, flie hence away, And give the honor to this day That sees December turn'd to May. ******* Why does the chilling winter's morne Smile like a field beset with corn? Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, Thus on the sudden ?— Come and see The cause why things thus fragrant be. Herrick. HEN I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events of the preceding evening had rwm keen a dream, and nothing but the identity ^fSfancient chamber convinced me of their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering outside of the door, and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of which was- Rejoice, our Saviour he was born On Christmas day in the morning. I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door sud- denly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a 290 THE SKETCH-BOOK boy and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and love* ly as seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house > and singing at every chamber door ; but my sudden ap- pearance frightened them into mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment playing on their lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance from under their eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the gal- lery, I heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. Every thing conspired to produce kind and happy feel- ings in this strong -hold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would have been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a track of park beyond, with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat ham- let, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging over it ; and a church with its dark spire in strong relief against the clear, cold sky. The house was surrounded with evergreens, according to the English custom, which would have given almost an appearance of summer ; but the morning was extremely frosty ; the light vapor of the preceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A robin, perched upon the top of a mountain ash that hung its clusters of red berries just before my window, was CHRISTMAS DAT. 291 basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few queru- lous notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee, on the terrace walk below. I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant ap- peared to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found the principal part of the family already assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer-books; the servants were seated on benches below. The old gentleman read pray- ers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon acted as clerk, and made the responses ; and I must do him the justice to say that he acquitted himself with great gravity and decorum. The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favorite author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted to an old church melody by Master Simon. As there were several good voices among the household, the effect was extremely pleasing ; but I was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, and sudden sally of grateful feel- ing, with which the worthy squire delivered one stanza ; his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of all the bounds of time and tune : " 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltlesse mirth, 292 THE SKETCH-BOOK. And giv'st me Wassaile bowles to drink Spiced to the brink : Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand That soiles my land : And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, Twice ten for one." I afterwards understood that early morning service was read on every Sunday and saints' day throughout the year, either by Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of the family. It was once almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is falling into neg- lect; for the dullest observer must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those households, where the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every tem- per for the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony. Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denomi- nated true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among the causes of modern effem- inacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness ; and though he admitted them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave dis- play of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Bracebridge and Master Simon, or, Mr. Simon, as he was called by every body but the squire. We were escorted CHRISTMAS DAY. 293 by a number of gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed loungers about the establishment ; from the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-hound ; the last of which was of a race that had been in the family time out of mind ; they were all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to Master Si- mon's button-hole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in his hand. The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not but feel the force of the squire's idea, that the formal terraces, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew- trees, carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks about the place, and I was making some remarks upon what I termed a flock of them, that were basking under a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phrase- ology by Master Simon, who told me that, according to the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. "In the same way," added he, with a slight air of pedantry, "we say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." He went on to inform me that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird "both un- derstanding and glory ; for, being praised, he will pres- ently set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at 294 THE SKETCH-BOOK the fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in corners, till his tail come again as it was." I could not help smiling at this display of small erudi- tion on so whimsical a subject ; but I found that the pea- cocks were birds of some consequence at the hall; for Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were great favorites with his father, who was extremely careful to keep up the breed ; partly because they belonged to chiv- alry, and were in great request at the stately banquets of the olden time ; and partly because they had a pomp and magnificence about them, highly becoming an old family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of greater state and dignity than a peacock perched upon an antique stone balustrade. Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who were to perform some music of his selection. There was something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of the little man ; and I confess I had been somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from au- thors who certainly were not in the range of every-day reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined te> some half a dozen old authors, which the squire had put into his hands, and which he read over and over, whenever he had a studious fit ; as he sometimes had on a rainy day, CHRISTMAS DAY. 295 or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Husbandry ; Markham's Country Contentments ; the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight; Izaac Walton's Angler, and two or three more such ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard authorities ; and, like all men who know but a few books, he looked up to them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among the choice spirits of the last century. His practical application of scraps of literature, however, had caused him to be looked upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the neighbor- hood. While we were talking we heard the distant tolling of the village bell, and I was told that the squire was a lit- tle particular in having his household at church on a Christmas morning ; considering it a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser observed, "At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small." "If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Bracebridge, "I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and established a musical club 296 THE SKETCH-BOOK. for their improvement ; he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to the directions of Jeryaise Markham, in his Country Content- ments ; for the bass he has sought out all the ' deep, sol- emn mouths,' and for the tenor the * loud-ringing mouths,' among the country bumpkins ; and for ' sweet mouths,' he has culled with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the neighborhood ; though these last, he af- firms, are the most difficult to keep in tune ; your pretty female singer being exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to accident." As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which was a very old building of gray stone, and stood near a village, about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the church. The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew-tree, that had been trained against its walls, through the dense foliage of which, apertures had been formed to admit light into the small antique lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us. I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide, and stood off from each ear ; so that his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, like CHRISTMAS DAT. 297 a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets that would have held the church Bible and prayer-book: and his small legs seemed still smaller, from being planted in large shoes, decorated with enormous buckles. I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had re- ceived this living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was a complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work printed in the Koman char- acter. The editions of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde were his delight; and he was indefatigable in his re- searches after such old English writers as have fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations into the festive rites and holiday customs of former times ; and had been as zeal- ous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon companion ; but it was merely with that plodding spirit with which men of adust temperament follow up any track of study, merely because it is denominated learning ; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old volumes so intensely, that they seemed to have been reflected in his countenance ; which, if the face be indeed an index of the mind, might be compared to a title-page of black-letter. On reaching the church porch, we found the parsc/ii 298 THE SKETCH-BOOK rebuking the gray-headed sexton for having used mis- tletoe among the greens with which the church was deco- rated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremo- nies ; and though it might be innocently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was he on this point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, before the parson would consent to enter upon the service of the day, The interior of the church was venerable but simple ; on the walls were several mural monuments of the Brace- bridges, and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior in ar- mor, with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it was one of the family who had signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the same whose picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and repeated the responses very audibly ; evincing that kind of ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentle- man of the old school, and a man of old family connec- tions. I observed too that he turned over the leaves of a folio prayer-book with something of a flourish ; possibly to show off an enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers, and which had the look of a family relic. But CHRISTMAS DAT. 299 he was evidently most solicitous about the musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis. The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among which I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point ; and there was another, a short pursy man, stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head, like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint; but the gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks ; and as several had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country tombstones. The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time by travelling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded 300 THE SKETCH-BOOK. great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset; the musicians became flurried; Master Si- mon was in a fever; every thing went on lamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning " Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting company : all became discord and confusion ; each shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could, excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose, who happened to stand a little apart, and, being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars, duration. The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of ob- serving it not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing ; supporting the correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of saints and fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one present seemed inclined to dispute ; but I soon found that the good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with ; having, in the course of his researches on the subject of Christmas, got completely embroiled in the CHRISTMAS BAY. 301 sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when the Puri- tans made snch a fierce assault upon the ceremomes of the church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the land by proclamation of Parliament.* The worthy par- son lived but with times past, and knew but little of the Pr Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as the gazettes of the day ; while the era of he Eevolution was mere modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecu- tion of poor mince-pie throughout the land; when plum porridge was denounced as "mere popery," and roast- beef as anti-christian; and that Christmas had been brought in again triumphantly with the merry court oi King Charles at the Eestoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardor of his contest, and the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to combat; he had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three other * From the "Flying Eagle," a small Gazette, published December *L 16o^ >< The Houfe spelt mueh time this day about the busmess of f;" fot settliug the affairs at sea, aud before they rose, were pre- S^t^e remoustrauee ^ *%-%&% which was commonly called Christmas day. 302 THE SKETCH-BOOK. forgotten champions of the Bound Heads, on the subject of Christmas festivity ; and concluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the traditional customs of their fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful anniversary of the Church. I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church the congregation seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots in the church-yard, greeting and shaking hands ; and the children ran about crying Ule ! Ule ! and repeating some uncouth rhymes,* which the parson, who had joined us, informed me had been handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the hall, to take something to keep out the cold of the weather ; and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which convinced me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christ- mas virtue of charity. On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed with generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a * " Ule ! Ule ! Three puddings in a pule Crack nuts and cry ule !* CHRISTMAS DAY. 303 rising ground which commanded something of a pros- pect, the sounds of rustic merriment now and then reached our ears : the squire paused for a few moments, and looked around with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the morning, the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient power to melt away the thin covering of snow from every southern declivity, and to bring out the living green which adorns an English landscape even in mid- winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank, on which the broad rays rested, yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glittering through the dripping grass ; and sent up slight exhala- tions to contribute to the thin haze that hung just above the surface of the earth. There was something truly cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter ; it was, as the squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, breaking through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing every heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indi- cations of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the comfortable farmhouses, and low thatched cottages. " I love," said he, "to see this day well kept by rich and poor ; it is a great thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it were, the world thrown all open to 304 THE SKETCH-BOOK. you ; and I am almost disposed to join with Poor Kobin, in his malediction on every churlish enemy to this honest festival — "Those who at Christmas do repine And would fain hence dispatch him, May they with old Duke Humphry dine, Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em." The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the games and amusements which were once prevalent at this season among the lower orders, and countenanced by the higher ; when the old halls of the castles and manor- houses were thrown open at daylight; when the tables were covered with brawn, and beef, and humming ale ; when the harp and the carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and make merry.* " Our old games and local customs," said he, " had a great effect in making the peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of them by the gentry made him fond of his lord. They made the times merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can truly say, with one of our old poets : * "An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, i. e. on Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors enter his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the black- jacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by day- break, or else two young men must take the maiden (i. e. the cook) by the arms, and run her round the market-place till she is shamed of her laziness." — Bound about our Sea-Coal Fire. CHRISTMAS DAT. 305 ' I like them well— the curious preeiseness And all-pretended grafity of those That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' "The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have al- most lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their interests are separate. They have become too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to ale- house politicians, and talk of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good humor in these hard times would be for the nobility and gentry to pass more time on their estates, mingle more among the country people, and set the merry old English games going again." Such was the good squire's project for mitigating pub- lic discontent : and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept open house during the holidays in the old style. The country people, however, did not understand how to play their parts in the scene of hospitality ; many uncouth cir- cumstances occurred ; the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into the neighborhood in one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year. Since then, he had contented him- self with inviting the decent part of the neighboring peasantry to call at the hall on Christmas day, and with distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, that they might make merry in their own dwellings. 306 THE SKETCH-BOOK. We had not been long home when the sound of music was heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with rib- bons, their hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands, was seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a large number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, where the music struck up a pecu- liar air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs to- gether, keeping exact time to the music; while one, whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept capering round the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas box with many antic gesticulations. The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great in- terest and delight, and gave me a full account of its ori- gin, which he traced to the times when the Komans held possession of the island ; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the sword dance of the ancients. "It was now," he said, "nearly extinct, but he had acci- dentally met with traces of it in the neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival ; though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by the rough cudgel play, and broken heads in the evening." After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received with awkward demonstrations of deference and CHRISTMAS DAT. 307 regard. It is true I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they were raising their tankards to their mouths, when the squire's back was turned, making something of a grimace, and giving each other the wink ; but the moment they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly demure. With Master Si- mon, however, they all seemed more at their ease. His varied occupations and amusements had made him well known throughout the neighborhood. He was a visit- or at every farmhouse and cottage ; gossiped with the farmers and their wives; romped with their daughters; and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the humblebee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country round. The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer and affability. There is something genuine and affectionate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above them ; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word or a small pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart of the dependent more than oil and wine. When the squire had retired, the merri- ment increased, and there was much joking and laughter, particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy- faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village ; for I observed all his companions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gra- tuitous laugh before they could well understand them. 308 THE SKETCH-BOOK. The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merri- ment: as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of music in a small court, and looking through a window that commanded it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and tam- bourine ; a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several of the other servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, col- oring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion. THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast ! Let every man be jolly, Eache roome with y vie leaves is drest, And every post with holly. Now all our neighbours 1 chimneys smoke, And Christmas blocks are burning ; Their ovens they with bak't meats choke And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie, And if, for cold, it hap to die, Wee'le bury 't in a Christmas pye, And evermore be merry. Withers' Juvenilia. HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Bracebridge in the library, when we = - heard a distant thwacking sound, which he Smtd me was a signal for the serving up of the dinner. The squire kept up old customs in kitchen as well as hall ; and the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser by the cook, summoned the servants to carry m the meats. Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey ; 309 310 THE SKETCH-BOOK Each serving man, with dish in hand, March'd boldly up, like our train band, Presented, and away.* .The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing crackling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, and the flame went sparkling and wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great picture of the crusader and his white horse had been profusely decorated with greens for the occasion; and holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the hel- met and weapons on the opposite wall, which I under- tood were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, by the by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the painting and armor as having belonged to the crusader, they certainly having the stamp of more recent days ; but I was told that the painting had been so considered time out of mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had been found in a lumber-room, and elevated to its present situation by the squire, who at once determined it to be the armor of the family hero,; an d as he was absolute authority on all such subjects in his own household, the matter had passed into current acceptation. A sideboard was set out just under this chivalric trophy, on which was a dis- play of plate that might have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade of the vessels of the temple: * Sir John Suckling. THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 311 " flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers ; " the gorgeous utensils of good companionship that had gradually accumulated through many genera- tions of jovial housekeepers. Before these stood the two Yule candles, beaming like two stars of the first magni- tude ; other lights were distributed in branches, and the whole array glittered like a firmament of silver. We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool beside the fireplace, and twanging his instrument with a vast deal more power than melody. Never did Christmas board display a more goodly and gracious assemblage of countenances ; those who were not hand- some were, at least, happy ; and happiness is a rare im- prover of your hard-favored visage. I always consider an old English family as well worth studying as a col- lection of Holbein's portraits or Albert Durer's prints. There is much antiquarian lore to be acquired; much knowledge of the physiognomies of former times. Per- haps it may be from having continually before their eyes those rows of old family portraits, with which the man- sions of this country are stocked ; certain it is, that the quaint features of antiquity are often most faithfully per- petuated in these ancient lines ; and I have traced an old family nose through a whole picture gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to generation, almost from the time of the Conquest. Something of the kind was to be observed in the worthy company around me. Many 312 THE SKETCH-BOOK. of their faces had evidently originated in a Gothic age> and been merely copied by succeeding generations ; and there was one little girl in particular, of staid demeanor, with a high Eoman nose, and an antique vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of the squire's, being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of his ancestors who figured in the court of Henry VIII. The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these unceremonious days; but a long, courtly, well-worded one of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as if something was expected; when suddenly the butler en- tered the hall with some degree of bustle : he was at- tended by a servant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore a silver dish, on which was an enormous pig's head, decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which was placed with great formality at the head of the table. The moment this pageant made its appearance, the harper struck up a flourish ; at the con- clusion of which the young Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the squire, gave, with an air of the most comic grav- ity, an old carol, the first verse of which was as follows : Caput apri defero Reddens laudes Domino, The boar's head in hand bring I, With garlands gay and rosemary. I pray yon all synge merrily Qui estis in convivio. THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 313 Though prepared to witness many of these little eccen- tricities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host ; yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd a dish was introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered from the conversation of the squire and the par- son, that it was meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's head; a dish formerly served up with much cere- mony and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great tables, on Christmas day. " I like the old custom," said the squire, " not merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself, but because it was observed at the college at Oxford at which I was educated. When I hear the old song chanted, it brings to mind the time when I was young and gamesome— and the noble old college hall — and my fellow-students loitering about in their black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are now in their graves ! " The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such associations, and who was always more taken up with the text than the sentiment, objected to the Ox- onian's version of the carol ; which he affirmed was dif- ferent from that sung at college. He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commentator, to give the college reading, accompanied by sundry annotations ; address- ing himself at first to the company at large ; but finding their attention gradually diverted to other talk and other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished, until he concluded his remarks in an under 314 THE SKETCHBOOK. voice, to a fat-headed old gentleman next him, who was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of turkey.* The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented an epitome of country abundance, in this sea- son of overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted to "ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it; being, as he added, " the standard of old English hospi- tality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of expec- tation." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evidently something traditional in theii * The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas day is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be accept- able to such of my readers as are curious in these grave and learned mat- ters, I give it entire. The boar's head in hand bear I, Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; And I pray you, my masters, be merry Quot estis in convivio. Caput apri defero, Reddens Jaudes domino. The boar's head, as I understand, Is the rarest dish in all this land, Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland Let us servire cantico. Caput apri defero, etc. Our steward hath provided this In honor of the King of Bliss, Which on this day to be served is In Reginensi Atrio. Caput apri defero, etc., etc., etc. THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 315 embellishments; but about which, as I did not like to appear over-curious, I asked no questions. I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently decorated with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. This, the squire confessed, with some little hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most authentical ; but there had been such a mortality among the peacocks this season, that he could not prevail upon himself to have one killed* It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the other make-shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he was endeavoring to follow up, though at humble dis- tance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect shown to his whims by his * The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertain- ments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt ; at the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, " by cock and pie." The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast ; and Massinger, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden times : — Men may talk of Country Christmasses, Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues ; Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris ; the carcases of three fat wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock. 316 THE SKETCH-BOOK. children and relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily into the full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in their parts ; having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of profound gravity with which the butler and other- servants exe- cuted the duties assigned them, however eccentric. They had an old-fashioned look; having, for the most part, been brought up in the ^household, and grown into keep- ing with the antiquated mansion, and the humors of its lord ; and most probably looked upon all his whimsical regulations as the established laws of honorable house- keeping. When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge silver vessel of rare and curious Workmanship, which he placed before the squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation ; being the Wassail Bowl, so re- nowned in Christmas festivity. The contents had been prepared by the squire himself ; for it was a beverage in the skilful mixture of which he particularly prided him- self : alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for the comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a po- tation, indeed, that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him ; being composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about the surface.* * The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine ; with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs ; in this way the nut-brown beverage is still prepared in some old families, and round the THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 317 The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brim- ming round the board, for every one to follow his ex- ample, according to the primitive style ; pronouncing it " the ancient fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met together." * There was much laughing and rallying as the honest emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by the ladies. When it reached Master Si- mon, he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a boon companion struck up an old Wassail chanson. The brown bowle, The merry brown bowle, As it goes round about-a, Fill Still, hearths of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated by Herrick in his Twelfth Night : Next crowne the bowle full With gentle Lamb's Wool ; Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger With store of ale too ; And thus ye must doe To make the Wassaile a swinger. * "The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having his cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappell fchaplein) was to answer with a song."— Arch^eologia. 318 THE SKETCH-BOOK. Let the world say what it will, And drink your fill all out-a. The deep eanne, The merry deep canne, As thou dost freely quaff-a, Sing Fling, Be as merry as a king, And sound a lusty laugh-a.* Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some gay widow, with whom he was accused of having a flirtation. This attack was commenced by the ladies ; but it was continued throughout the dinner by the fat- headed old gentleman next the parson, with the perse- vering assiduity of a slow hound; being one of those long-winded jokers, who, though rather dull at start- ing game, are unrivalled for their talents in hunting it down. At every pause in the general conversation, he renewed his bantering in pretty much the same terms ; winking hard at me with both eyes, whenever he gave Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the sub- ject, as old bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform me, in an under tone, that the lady in question * From Poor Robin's Almanac. THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 319 was a prodigiously fine woman, and drove her own cur- ricle. The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, and, though the old hall may have resounded in its time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him ; and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making every thing in its vicinity to freshen into smiles ! the joyous disposi- tion of the worthy squire was perfectly contagious ; he was happy himself, and disposed to make all the world happy ; and the little eccentricities of his humor did but season, in a manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, became still more animated ; many good things were broached which had been thought of during dinner, but which would not exactly do for a lady's ear ; and though I cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit produce much less laughter. "Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs ; but honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial compan- ionship equal to that where the jokes are rather small, and the laughter abundant. The squire told several long stories of early college pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had 320 ?HE SKETCH-BOOK. been a sharer ; though in looking at the latter, it required some effort of imagination to figure such a little dark anatomy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap gam- bol. Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures of what men may be made by their different lots in life. The squire had left the university to live lustily on his paternal domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of prosper- ity and sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor parson, on the contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and shadows of his study. Still there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly glimmering in the bottom of his soul ; and as the squire hinted at a sly story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid, whom they once met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentle- man made an " alphabet of faces," which, as far as I could decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was in- dicative of laughter ; — indeed, I have rarely met with an old gentleman that took absolute offence at the imputed gallantries of his youth. I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier and louder as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew ; his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song about the wooing of a widow, which he informed me he had gathered from an excellent black- THE CHRISTMAS DWNER. 321 letter work, entitled " Cupid's Solicitor for Love," con- taining store of good advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend me : the first verse was to this effect : He that will woo a widow must not dally, He must make hay while the sun doth shine ; He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, But boldly say Widow, thou must be mine. This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck in the middle, every body recollecting the latter part excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show the effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, and his wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this juncture we were summoned to the drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a proper love of decorum. After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy holiday season, and could not help stealing out of the drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. I found them at the game of blindman's-buff. Master Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed 31 322 THE SKETCH-BOOK. on all occasions to fulfil the office of that ancient po- tentate, the Lord of Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of the hall. The little beings were as busy about him as the mock fairies about Falstaff ; pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was the chief tormentor; and, from the slyness with which Master Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was convenient. When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the company seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had been brought from the library for his particular accom- modation. From this venerable piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark weazen face so ad- mirably accorded, he was dealing out strange accounts of the popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, with which he had become acquainted in the * At Christmasse there was in the Kinge's house, wheresoever hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, and the like had ye in the house of every nobleman of honor, or good worshippe, were ha spirituall or temporal!. — Stowe. TEE CHRISTMAS DINNER, 32B course of his antiquarian researches. I am half inclined to think that the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men are very apt to be who live a recluse and studious life in a sequestered part of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled with the marvellous and supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, concerning the effigy of the cru- sader, which lay on the tomb by the church altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in that part of the country, it had always been regarded with feelings of superstition by the good wives of the village. It was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of the church-yard in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered ; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered on the church-yard, had seen it through the windows of the church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over which the spectre kept watch ; and there was a story current of a sexton in old times, who endeav- ored to break his way to the coffin at night, but, just as he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble hand of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the pavement. These tales were often laughed at by some of the sturdier among the rustics, yet, when night came on, 324 THE SKETCH-BOOK. there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led across the church-yard. From these and other anecdotes that followed, the cru- sader appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, was thought by the servants to have something supernatural about it ; for they remarked that, in what- ever part of the hall you went, the eyes of the warrior were still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who had been born and brought up in the family, and was a great gossip among the maid servants, affirmed, that in her young days she had often heard say, that on Midsummer eve, when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become visible and walk abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come down from his picture, ride about the house, down the avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb ; on which occasion the church door most civilly swung open of it- self ; not that he needed it ; for he rode through closed gates and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the dairy maids to pass between two bars of the great park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. All these superstitions I found had been very much countenanced by the squire, who, though not supersti- tious himself, was very fond of seeing others so. He lis- tened to every goblin tale of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 325 favor on account of her talent for the marvellous. He was himself a great reader of old legends and romances, and often lamented that he could not believe in them; for a superstitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairy land. Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds from the hall, in which were mingled something like the clang of rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of many small voices and girlish laughter. The door sud- denly flew open, and a train came trooping into the room, that might almost have been mistaken for the breaking up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit, Mas- ter Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas mum- mery or masking ; and having called in to his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, who were equally ripe for any thing that should occasion romping and merri- ment, they had carried it into instant effect. The old housekeeper had been consulted ; the antique clothes- presses and wardrobes rummaged, and made to yield up the relics of finery that had not seen the light for several generations ; the younger part of the company had been privately convened from the parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out, into a burlesque imita- tion of an antique mask. * * Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas in old times ; and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid 326 THE SKETCH-BOOK. Master Simon led the van, as "Ancient Christmas," quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that might have served for a village steeple, and must indubitably have figured in the days of the Covenanters. From under this his nose curved bold- ly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom, that seemed the very trophy of a December blast. He was accom- panied by the blue -eyed romp, dished up as "Dame Mince Pie," in the venerable magnificence of a faded bro- cade, long stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sport- ing dress of Kendal green, and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep research, and there was an evident eye to the pic- turesque, natural to a young gallant in the presence of his mistress. The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as " Maid Marian." The rest of the train had been metamorphosed in various ways ; the girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles of the Bracebridge line, and the striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent the charac- ter of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies under contribution to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. 1 strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's Masque of Christmas. THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 327 celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was under the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Misrule ; and I observed that he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller per- sonages of the pageant. The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, according to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar and merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory by the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless, though giggling, Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of all the characters, which from its medley of costumes, seemed as though the old family portraits had skipped down from their frames to join in the sport. Different centuries were figuring at cross hands and right and left ; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons ; and the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle, through a line of succeeding generations. The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the sim- ple relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the par- son said, notwithstanding that the latter was discoursing most authentically on the ancient and stately dance at the Paon, or peacock, from which he conceived the min- uet to be derived.* For my part, I was in a continual * Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pa\o, a peacock, says, "It is a grave and majestic dance ; the method of 328 THE SKETCHBOOK. excitement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild- eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and catching once more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the scene, from the consideration that these fleeting customs were posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only family in England in which the whole of them was still punctiliously observed. There was a quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest : it was suited to the time and place ; and as the old manor-house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of long de- parted years.* But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time for me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions asked by my graver readers, "To what pur- pose is all this — how is the world to be made wiser by dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock." — History of Music. * At the time of the first publication of this paper, the picture of an old-fashioned Christmas in the country was pronounoed by some as out of date. The author had afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost all the customs above described, existing in unexpected vigor in the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will find some notice of them in the author's account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey. THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 329 this talk?" Alas! is jthere not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the world ? And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improve- ment ? — It is so much pleasanter to please than to in- struct — to play the companion rather than the preceptor. What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my sagest deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others ? But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my own disappointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain. LONDON ANTIQUES. 1 do walk Methinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn, Stealing to set the town o' fire ; i' th' country I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, Or Robin Goodf ellow. Fletcher. AM somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am fond of exploring London in quest of the relics of old times. These are principally to be found in the depths of the city, swallowed up and almost lost in a wilderness of brick and mortar ; but deriving poeti- cal and romantic interest from the commonplace prosaic world around them. I was struck with an instance of the kind in the course of a recent summer ramble into the city ; for the city is only to be explored to advantage in summer time, when free from the smoke and fog, and rain and mud of winter. I had been buffeting for some time against the current of population setting through Fleet-street. The warm weather had unstrung my nerves, and made me sensitive to every jar and jostle and dis- cordant sound. The flesh was weary, the spirit faint, and I was getting out of humor with the bustling busy throng through which I had to struggle, when in a fit of 330 LONDON ANTIQUES. 331 desperation I tore my way through the crowd, plunged into a by lane, and after passing through several obscure nooks and angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet court with a grassplot in the centre, overhung by elms, and kept perpetually fresh and green by a fountain with its sparkling jet of water. A student with book in hand was seated on a stone bench, partly reading, partly meditat- ing on the movements of two or three trim nursery maids with their infant charges. I was like an Arab, who had suddenly come upon an oasis amid the panting sterility of the desert. By de- grees the quiet and coolness of the place soothed my nerves and refreshed my spirit. I pursued my walk, and came, hard by, to a very ancient chapel, with a low- browed Saxon portal of massive and rich architecture. The interior was circular and lofty, and lighted from above. Around were monumental tombs of ancient date, on which were extended the marble effigies of warriors in armor. Some had the hands devoutly crossed upon the breast; others grasped the pommel of the sword, menacing hostility even in the tomb !— while the crossed legs of several indicated soldiers of the Faith who had been on crusades to the Holy Land. I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars, strangely situated in the very centre of sordid traffic; and I do not know a more impressive lesson for the man of the world than thus suddenly to turn aside from the highway of busy money-seeking life, and sit down among 332 THE SKETCH-BOOK these shadowy sepulchres, where all is twilight, dust, and forgetfulness. In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered another of these relics of a " foregone world " locked up in the heart of the city. I had been wandering for some time through dull monotonous streets, destitute "of any thing to strike the eye or excite the imagination, when I beheld before me a Gothic gateway of mouldering anti- quity. It opened into a spacious quadrangle forming the court-yard of a stately Gothic pile, the portal of which stood invitingly open. It was apparently a public edifice, and as I was anti- quity hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps. Meeting no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued on until I found myself in a great hall, with a lofty arched roof and oaken gallery, all of Gothic archi- tecture. At one end of the hall was an enormous fire- place, with wooden settles on each side ; at the other end was a raised platform, or dais, the seat of state, above which was the portrait of a man in antique garb, with a long robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray beard. The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet and seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm, was, that I had not "met with a human being since I had passed the threshold. Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a recess of a large bow window, which admitted a broad flood of yellow sunshine, checkered here and there by LONDON ANTIQUES. 333 tints from panes of colored glass ; while an open case- ment let in the soft summer air. Here, leaning my head on my hand, and my arm on an old oaken table, I in- dulged in a sort of reverie about what might have been the ancient uses of this edifice. It had evidently been of monastic origin; perhaps one of those collegiate estab- lishments built of yore for the promotion of learning, where the patient monk, in the ample solitude of the cloister, added page to page and volume to volume, emu- lating in the productions of his brain the magnitude of the pile he inhabited. As I was seated in this musing mood, a small panelled door in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, and a number of gray-headed old men, clad in long black cloaks, came forth one by one ; proceeding in that man- ner through the hall, without uttering a word, each turn- ing a pale face on me as he passed, and disappearing through a door at the lower end. I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their black cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style of this most venerable and mysterious pile. It was as if the ghosts of the departed years, about which I had been musing, were passing in review before me. Pleasing my- self with such fancies, I set out, in the spirit of romance, to explore what I pictured to myself a realm of shadows, existing in the very centre of substantial realities. My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior courts, and corridors, and dilapidated cloisters, for the 334 THE SKETCHBOOK main edifice had many additions and dependencies, built at various times and in various styles ; in one open space a number of boys, who evidently belonged to the estab- lishment, were at their sports ; but everywhere I observed those mysterious old gray men in black mantles, some- times sauntering alone, sometimes conversing in groups they appeared to be the pervading genii of the place. ] now called to mind what I had read of certain colleges in old times, where judicial astrology, geomancy, necroman- cy, and other forbidden and magical sciences were taught Was this an establishment of the kind, and were these black-cloaked old men really professors of the black art ? These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds oJ strange and uncouth objects ; implements of savage war- fare ; strange idols and stuffed alligators ; bottled ser- pents and monsters decorated the mantelpiece ; while on the high tester of an old-fashioned bedstead grinned a human skull, flanked on each side by a dried cat. I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic chamber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necro- mancer, when I was startled at beholding a human coun- tenance staring at me from a dusky corner. It was that of a small, shrivelled old man, with thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray wiry projecting eyebrows. I at first doubted whether it were not a mummy curiously pre- served, but it moved, and I saw that it was alive. It was another of those black-cloaked old men, and, as I LONDON ANTIQUES. 335 regarded his quaint physiognomy, his obsolete garb, and the hideous and sinister objects by which he was surrounded, I began to persuade myself that I had come upon the arch mago, who ruled over this magical fraternity. Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited me to enter. I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for how did I know whether a wave of his wand might not meta- morphose me into some strange monster, or conjure me into one of the bottles on his mantelpiece ? He proved, however, to be any thing but a conjurer, and his simple garrulity soon dispelled all the magic and mystery with w r hich I had enveloped this antiquated pile and its no less antiquated inhabitants. It appeared that I had made my way into the centre of an ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and de- cayed householders, with which was connected a school for a limited number of boys. It was founded upwards of two centuries since on an old monastic establishment, and retained somewhat of the conventual air and charac- ter. The shadowy line of old men in black mantles who had passed before me in the hall, and whom I had ele- vated into magi, turned out to be the pensioners return- ing from morning service in the chapel. John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities, whom I had made the arch magician, had been for six years a resident of the place, and had decorated this final nest- ling-place of his old age with relics and rarities picked up 336 THE SKETCH-BOOK. in the course of his life. According to his own account he had been somewhat of a traveller ; having been once in France, and very near making a visit to Holland. He regretted not having visited the latter country, " as then he might have said he had been there." — He was evi- dently a traveller of the simplest kind. He was aristocratical too in his notions ; keeping aloof, as I found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His chief associates were a blind man who spoke Latin and Greek, of both which languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant; and a broken-down gentleman who had run through a fortune of forty thousand pounds, left him by his father, and ten thousand pounds, the marriage por- tion of his wife. Little Hallum seemed to consider it an indubitable sign of gentle blood as well as of lofty spirit to be able to squander such enormous sums. P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into which I have thus beguiled the reader is what is called the Charter House, originally the Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611, on the remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, being one of those noble chari- ties set on foot by individual munificence, and kept up with the quaintness and sanctity of ancient times amidst the modern changes and innovations of London. Here eighty broken-down men, who have seen better days, are provided, in their old age, with food, clothing, fuel, and a yearly allowance for private expenses. They LONDON ANTIQUES. 337 dine together as did the monks of old, in the hall which had been the refectory of the original convent. Attached to the establishment is a school for forty-four boys. Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speaking of the obligations of the gray-headed pension- ers, says, "They are not to intermeddle with any busi- ness touching the affairs of the hospital, but to attend only to the service of God, and take thankfully what is provided for them, without muttering, murmuring, or grudging. None to wear weapon, long hair, colored boots, spurs or colored shoes, feathers in their hats, or any ruffian-like or unseemly apparel, but such as be- comes hospital men to wear." "And in truth," adds Stow, "happy are they that are so taken from the cares and sorrows of the world, and fixed in so good a place as these old men are , having nothing to care for, but the good of their souls, to serve God and to live in brotherly love." For the amusement of such as have been interested by the preceding sketch, taken down from my own observa- tion, and who may wish to know a little more about the mysteries of London, I subjoin a modicum of local his- tory, put into my hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in a'small brown wig and a snuff-colored coat, with whom I became acquainted shortly after my visit to the Charter House. I confess I was a little dubious at first, whether it was not one of those apocryphal tales often passed off 338 THE SKETCH-BOOK. upon inquiring travellers like myself; and which have brought our general character for veracity into such un- merited reproach. On making proper inquiries, how- ever, I have received the most satisfactory assurances of the author's probity ; and, indeed, have been told that he is actually engaged in a full and particular account of the very interesting region in which he resides ; of which the following may be considered merely as a foretaste. LITTLE BRITAIN. What I write is most true * * * * I have a whole booke of cases lying by me which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity with me. Nashe. N the centre of the great city of London lies a small neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of Lit- tle Bbitain. Christ Church School and St. Bartholo- mew's Hospital bound it on the west; Smithfield and Long Lane on the north ; Aldersgate Street, like an arm of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city ; whilst the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street sepa- rates it from Butcher Lane, and the regions of Newgate. Over this little territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the interven- ing houses of Paternoster Bow, Amen Corner, and Ave Ma- ria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly protection. This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and trade creeping on at their heels, took possession of their deserted abodes. For some time Lifr 339 340 THE SKETCH-BOOK. tie 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 Pater- noster Row and St. Paul's Church-Yard, 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 hide- ous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes : and fruits and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to clas- sify. 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 sev- eral 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 apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. The lanes and courts also contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale, but, like your small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. These have their gable ends to the street ; great bow windows, with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and low arched door-ways.* * It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has included, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. LITTLE BRITAIN. 341 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 old- est edifices. My sitting-room is an old wainscoted cham- ber, with small panels, and set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular respect for three or four high-backed claw-footed chairs, covered with tar- nished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen bet- ter days, and have doubtless figured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me to keep to- gether, and to look down with sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors; as I have seen de- cayed gentry carry a high head among the plebeian so- ciety with which they were reduced to associate. The whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow window ; on the panes of which are recorded the names of previous occupants for many generations, mingled with scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, written in characters which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Brit- ain, who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an idle personage, with no apparent occu- pation, and pay my bill regularly every' week, I am looked upon as the only independent gentleman of the neighbor- hood ; 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 se- crets of the place. 342 THE SKETCH-BOOK 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 London as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great preservation many of the holiday games and customs of yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas ; they send love-letters on Valentine's Day, burn the pope on the fifth of November, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. Boast beef and plum-pudding are also held in super- stitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their grounds as the only true English wines ; all others be- ing 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 un- comfortable by comets and eclipses ; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There are even many ghost stories current, particularly concerning the old mansion-houses ; LITTLE BRITAIN. 343 in several of which it is said strange sights are some- times seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full-bot- tomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walk- ing up and down the great waste chambers, on moonlight nights ; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses. Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of the most important of the former is a tall, dry old gentleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and projections; with a brown circle round each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is much thought of by the old women, who consider him as a kind of conjurer, because ho has two or three stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and news- papers, and is much given to pore over alarming ac- counts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, and vol- canic eruptions ; which last phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He has always some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers, with their doses ; and thus at the same time puts both soul and body into an 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 flhook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his 344 THE SKETCH-BOOK. customers and disciples until they were nearly frightened out of their wits. He has 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 with the dragon on the top of Bow Church stee- ple, fearful events would take place. This strange con- junction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church ; and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the grass- hopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his work- shop. " Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, " may go star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrologers." Since these portentous weather-cocks have thus laid their heads together, won- derful events had already occurred. The good old king, notwithstanding that he had lived eighty-two years, had all at once given up the ghost ; another king had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had died suddenly — another, in France, had been murdered; there had been radical meetings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes at Manchester; the great plot in Cato Street; — and, above all, the Queen had returned to England! All LITTLE BRITAIN. 345 these sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme, with a mysterious look, and a dismal shake of the head ; and being taken with his drugs, and associated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title-page of tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the minds of the people 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 tid- ings, 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 mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one of his own Chesh- ires. Indeed he is a man of no little standing and im- portance ; and his renown extends through Huggin Lane, and Lad Lane, and even unto Aldermanbury. His opin- ion is very much taken in affairs of state, having read the Sunday papers for the last half century, together with the Gentleman's Magazine, Bapin's History of England, and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with inval- uable 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 he has much to say on the subject of the national debt ; which, somehow or other, 346 THE SKETCH-BOOK. he proves to be a great national bulwark and blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having become rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure and see the world. He has therefore made several excursions to Hampstead, High- gate, and other neighboring towns, where he has passed whole afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis through a telescope, and endeavoring to descry the stee- ple of St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coachman of Bull- and-Mouth Street but touches his hat as he passes ; and he is considered quite a patron at the coach-office of the Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Church-yard. 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 sea-voyages. Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divi- sions, and party spirit ran very high at one time in con- sequence 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 sub- LITTLE BRITAIN. 347 ject oi patent-iron coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its bearings as to the legality of prohib- iting the latter on account of their durability. The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily died of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing themes of con- troversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely 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 inscrip- tions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer ; such as "Truman, Hanbury, and Co.'s Entire," "Wine, Rum, and Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom, Rum and Compounds, etc." This indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus from time immemorial. It has always been in the family of the Wagstaffs, so that its history is tolerably pre- served by the present landlord. It was much frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the wits of Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff principally 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 consid- 348 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ered 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 Brit- ain." They abound in old catches, glees, and choice stories, that are traditional in the place, and not to be met with in any other part of the metropolis. There is a mad-cap undertaker who is inimitable at a merry song ; but the life of the club, and indeed the prime wit of Lit- tle Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors were all wags before him, and he has inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from generation to generation as heir-looms. He is a dapper little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red face, with a moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind. At the opening of every club night he is called in to sing his " Confession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl from Gammer Gurton's Nee- dle. He sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as he received it from his father's lips ; for it has been a stand- ing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written : nay, he affirms that his predeces- sors have often had the honor of singing it before the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Lit- tle 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 LITTLE BRITAIN. 349 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 observe, that the whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and clattering of pewter pots. I cannot eate but lytle meate, My stomacke is not good, But sure I thinke that I can drinke With him that weares a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I nothing am a colde, I stuff my skyn so full within, Of joly good ale and olde. Chorus. 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. Chorus. I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste, And a crab laid in the f yre ; A little breade shall do me steade, Much breade I not desyre. No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, Can hurte mee, if I wolde, I am so wrapt and throwly lapfc Of joly good ale and olde. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. Chorus. 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 mault-worme sholde, And sayth, sweete harte, I tooke my parte Of this joly good ale and olde. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 350 THE SKETCHBOOK. voices, which issue from this jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a de- light equal to that of gazing into a confectioner's win- dow, 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. Bartholo- mew'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 pros- ing, and singing 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 Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, They shall not mysse to have the blisse, Good ale doth bring men to ; And all poore soules that have scowred bowles, Or have them lustily trolde, 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. 351 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 Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach with six horses as the summit of human splendor ; and his procession, with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his train, as the grandest of earthly pag- eants. How they exult in the idea, that the King him- self 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 every body that offends against the dignity of the city ; and then there is the lit- tle 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, there- fore, the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an effectual barrier against all interior foes ; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but 352 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 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 gar- nered up, like seed corn, to renew the national character, when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have re- joiced 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 cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occa- sional feud between the burial societies, yet these were but transient clouds, and soon passed away. The neigh- bors met with good-will, parted with a shake of the hand, and never abused each other except behind their backs. I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at which I have been present ; where we played at All- Fours, Pope-Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games ; and where we sometimes had a good old Eng- lish country dance to the tune of Sir Roger 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 LITTLE BRITAIN. 353 the trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry un- dertaker ! After dinner, too, the young folks would play at blind-man's-buff and hide-and-seek ; and it was amus- ing 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 cheese- monger and the apothecary, to hear them talk politics ; for they generally brought out a newspaper in their pock- ets, to pass away time in the country. They would now and then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument ; but their disputes were always adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella maker in a double chin, who, never exactly comprehending the subject, managed somehow or other to decide in favor of both parties. All empires, however, says some philosopher or histo- rian, 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 griev- ously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners threatened with total subversion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. The family of the Lambs had long been among the most thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs were the belles of Little Britain, and every- body was pleased when Old Lamb had made money 23 354 THE SKETCH-BOOK. enough to shut up shop, and put his name on a brass plate on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of 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, 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 attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts ; and he con- founded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Eeview. What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which they neglected to invite any of their old neigh- bors ; but they had a great deal of genteel company from Theobald's Road, Red-Lion Square, and other parts to- wards the west. There were several beaux of their broth- er's acquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton Garden ; and not less than three Aldermen's ladies with their daughters. This was not to be forgotten or for- given. All Little Britain was in an uproar with the LITTLE BRITAIN. 355 smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the rattling and the jingling of hackney coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping their night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy vehi- cles 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 acquaint- ance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some of her old cronies, " quite," as she would say, " in a friendly way ; " and it is equally true that her invitations were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the con- trary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would conde- scend 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 Port- sokenward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved their con- sciences, and averted the reproaches of their confeder- ates, by canvassing at the next gossiping 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 356 THE SKETCH-BOOK. fashionable 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 face 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 endeav- ored to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature would break through all their glozings. He had a hearty vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible. His very jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder ; and he per- sisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, din- ing at two o'clock, and having a " bit of sausage with his tea." He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his family. He found his old comrades gradually grow- ing cold and civil to him; no longer laughing at his jokes ; and now and then throwing out a fling at " some people," and a hint about " quality binding." This both nettled and perplexed the honest butcher ; and his wife and daughters, with the consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advantage of the circumstance, at length prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon'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. LITTLE BRITAIN. 357 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 overflowing of their zeal for good old English manners, and their horror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent contempt they were so vociferous in express- ing, for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection had taken hold; and that my neighbors, after condemning, were beginning to follow their example. I overheard my landlady importuning her husband to let their daughters have one quarter at French and music, and that they might take a few lessons in 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. I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neigh- 358 THE SKETCH-BOOK. borhood ; 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 Trot- ters mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be behindhand : and though they might not boast of as good company, yet they had double the number, and were twice as merry. The whole community has at length divided itself into fashionable factions, under the banners of these two families. The old games of Pope- Joan and Tom-come- tickle-me are entirely discarded ; there is no such thing as getting up an honest country dance ; and on my at- tempting to kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed ; the Miss Lambs LITTLE BRITAIN. 359 having pronounced it " shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the most fashionable part of Little Britain ; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. Thus is this little territory torn by factions and inter- nal dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears ; and what will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, with all his talent at prognostics, to determine ; though I apprehend 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 oc- casions, 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 accom- modating 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 am actually looking out for some other nest in this great city, where old English manners are still kept up ; where French is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spo- 360 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ken ; and where there are no fashionable families of re- tired 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. STRATFORD-ON-AVON. Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream ; The fairies by mponlight dance round his green bed, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow' d his head. Gakrick. O 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 inde- pendence 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 em- pire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of life ; it is a sunny moment gleam- ing out kindly on a cloudy day : and he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence, knows the im- portance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? " 361 362 THE SKETCH-BOOK thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing through mj mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide -Book under my arm, as a pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shak- speare, the jubilee, and David Garrick. The next morning was one of those quickening morn- ings 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 father's craft of wool-combing. It is a small, mean- looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place STB A TFOBD-ON-A VON. 363 of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its off- spring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions in every lan- guage, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, 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. The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and gar- nished with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly as- siduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shat- tered stock of the very match-lock with which Shak- speare shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box; which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Kaleigh : the sword also with which he played Hamlet ; and the identical lan- tern 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 Hue. The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shakspeare'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, 364 THE SKETCH-BOOK. watching the slowly revolving spit with all the longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth church-yard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of Eng- land. 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 extraordi- nary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile na- ture of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter ; for though sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old chimney corner. I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men; and would advise all travellers who travel for their grati- fication to be the same. What is it to us, whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade our- selves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality? There is nothing like resolute good-hu- mored credulity in these matters ; and on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims of STB A TFORD- ON A VON 365 mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, luckily, for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own composition, which set all belief in her consanguin- ity 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, moulder- ing with age, but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered point, and sepa- rated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and retired : the river runs murmur- ing at the foot of the church-yard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown with grass ; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have built their nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirping; 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 con- sider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception 366 THE SKETCH-BOOK that lie had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows ; and was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which pervade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low white-washed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and prayer-book, and the drawer contained the family library, composed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that important article of cot- tage 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 STRATFORD-ON-A VON. 367 The fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep enough to ad- mit a gossip knot within its jambs. In one corner sat the old man's granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his companion from childhood. They had played together in infancy ; they had worked to- gether 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 existence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom scenes " of life that they are to be met with. I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard from these ancient chroniclers; but they had nothing 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 biograph- ers but a scanty handful of conjectures. The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpenters on the preparations for the celebrated Strat- ford 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 mulberry tree, of 368 THE SKETCH-BOOK which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt 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 visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth di- verge into different channels even at the fountain head. We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly orna- mented, with carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture and embellishments superior to those of most country churches. There are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shak- speare 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 the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, and STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 369 which have in them something extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibili- ties and thoughtful minds. Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare To dig 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 con- sidered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely-arched forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, so- cial disposition, by which he was as much characterized among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his gen- ius. 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 Ab- bey, 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 va- 24 370 THE SKETCH-BOOK. cant 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 depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished and the aper- ture 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 epita]Dh. 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 tflUATFORD-ON-A VON. 371 plucked a branch from one of the yew trees, the only relic that I have brought from Stratford. I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devo- tion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys, at Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where 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 captivity. When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treat- ment must have been galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough pasqui- nade, 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 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 soem 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. 372 THE SKETCH-BOOK. the Avon and his paternal trade ; wandered away to Lon- don ; 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 indif- ferent wool-comber, and the world gained an immortal poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and re- venged 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 luces * in the quarter- ings. Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften and explain away this early transgression of the poet ; but I look upon it as one of those thought- less exploits natural to his situation and turn of mind. Shakspeare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undi- rected 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 ec- centric 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, * The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot. STRA TFORD-OW-A VON. 373 he might have as daringly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws. I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Strat- ford, he was to be found in the company of all kinds of odd anomalous characters ; 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, im- agination, 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 Stratford were called out to prove the strength of their heads ; and in the number of the champions was Shak- speare, 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 Strat- ford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to carry them off the field. They had scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they were forced to lie down under a crab- tree, where they passed the night. It is still standing, and goes by the name of Shakspeare's tree. In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed return- ing to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drank with Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 374 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 Shakspeare 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 quicken- ing effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and ani- mating 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 cottages. The bleating of the Dudging 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." STRA TFORD-ON-A VON 375 new-dropt lambs was faintly heard 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, spring- ing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, tow- ered 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 : Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs, On chaliced flowers that lies. And winking mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes ; With every thing that pretty bin, My lady sweet arise ! 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 boyhood, 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 amusement in winter even- ings "to sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of er- 376 TBE SKETCH-BOOK. rant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars." * My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and windings through a wide and fertile valley ; some- times glittering from among willows, which fringed its borders; sometimes disappearing among groves, or be- neath green banks ; and sometimes rambling out into full view, and making an azure sweep round a slope of mea- dow land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Yale of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the Avon. After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields, and under hedgerows to a private gate of the park ; there was a stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian; there being a public right of way through the grounds. I delight in these hospitable estates, in which every one has a kind of property — at least as far as the footpath is concerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to * Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these fireside fancies. "And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, con- jurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Kobin-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 other bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowes." STB A TFOBD-ON-A VON. 377 his lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of his neigh- bor, thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recreation. He breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as the lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of paying for it, and keeping it in order. I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant statue ; and a vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across the opening. There is something about these stately old avenues that has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of long duration, and of having had their origin in a period of time with which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also the long- settled dignity, and proudly-concentrated independence of an ancient family; and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that " money could do much with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there was no such thing as suddenly building up an avenue of oaks." 378 THE SKETCH-BOOK. It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoin- ing park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shakspeare's commentators have supposed he derived his noble forest meditations of Jaques, and the enchanting woodland pictures in " As you like it." It is in lonely wanderings through such scenes, that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into reverie and rapture ; vague but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon it ; and we revel in a mute and almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in some such mood, and perhaps under one of those very trees before me, which threw their broad shades over the grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little song which breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary : Under the green wood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry throat Unto the sweet bird's note, Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy, But winter and rough weather. I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic STRA TFORD-ON-A VON 379 style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may be considered a fair speci- men of the residence of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from the park into a kind of courtyard in front of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbacan ; being a kind of out- post, and flanked by towers ; though evidently for mere ornament, instead of defence. The front of the house is completely in the old style ; with stone-shafted case- ments, a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, and a portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon tower, sur- mounted by a gilt ball and weather-cock. The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just at the foot of a gently-sloping bank, which sweeps down from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon its borders ; and swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable old mansion, I called to mind Falstaff's encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference and real vanity of the latter : " Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. Shallow. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John : — marry, good air." What may have been the joviality of the old mansion 380 THE SKETCH-BOOK. in the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of stillness and solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the courtyard was locked ; there was no show of servants bustling about the place ; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life that I met with was a white cat, stealing with wary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefari- ous 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 rigor- ous exercise of territorial power which was so strenu- ously 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 en- trance to the mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civility and com- municativeness of her order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater part has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of living : there is a fine old oaken staircase ; and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still re- tains 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 and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 381 for family portraits. There is a wide hospitable fire- place, 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 courtyard. 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 quar- terings 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 threats of the puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas. "Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not : I will make a Star-Chamber matter of it ; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he 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 par- son ; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or ob- ligation, 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 382 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ancestors that come after him may ; they may give the dozen white luces in their coat.* * * * * Shallow. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is no fear of Got in a riot ; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot ; take your vizaments in that. Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if 1 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 in- formed me that this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of the fam- ily 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 vindictive 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 of Charle- STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 383 cot* The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet ; white shoes with roses in them ; and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, " a cane- colored beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side of the picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children have a most 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 indis- pensable to an accomplished gentleman in those days.t * 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 fol- lowing 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 Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlecot in ye 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 heavenly kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true and faythful 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 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 virtu- ously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowe what hath byn written to be true. Thomas Lucye. f Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, ob- serves, " his housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs, 384 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 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 exam- ination 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 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-opened doors ; while from the gallery the fair daughters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful and serving-men attendant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, " he kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger ; and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and soaniels." STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 385 prisoner with that pity " that dwells in womanhood." — 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 immor- tality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! I was now invited by the butler to walk into the gar- den, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a last year's 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 in- stance 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 repre- sentative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shakspeare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shal- low 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 be excused ; excuses shall not be admitted ; there is no excuse shall serve ; you shall not be excused * * * . Some pigeons, Davy ; a couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook." 25 386 THE SKETCHBOOK. I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had become so completely possessed by the im- aginary 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 singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the very face of nature ; to give to things and places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this "working-day world" into a perfect fairy land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell oper- ates, 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 complete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings; with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power ; yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak : had beheld the fair Rosa- lind and her companion adventuring through the wood- lands; and, above all, had been once more present in STB A TFORD-ON-A VON, 387 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 chequered 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 maledic- tion, 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 crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this rev- erend 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. 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 admira- tion, 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 388 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 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 place ; that his ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day be- come the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. " I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not to eat ; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not." Speech oe an Indian Chief. HEEE is something in the character and habits of the North American savage, taken in connec- tion with the scenery over which he is accus- tomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless forests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, wonder- fully striking and sublime. He is formed for the wilder- ness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, simple, and enduring ; fitted to grapple with difficulties, and to support privations. There seems but little soil in his heart for the support of the kindly virtues ; and yet, if we would but take the trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity, which lock up his character from casual observation, we should find him linked to his fellow-man of civilized life by more of those sympathies and affections than are usually ascribed to him. It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly 390 THE SKETCH-BOOK. wronged by the white men. They have been dispos- sessed of their hereditary possessions by mercenary and frequently wanton warfare : and their characters have been traduced by bigoted and interested writers. The colonist often treated them like beasts of the forest; and the author has endeavored to justify him in his outrages. The former found it easier to exterminate than to civilize ; the latter to vilify than to discriminate. The appellations of savage and pagan were deemed suffi- cient to sanction the hostilities of both ; and thus the poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted and de- famed, not because they were guilty, but because they were ignorant. The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appreciated or respected by the white man. In peace he has too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he has been regarded as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was a question of mere precaution and conven- ience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own safety is endangered, and he is sheltered by impunity; and little mercy is to be expected from him, when he feels the sting of the reptile and is conscious of the power to destroy. The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, exist in common circulation at the present day. Certain learned societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored to investigate and record the real characters and manners of the Indian tribes ; the American govern- TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 391 ment, too, has wisely and humanely exerted itself to in- culcate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them, and to protect them from fraud and injustice. 45- The current opinion of the Indian character, however, is too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes which infest the fron- tiers, and hang on the skirts of the settlements. These are too commonly composed of degenerate beings, cor- rupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, without being benefited by its civilization. That proud indepen- dence, which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed and daunted by the superior knowledge and power of their enlightened neighbors. Society has advanced upon them like one of those withering airs that will sometimes breed desolation over a whole region of fertility. It has ener- vated their strength, multiplied their diseases, and super- induced upon their original barbarity the low vices of artificial life. It has given them a thousand superfluous wants, whilst it has diminished their means of mere ex- istence. It has driven before it the animals of the chase, * The American government has been indefatigable in its exertions to ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them the arts of civilization, and civil and religious knowledge. To protect them from the frauds of the white traders, no purchase of land from them by individuals is permitted ; nor is any person allowed to receive lands from them as a present, without the express sanction of government. These precautions are strictly enf orce' sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other quarters. Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the com- petition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perse- verance in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack — yielding, but tough ; though he bent, he never broke ; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away — jerk ! he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of his charac- ter of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse ; not that he had any thing to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait Yan Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reason- able man and an excellent father, let her have her way in every thing. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poul- try; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can 494 THE SKETCH-BOOK. take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinna- cle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of rid- dle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vul- nerable point, or door of access ; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to main- tain possession of the latter, for the man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones ; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined ; his horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the pre- ceptor of Sleepy Hollow. TEE LEGEND OF SLEEP T HOLLOW. 495 Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his na- ture, would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have settled their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore — by single combat ; but Icha- bod was too conscious of the superior might of his ad- versary to enter the lists against him : he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would " double the schoolmas- ter up, and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house ; " and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Icha- bod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones, and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains ; smoked out his singing school, by stopping up the chimney; broke into the school-house at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned every thing topsy-turvy : so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turn- ing him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in psalmody. In this way matters went on for some time, without 496 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. producing any material effect on the relative situation of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power ; the birch of justice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers ; while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, de- tected upon the persons of idle urchins ; such as half- munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Appar- ently there Lad been some appalling act of justice re- cently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept 7 ipon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he man- aged with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making or " quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer Yan Tassel's; and having de- livered his message with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brookf THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 497 and was seen scampering away up the hollow, Ml of the importance and hurry of his mission. All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school-room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, without stopping at trifles ; those who were nim- ble skipped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without being put away .on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early emancipation. The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school-house. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he bor- rowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domicil- iated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Eipper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet 1 should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some ac^ count of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had uatlived almost every thing but as 498 THE SKETCH-BOOK, his viciousnekSo He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral ; but the other had the gleam of- a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a fa- vorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal ; for, old and broken- down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country. Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicu- larly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Yan Ripper, and it was altogether such an appa- rition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abun- THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 499 danceo The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field. The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capri- cious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note ; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little monteiro cap of feathers ; and the blue-jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white un- der-clothes ; screaming and chattering, nodding and bob- bing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove. As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples ; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees ; some gathered into 500 THE SKETCH-BOOK. baskets and barrels for the market ; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins lying be- neath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies ; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Yan Tassel. Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and " sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the good- liest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, ex- cepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slant- ing ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark-gray and purple of their rocky sides. THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 501 A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast ; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air. It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the cas- tle of the Heer Yan Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnifi- cent pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted short-gowns, home- spun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square- skirted coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the pur- pose, it being esteemed, throughout the country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, hav- ing come to the gathering on his favorite steed Dare- devil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of 502 THE SKETCHBOOK his neck, for he held a tractable well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Yan Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white ; but the ample charms of a gen- uine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to expe- rienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty dough-nut, the tenderer oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies and peach pies and pump- kin pies ; besides slices of ham and smoked beef ; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces ; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot send- ing up its clouds of vapor from the midst — 'Heaven bless the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this ban- quet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. He was a kind and thankful creature, whoso heart THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 503 dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer ; and whose spirits rose with eating as some men's do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possi- bility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school-house ; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Yan Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade ! Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to " fall to, and help themselves." And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old grayheaded negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a cen- tury. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head ; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. Tchabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as 504 THE SKETCH-BOOK. upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the ad- miration of all the negroes ; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood formiuga pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, roll- ing their white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous ? the lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling gra- ciously in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brood- ing by himself in one corner. When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over for- mer times, and drawing out long stories about the war. This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speak- ing, was one of those highly-favored places which abound with chronicle and great men. The British and Ameri- can line had run near it during the war ; it had, there- fore, been the scene of marauding, and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story- teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 505 ENVOY. 525 powers, and depriving him of that ease and confidence which are necessary to successful exertion. Still the kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier foot- ing ; and thus he proceeds, half venturing, half shrinking, surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering at his own temerity. APPENDIX. NOTES CONCERNING WESTMINSTER ABBEY. Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain, under the domin- ion of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry, Pope Greg- ory the Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo-Saxon youths exposed for sale in the market-place at Rome, conceived a fancy for the race, and determined to send missionaries to preach the gospel among these comely but benighted islanders. He was encouraged to this by learning that Ethelbert, king of Kent, and the most potent of the Anglo- Saxon princes, had married Bertha, a Christian princess, only daughter of the king of Paris, and that she was allowed by stipulation the full ex- ercise of her religion. The shrewd Pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters of relig- ious faith. He forthwith despatched Augustine, a Roman monk, with forty associates, to the court of Ethelbert at Canterbury, to effect the conversion of the king and to obtain through him a foothold in the island. Ethelbert received them warily, and held a conference in the open air; being distrustful of foreign priestcraft, and fearful of spells and magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him as good a Christian as his wife; the conversion of the king of course produced the conversion of his loyal subjects. The zeal and success of Augustine were rewarded by his being made archbishop of Canterbury, and being endowed with authority over all the British churches. One of the most prominent converts was Segebert or Sebert, king of the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned at London, of which 527 528 THE SKETCH-BOOK. Mellitus, one of the Roman monks who had come over with Augustine, was made bishop. Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the river riide to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of Apollo, being, in fact, the origin of the present pile of Westminster Abbey. Great prepa- rations were made for the consecration of the church, which was to be dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of the appointed day, Mellitus, the bishop, proceeded with great pomp and solemnity to perform the ceremony. On approaching the edifice he was met by a fisherman, who informed him that it was needless to proceed, as the ceremony was over. The bishop stared with surprise, when the fisherman went on to relate, 'that the night before, as he was in his boat on the Thames, St. Peter appeared to him, and told him that he intended to consecrate the church himself, that very night. The apostle accordingly went into the church, which suddenly became illuminated. The ceremony was performed in sumptuous style, accompanied by strains of heavenly music and clouds of fragrant inCense. After this, the apostle came into the boat and ordered the fisherman to cast his net. He did so, and had a miraculous draught of fishes ; one of which he was commanded to present to the bishop, and to signify to him that the apostle had relieved him from the necessity of consecrating the church. Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirmation of the fisherman's tale. He opened the church doors, and beheld wax can- dles, crosses, holy water ; oil sprinkled in various places, and various other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had still any lingering doubts, they were completely removed on the fisherman's producing the identical fish which he had been ordered by the apostle to present to him. To re- sist this would have been to resist ocular demonstration. The good bishop accordingly was convinced that the church had actually been consecrated by St. Peter in person ; so he reverently abstained from pro- ceeding further in the business. The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King Edward the Confessor chose this place as the site of a religious house which he APPENDIX. 529 meant to endow. He pulled down the old church and built another in its place in 1045. In this his remains were deposited in a magnificent shrine. The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a reconstruc- tion, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume its present appearance. Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that monarch turning the monks away, and seizing upon the revenues. RELICS OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR. A curious narrative was printed in 1688, by one of the choristers of the cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry of the sacred edifice, giving an account of his rummaging among the bones of Edward the Confessor, after they had quietly reposed in their sepulchre upwards of six hundred years, and of his drawing forth the crucifix and golden chain of the deceased monarch. During eighteen years that he had officiated in the choir, it had been a common tradition, he says, among his brother choristers and the gray-headed servants of the abbey, that the body of King Edward was deposited in a kind of chest or coffin, which was indis- tinctly seen in the upper part of the shrine erected to his memory. None of the abbey gossips, however, had ventured upon a nearer inspection, until the worthy narrator, to gratify his curiosity, mounted to the coffin by the aid of a ladder, and found it to be made of wood, apparently very strong and firm, being secured by bands of iron. Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used in the coro- nation of James II., the coffin was found to be broken, a hole appearing in the lid, probably made, through accident, by the workmen. No one ventured, however, to meddle with the sacred depository of royal dust, until, several weeks afterwards, the circumstance came to the knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. He forthwith repaired to the abbey in com- pany with two friends, of congenial tastes, who were desirous of inspect- ing the tombs. Procuring a ladder, he again mounted to the coffin, and found, as had been represented, a hole in the lid about six inches long and 24 530 THE SKETCH-BOOK four inches broad, just in front of the left breast. Thrusting in his hand, and groping among the bones, he drew from underneath the shoulder a crucifix, richly adorned and enameled, affixed to a gold chain twenty-four inches long. These he showed to his inquisitive friends, who were equally surprised with himself. " At the time," says he, "when I took the cross and chain out of the coffin, I drew the head to the hole and viewed it, being very sound and firm, with the upper and nether jaws whole and full of teeth, and a list of gold above an inch broad, in the nature of a coronet, surrounding the temples. There was also in the coffin, white linen and gold-colored flow- ered silk, that looked indifferent fresh ; but the least stress put thereto showed it was well nigh perished. There were all his bones, and much dust likewise, which I left as I found." It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride than the scull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently pulled about in its coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to grin face to face with him through a hole in the lid ! Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and chain back again into the coffin, and sought the dean, to apprise him of his dis- covery. The dean not being accessible at the time, and fearing that thb " holy treasure " might be taken away by other hands, he got a brother chorister to accompany him to the shrine about two or three hours after- wards, and in his presence again drew forth the relics. These he after- wards delivered on his knees to King James. The king subsequently had the old coffin inclosed in a new one of great strength : "each plank being two inches thick and cramped together with large iron wedges, where it now remains (1688) as a testimony of his pious care, that no abuse might be offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited." As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a description of it in modern times. " The solitary and forlorn shrine," says a British writer, "now stands a mere skeleton of what it was. A few faint traces of its sparkling decorations inlaid on solid mortar catch the rays of the sun, forever set on its splendos * * * * Only two of the spiral pil- APPENDIX. 531 lars remain. The wooden Ionic top is much broken, and covered with dust. The mosaic is picked away in every part within reach ; only the lozenges of about a foot square and five circular pieces of the rich marble remain." — Malcolm, Lond. rediv. INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO IN THE SKETCH. Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess his second wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret Lucas, young- est sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble family ; for all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous. This Duchess was a wise, witty, and learned lady, which her many Bookes do well testify : she was a most virtuous, and loving and careful wife, and was with her lord all the time of his banishment and miseries, and when he came home, never parted from him in his solitary retirement. In the winter time, when the days are short, the service in the after- noon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect is fine of the choir partially lighted up, while the main body of the cathedral and the tran- septs are in profound and cavernous darkness. The white dresses of the choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the open slats and canopies ; the partial illumination makes enormous shadows from columns and screens, and darting into the surrounding gloom, catches here and there upon a sepulchral decoration, or monumental effigy. The swelling notes of the organ accord well with the scene. When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling, in the old conventual part of the pile, by the boys of the choir, in their white dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes through the abbey and along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches and grim sepulchral monuments, and leaving all behind in darkness. 532 THE SKETCH-BOOK. On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's Yard, the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage catches a distant view of a white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which a strong glare thrown by a gas light has quite a spectral effect. It is a mural monu- ment of one of the Pultneyg, NOTES. The numbers before the notes refer to the page and line on which the words occur. THE VOYAGE. 22, 3. Quarter railing. The "quarter" is the after part of a vessel's side. 24, 16. The Banks of Newfoundland. These are high submarine plateaus off the coast of Newfoundland, and on them is the richest fishing ground in the world. Dense fogs prevail in this region because of condensation of moisture in the air due to the contact of the warm Gulf Stream with the cold currents from the north. 22. Smacks. Small sailing vessels used chiefly for fishing. 27, 13. Mersey. This is the river on which is situated the great port of Liverpool. ROSCOE. 29. Roscoe. William Roscoe (t-TH-iZz?-), an historian and general writer. His chief works were his "Life of Lorenzo de Medici" (1796) and "Life of Leo X." (1805). 30, 18 Medici. A great Florentine family, who for the greater part of two centuries and a half ruled their city. The Medici fur- nished two popes and two queens of France, and to them Florence owes many of her glorious monuments of art. The family became extinct in 1743. 32, 11. Daily beauty in his life. " Othello," V. 1. 36, 6. Black letter. Ancient books printed in black letter type are so called. Black letter is a pointed and heavy-faced form of Pvoman type, perhaps first copied by type-founders from the style of penmanship adopted by some manuscript writers not particularly skilful in the formation of curves. 37, 21. Pompey's pillar. The pillar erected in the third century by the prefect of Egypt in honor of the Emperor Diocletian. Pompey had nothing to do with it. ' 533 534 EXPLANATORY NOTES. RIP VAN WINKLE. 50, 2. Dietrich Knickerbocker. A quaint old Dutch litterateur, a fictitious character, originated by Irving and assumed by him to be the author of Knickerbocker's ' ' History of New York." Besides the MS. of the History, Diedrich left other papers and documents at his death ready for publication. He is represented as a small, brisk-looking old gentleman dressed in a rusty black coat, a pair of velvet breeches, and a small cocked hat. For full details see the "Account of the Author" in the introductory pages of the "History of New York." 51. Waterloo Medal. A medal given to British soldiers for the battle of Waterloo, 181 5. 51. Queen Anne's farthing. There is a common belief in England that only three specimens of the farthing of Queen Anne are in existence, and that of these three two are in the possession of the Government. The third would consequently be of very great value. As a matter of fact, the coin is not particularly rare. 51, 2. Kaatskill. Catskill, a range of mountains in eastern New York. 3. Appalachian family. Referring to the Appalachian range of mountains, which extends 1500 miles along the eastern portion of the United States, — from Alabama to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, — and includes the White, Green, Adirondack, Catskill, and Alleghany Mountains. 52, 6. Peter Stuyvesant. The last of the Dutch governors of the colony of New Netherlands, now New York. As governor he tried in every way to preserve peace with the Indians, to encourage trade and agriculture, and to induce settling. 15. Province of Great Britain. The English under the Duke of York took control of New Netherlands, and changed its name to New York. 1/9. Fort Christina. A fort belonging to the Swedish settlers in Delaware. 53, 1. Curtain lecture. A private reproof given by a wife to her husband. 55, 1. Galligaskins. A kind of leggings, supposed to take their name from the Latin words c'aligcB Vasconum, meaning hose worn by the people of Gascony, France. 56, 2. Terrors of a woman's tongue. See "Taming of the Shrew," Act I. Sc. 2. EXPLANATORY NOTES. 535 5. Gallows air. With the appearance of one on the gallows and about to be hanged; meek; a "hang-dog" look. 17. George the Third. King of England, began to reign 1760, died 1820. 57) 3- Junto. A. select deliberative assembly. 62, 15. Hollands. Gin imported from Holland. 66, 22. Red Night-Cap. During the French Revolution the red cap was regarded as the symbol of liberty. Irving represents the villagers as having erected a liberty-pole with a red cap on its top, and flung the American flag to the breezes, thereby celebrating the recently acquired independence of the country. 67, 9. Phlegm. From a Greek word meaning inflammation; one of the humors with which the ancients supposed the blood to be suffused. Here the word simply means dulness, sluggishness, stupidity. 18. Babylonish Jargon. Babylon is supposed to have stood on the spot where the Tower of Babel was built; confused, unintelli- gible. Jargon [Fr. jargon], confused talk or language, gabble. 68, 1. Federal or Democrat. At the time of the formation and adoption of the Constitution of the United States, the members of one political party favored it and were called Federalists ; the mem- bers of the other opposed it and were called Democrats. These two parties also had opposite views concerning the foreign and domestic policy of the new nation. « 6. Akimbo. Der. is obscure, probably relating to the Keltic, kam or cam, crooked. Dryden has : ' ' The kimbo handles seem with bear's foot carved." Halliwell has: "Arms on kemboll, " i.e., akimbo. To rest the hand on the hip with the elbow thrown forward and out. 69, 6. Stony Point. A rocky promontory on the Hudson River, A fort on its top was captured from the British by General Anthony Wayne, in 1779, by a brilliant assault. 8. Anthony's Nose. Fanciful name of another rocky promontory on the Hudson. Why it came to have this name, see Irving's "History of New York," Book VI. ch. iv. 74, 27. Frederick der Rothbart. Generally called in English Frederick Barbarossa. Frederick I. (1152-90), Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, was one of the most striking characters of the .Middle Ages. He went on several crusades, and fought a number of wars all over Europe. He was succeeded in 1 190 by Henry VI. 536 EXPLANATORY NOTES, ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 75. Strong man. An allusion to the biblical hero Samson, whose strength was invincible till his hair was shorn. 8. Cataracts of the Nile. The upper course of the Nile was an age-long mystery, which has only recently been solved. 24. Manchester and Birmingham. Great manufacturing centres. 79, 2. Experiments now performing. The active used for the passive, as in the expression, "The house is building." 80, 5. El Dorado. Land of Gold, a name given to America by the Spaniards of the sixteenth century. 81, 21. Apocryphal. Of doubtful authenticity, as is the Apoc- rypha, a collection of books whose claim to a place in the Bible was much disputed. 23. Ignominious bread. Worthy literary work is supposed not to be done from purely mercenary motives. 84, 8. Fountain-head of literature. The descendants of the original English settlers of America may rightly claim as their direct inheritance all of English history and literature that preceded the separation of the two countries. This essay is an admirable combination of the justifiable pride of Irving in his own country and the deference due to an old and glorious country like England. Time has gradually modified and improved the relations of the two countries, and Americans find that Englishmen are more in harmony with their own ideas on important matters, and as to what matters are really important, than the people of any other European nation. 85, 26. Between nations. Between instead of among, because, though many nations are spoken of, the author is thinking of the personal relations of two. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 90. Cowper. An eighteenth-century poet of simple, domestic life in an artificial age. 8. Wakes. Irish funerals, regarded, in a sense, as festivals. 26. Rendezvous. The French spelling and pronunciation are both retained. (Originally the verb rendezvous, render or present yourselves.) 94, 14. Touchings. Instead of touches, for greater vividness, picturing the artist in the very act. 95. This page gives a good idea of the distinct gradations of social rank existing in England. EXPLANATORY NOTES. 537 97, 4. Chaucer. Geoffrey Chaucer, a great English poet of the eleventh century. He was almost the first to see that real people and their daily life may make as interesting a story as mytho- logical beings and impossible adventures. 98, 11. Monuments of warriors, etc. Recumbent figures of the deceased are common in old English churches. THE BROKEN HEART. 10. Dormant fires. The figure is that of a volcano springing to life after a period of inactivity. 14. Blind deity. The god of love is often represented as blind- folded. 102, 22. Wings of the Morning. An allusion to Psalm cxxxix, 9, "Should I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the utter- most parts of the earth," etc. " 104, 11. Thunderbolt. The thunder, not the lightning, was formerly regarded as the destroying element, and the idea still survives in this word. 105, 11. Barrister. The English term for a lawyer. 106, 3. Widowed. Bereft. 23. " Heeded not the song," etc. Paraphrase of Psalm lviii. 4, 5. 108, 9. Moore. Thomas Moore, a graceful and imaginative Irish poet of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 109, 9. Great Metropolis. London. 14. British Museum. A vast museum in London filled with artistic, literary, and antiquarian treasures. 112, 1. "Pure English undented." Spenser's "Faerie Queene" has "Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled." 27. " Line upon line," etc. Isaiah xxviii. 10. 113, 2. Witches' Caldron. See "Macbeth," IV. r. 22. Metempsychosis. The passing of the soul from one body to another. 115, 26. The Paradise of Dainty Devices. A miscellany, com- posed of the best work of some of the early Elizabethan poets, published in 1576. 27. Sir Philip Sidney. (1554-86). An accomplished gentleman, writer, and statesman, living in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. He was the author of the pastoral romance "Arcadia" ; the sonnet- 538 EXPLANATORY NOTES. sequence "Astrophel and Stella," and other works in prose and verse. 116, 5. Small clothes. Breeches. 18. Primrose Hill. An elevation near Regent's Park, now a public garden. 19. Regent's Park. A park in London. 22. " Babbling about green fields." See the description of FalstafFs death in "King Henry V.," II. 3. 117, 15. Beaumont and Fletcher. Two famous dramatists who wrote plays together. They flourished a little later than Shake- speare. 16. Castor and Pollux. Two devoted brothers in Greek and Roman mythology. They were heroic sons of Zeus, or Jupiter. 17. Ben Johnson. A dramatist some time later than Shakespeare ;" one of our most learned playwrights. Among his finest works are his masques, upon which he lavished his stores of learning. 22. Patroclus. The friend of Achilles, for whose body a mighty battle raged between the Trojans a'ndthe Greeks. See "Iliad," XVII. 28. In full cry. Close in pursuit; a phrase taken from the hunting field, where the hounds are said to be "in full cry" when fairly upon the track of their prey. 118, 8. Learned Theban. Cf. "King Lear," III. 4. A ROYAL POET. 119, Fletcher. John Fletcher, a dramatist of the Elizabethan period, who wrote in collaboration with Francis Beaumont. 119, 2. Windsor Castle. Residence of the English sovereign. 6. Mural crown. A simile especially appropriate to the archi- tecture of the castle. 120, 3. Charles the Second. Reigned 1660-85. 5. Sir Peter Lely. Noted portrait painter of Charles II. 's reign. 11. Surrey. Earl of Surrey, soldier and poet, executed on a charge of treason in Henry VIII. 's reign. 122, 19. Active and elegant life. In should be repeated before elegant. 123, 20. Torquato Tasso. An Italian poet of the sixteenth century. 124, 17. Ermine. This fur was distinctive of royalty. 125, 8. " Cynthia .... Aquarius." The moon in the constellation of Aquarius (the water-bearer). EXPLANATORY NOTES. 539 14. Chaucer. See note to "Rural Life in England." 126, 5. Errantry. The ideals and manners of the Knights of the Round Table. 127, 10. Milton. John Milton, one of England's noblest poets, 1608-74. 25. Bewailing. Usually transitive. 130, 5. Morrowe. Morning. 131, 23. Phoebus. The sun god. 132, 13. Turtle-dove. A love token, because of the wonderful constancy of doves to their mates. 134, 2. Gower. John Gower. A contemporary of Chaucer. 28. Captivating fiction. Scott's novels. 137, 14. Moat of the keep. The ditch, filled with water, surround- ing the stronghold of the castle. 139, 2. Vaucluse. A fountain in southern France, in the midst of a very picturesque solitude. 4. Loretto. An Italian locality to which many pilgrimages are made. THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 140, 13. Armorial bearings. The coats of arms of ancient families. 16. Marble effigies. See note on the essay "Rural Life in England." 141, 18. Throw off. To take the scent and start the chase. 143, 6. En prince. In princely style,. 144, 1 3 • 'Change. The Royal Exchange, the heart of the business system of London. 22. Lord Mayor's Day. A great London festival. See the essay on "Little Britain." Notice how many of " The Sketch Book " essays contain a scene laid in an English country church, and how well this background lends itself to many aspects of English life. THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 148. Christopher Marlowe. An English poet of the sixteenth century. 150,12. Yew-trees. The yew and the cypress are associated with cemeteries. 154, 18. Press-gang. Parties of roughs hired to kidnap young men for compulsory service at sea. 540 EXPLANATORY NOTES. THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. *63, 3. Shakespeare. William Shakespeare. England's greatest dramatic poet, 1564-1616. 10. Rushlight. A candle made by dipping rushes in tallow. 12. Brethren of the quill. Literary workers, supposed to be fond of old days and ways, and therefore spoken of as if they still used the quill pen. 22. German critic. Goethe. 27. Henry the Fourth. First sovereign of the House of Lancaster, 1399-1413- 164, 14. Fat Jack. Sir John Falstaff, a comic character in Shake- speare's plays of "The Merry Wives of Windsor" and " Henry Fourth." 165, 3. Dame Quickly. An amusing servant and landlady in the plays just mentioned. 12. Guildhall. The old town hall erected by the guilds or trades unions. The giants referred to are statues called Gog and Magog though some contend that they really represent two giants of Celtic renown. 15. London Stone. Said to have been the central mile-stone from which the Roman roads in Britain radiated. It is carefully pre- served and the superstition is that its loss or destruction would mean the ruin of London. 16. Jack Cade. Unsuccessful pretender to the crown in Henry IV.'s reign. 21. Old Stowe. John Stowe, a sixteenth-century antiquary, author of "The Survey of London." 166, 22. Monument. It commemorates the great London fire in the reign of Charles II. 167, 4. Pistol. A companion of Falstaff. t68, 12. Milton's angels. In "Paradise Lost," where their con- versation smacks somewhat of the political discussions of Milton's own day. 2. Marlborough. John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, a famous English general of Queen Anne's reign. He totally defeated the French in the decisive battles of Blenheim, Malplaquet, Ramillies, and Oudenarde. 2. Turenne. Great French general in the Thirty- Years Wf,r, in the seventeenth century. EXPLANATORY NOTES. 541 7. Wat Tyler. Leader of an unsuccessful popular uprising in the reign of Richard II. 7. Smithfield. A place near London, noted chiefly as the location of the burning of heretics in the reign of Mary. 8. Blazon. The device on a knight's shield. 10. Cockney. A native Londoner. 171, 7. Prince Hal. Afterwards Henry V. 172, a 1. Bully -rock. An insolent fellow. 174, 28. Scriblerius. Martinus Scriblerius, a character invented by Pope, represented as a man of vast reading but little judgment. 175, 1. Knights of the Round Table. The chivalric followers of King Arthur. 2. San-greal. The cup used at the Last Supper and long and vainly sought by the Knights of the Round Table. 178, 5. Parcel-gilt. Partly gilded. 8. Portland vase. A Greek vase purchased for 5000 pounds ster- ling, by the Duchess of Portland, and presented to the British Museum. THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 180, 5. Domesday Book. The ancient record of the survey of most of the lands of England made by order of William the Con- queror about 1086. 184, 19. Robert Grossetest {cir. 1 175-1253) was Bishop of Lincoln. He was an ardent reformer and the author of many learned treatises. 26. Giraldus Cambrensis {cir. 1147-1223). A Welsh historian and ecclesiastic. 185, 2. Henry of Huntington {cir. 1084-1155). Wrote "Historia Anglorum." 5. Joseph of Exeter (fl, 1190). One of the best media? val Latin poets. 10. John Wallis. A learned man of his time. 12. William of Malmesbury {cir. 109 5-1 143). He wrote histories of the English kings and bishops. 12. Simeon of Durham (fl. 1 130). A monk of Durham who wrote histories. 13. Benedict of Peterborough (d. 1 1 9 3) . Abbot of Peterborough ; wrote a history of the miracles of St. Thomas a Becket, etc. 13. John Hanvill of St. Albans (fl. 1230). A Dominican monk of great learning. 542 EXPLANATORY NOTES. 21. Wynkyn de Worde. An early sixteenth-century English printer, pupil of, and successor to, Caxton. 186, ii. Robert of Gloucester (fl. 1 260-1300). Wrote an English chronicle. 187, 26. Sir Philip Sidney's "Arcadia." See note, above. 26 Sackville, Thomas, Earl of Dorset ( 1 536-1608). Wrote plays to which Irving's epithet is justly applied. "The Mirror for Magistrates," is a noble poem. 28. John Lyly (1 553-1606). Author of "Euphues," from which we get our word euphuism. RURAL FUNERALS. 1 95« Cymbeline. Shakespeare's play, dealing with the story of one of the mythical kings of Britain. 196, 3. Ophelia. The unfortunate heroine of Shakespeare's " Hamlet." 22. Bourne. Vincent Bourne, an eighteenth-century writer of Latin poems, etc, 197, 8. Herrick. Robert Herrick, a seventeenth-century writer of graceful poetry. 198, 3. Beaumont and Fletcher. Two dramatists of the Eliza- bethan age who wrote in collaboration. 199, 22. Corydon. A Greek shepherd in a poem of Theocritus. The name has been adopted 1}y many poets for similar characters. 202, 7. Laertes. Brother of Ophelia. 204, 8. Jeremy Taylor. A religious writer of the seventeenth century. 25. Whitsuntide. The week beginning at midsummer. THE INN KITCHEN. 3. Pomme d'Or. Golden Apple. 213, 5. Diligence. A public coach. 214, 14. Aquiline. Curved (from aquila, an eagle). 23. Ecume de mer. Literally, sea foam. Amber, which is found floating on the surface of the sea. THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 217, 12. Minnelieders. Mediaeval German writers of romantic poetry. 221, 2. Heidelburg tun. A huge wine vat in the cellar of Heidel- burg Castle. 4. Saus und Braus. Revelry. EXPLANATORY NOTES. 543 222, 4. Starkenfaust, Sturdy-Fist. 229, 14. Leonora. An eighteenth-century ballad by Gottfried Burger, whose heroine is carried away by her spectral lover. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 239, 1. Westminster School. Many of the old cathedrals have endowed schools attached to them. 242,3. Addison. Joseph Addison, a famous essayist, (1672-17 19). 245, 3. Roubiliac. Louis Francois Roub iliac. A noted French sculptor of the seventeenth century. 246, 7. Henry the Seventh. The first of the Tudor sovereigns. He reigned 148 5-1 5 09. 23. Knights of the Bath. The Order of the Bath was established by Henry IV. 24. Gothic architecture. The style characterized by pointed arches and spires. It made its appearance in Europe in the twelfth century. 248, 8. Elizabeth. Reigned 1 558-1 603. 10. Mary. Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, executed by order of Elizabeth, whose prisoner she had long been. 250, 13. Edward the Confessor. A pious but not very efficient king, who reigned in the eleventh century. 251, 18. Henry the Fifth. Reigned 1413-22. 253, 1. Sir Thomas Brown. English writer of the seventeenth century. 12. Cambyses. King of the Medes and Persians, in. the sixth century b.c. 13. Mizraim .... balsams. The remains of enslaved Hebrews or mighty sovereigns are alike merely curious relics or aids to superstition. CHRISTMAS. 255, 21. Announcements. Cf. St. Luke ii. 260,7. Waits Qev.wacht or wache; Eng. watch]. Musicians who perform at night or in the early morning. In this connection waits are musicians who play during the night or early morning for two or three weeks before Christmas. 10. "When deep sleepfalleth upon man." Cf. Job iv.13; xxxiii. 15. 22. " Some say that ever," etc. "Hamlet," Act. I. Sc. 1. THE STAGE COACH. 262, 9. Yorkshire. A county in the north of England. r 544 EXPLANATORY NOTES. 263, 18. Bucephalus. The famous horse of Alexander the Great. 270, 6. Poor Robin. The name under which Robert Herrick, the poet, issued a series of almanacs. 20. Frank Bracebridge. Bracebridge Hall, the scene of these Christmas sketches in the "Sketch Book," is treated of by Irving in a separate work bearing that name. CHRISTMAS EVE. 273, 4. Chesterfield. Lord Chesterfield, author of the famous letters. 275, 28. " Mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound," etc., from Gold- smith's "Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog." 276, 4. " The little dog and all," etc. "King Lear," III. 6. 25. The old games. Many of the old Christmas games resembled those now played by young people. Hoodman Blind is the same as Blindman's Buff. In Hot Cockles one of the players is blindfolded and seeks to guess who strikes at him. In Snap-Dragon the sport is to see the player snatch dainties from a bowl of blazing brandy. 281, 14. Buffet. A sideboard, from the French. 287, 24. Tester [old Fr. teste, the head]. Top cover or canopy of a bed, supported by the bedstead. CHRISTMAS DAY. 293, 24. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert (147 0-153 8). A very learned judge who wrote books on husbandry, surveying, etc., for farmers. 295, 20. Old Tusser (1527-80). Wrote a work entitled "A Hun- dreth Good Pointes of Husbandrie." 298, 4. Druids. The priests of the ancient Britons and other Celtic races. 299, 16. Cremona fiddles. Cremona in Italy was the home of such famous violin-makers as the Guarneri and Stradivari families. 300, 20. Theophilus of Cesarea. A Father of the Church. 20. St. Cyprian (cir. 200-58). A famous Father of the Church. 20. St. Chrysostom (cir. 347-407). Another famous Father of the Church. His name means "golden-mouthed." 21. St. Augustine (d. 604). The first Archbishop of Canterbury, who converted great numbers of the English to Christianity. 301, 19. Prynne (1600-69). A leader of the Puritan movement in England. 304, 6. "With old Duke Humphrey dine," etc. Go without dinner 7. Squire Ketch. The hangman. EXPLANATORY NOTES. 545 308, 5. Pandean. An epithet formed from the name, Par , of the Greek god of flocks and shepherds. He is said to have invented the syrinx or shepherd's flute. THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 310, 26. Belshazzar. The Babylonian king whose downfall was foretold by the prophet Daniel from the handwriting on the wall. 311, 17. Holbein. Hans Holbein, a distinguished Dutch artist, 1497-1543- 17. Albert Durer. German artist, 1471-1528. 312, 7. Henry the Eighth. Reigned 1509-47. 316, 16. Wassail bowl. A huge bowl of punch, an essential part of the Christmas festivities. 317, 13. Chanson. An old song. 320, 15. Isis. The upper part of the Thames. 8. Crusaders. Those who took part in the expeditions, in the eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth centuries, for the recovery of the Holy Land from the Mohammedans. 324, 14. Midsummer eve. The summer solstice, about June 21. 326* 6. Covenanters. Scotch societies bound by oath to resist the religious dictation of the Stuarts. 12. Robin Hood. A famous English outlaw of the thirteenth century. 19. Maid Marian. Wife of Robin Hood. LONDON ANTIQUES. 33i, 23. Holy Land. The scene of biblical history. 24. 'Knights Templars. A military religious order established in the twelfth century and vowed to the protection of the Holy Sepul- chre and the pilgrims and crusaders visiting it. It gained rapidly in power and wealth, but became insubordinate, extravagant, and vicious, and was suppressed by a papal council in 13 12. 333, 27. Labyrinth. A system of hopelessly involved paths. The Cretan Labyrinth is celebrated in mythology. 334, 12. Black art. Magic used for evil purposes. LITTLE BRITAIN. 339, 6. Smithfield. See note on The Boar's Head Tavern. 10. Newgate. An old prison in London. 12. St. Paul's. St. Paul's Cathedral, one of the oldest churches in London. 342, 2. John Bullism. See the essay on John Bull. 546 EXPLANATORY NOTES. 7. Shrove Tuesday. The day before the beginning of Lent. 7. Good Friday. The last Friday in Lent, observed in memory of the Crucifixion. 8. Michaelmas. An autumn church festival. 9. Fifth of November. Guy Fawkes Day. It celebrates the frustration of the Gunpowder Plot to blow up the Houses of Par- liament, in the reign of James I. 10. Mistletoe. A parasitic plant with waxy white berries, used in Christmas decorations. 19. Monument. A memorial of the great London fire. 20. Tower. The Tower of London, formerly a state prison. It contains many valuable historical relics and is rich in interesting associations. 25. Mother Shipton. A rhymed prophecy ascribed to Mother Shipton and the sixteenth century (though obviously tinkered with since then) foretold, among other things, that "In eighteen hundred and eighty-one The world unto an end shall come." Enough of its predictions, however, have come true to give it still a certain interest. 344, 5. Sibyls. Fortune-tellers. We read of several Roman sibyls, especially the Cumsean Sibyl, who intimidated Tarquin into buying her magic books at an exorbitant price by destroying a quarter of them at each of his refusals. 6. Grasshopper and dragon. Weathercocks. 2i, 28. King . . . queen. Referring to events happening at the time of the death of George III. and the accession of George IV. 348, 18. Gammer Gurton's Needle. One of the oldest comedies in English. 350, 20. Saturnalia. A Roman festival in which servants wer» allowed great temporary freedom. 351, 15. Temple Bar. Over this celebrated arch the heads of those executed for treason were formerly displayed. 352, 24. Sir Roger de Coverley. Addison's genial and eccentric country gentleman. 354, 11. Pope-Joan. A legendary woman Pope. 19. Kean. A celebrated actor of the last century. 19. Edinburgh Review. The quarterly magazine, established about a century ago. Its dictum was decisive of an author's standing. EXPLANATORY NOTES. 547 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 362, 15. Jubilee. The Shakespeare Jubilee was held at Stratford September 6, 1769. 15. David Garrick (1717-79). The famous actor and friend of Johnson, Goldsmith, etc. 364, 14. Santa Casa of Loretto [Santa Casa — Holy House]. The house reputed to have been occupied by the Virgin Mary at Nazareth and miraculously transported to Italy, where it stood on ground belonging to the Lady Laureta. 372, 10. Justice Shallow, Falstaff, Slender, and Anne Page are characters in "King Henry IV." and "The Merry Wives of Windsor." 378,19. "Underthe greenwood tree," etc. From "As you Like It." 380, 5. Moss-troopers. Bandits. 381, 20. Star-Chamber. A high court of England, abolished in the reign of Charles I. So called because of the stars on the ceiling in the room in which it sat. 22. Coram = quorum. 23. Custalorum = Custus rotulorum. Keeper of the rolls. 24. Ratalorum = another error for Custos rotulorum. 25. Armigero = artniger, esquire. TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 15. Subtilty. Distinguish between this word and subtlety. PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 406. Campbell. John Campbell, an English poet, 1777-1844. 415-416. Literature is full of tales of omens in nature preceding national crises. Shakespeare often uses this device, as in " Mac- beth " and " Julius Cassar." 421,18. Renegado. Spanish form of renegade, a person false to a trust, particularly a religious apostate. JOHN BULL. 432, 13. Beau ideal. A peerless model. 435, 24. Magnifico. A Venetian noble. 440, 21. Mattock. A spade. One of the few Celtic words di- rectly inherited by the English language. THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 450, 19. "Earth to earth," etc. A quotation from the English Prayer Book. 548 EXPLANATORY NOTES. 26. Rachel. Biblical character, the wife of Jacob. 455, 11. Continent. The mainland of Europe. 457, 28. Silver cord. An allusion to the passage in the book of Ecclesiastes, referring to old age, "Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken," etc. THE ANGLER. 461, 4. Robinson Crusoe. Defoe's hero is known to every schoolboy. 8. Izaak Walton. 15 68-1 63 9. 462, 1. Don Quixote. The brave and simple-minded hero of the Spanish author Cervantes. 4. Cap-a-pie. From head to foot. 10. Harnessed. Armed for conflict. 12. Hero of La Mancha. Don Quixote. 467, 1. Piscator. A fisherman. 25. Camperdown. A naval victory over the Dutch, in 1798. 472, 27. Sinbad. Sinbad the Sailor, whose marvellous adventures are related in " The Arabian Nights." 476,26. Church. This old Dutch church, finished in 1699,1s still in existence. Within a stone's throw was the old mill, built in 1668, near '/.he bridge alongside of which Ichabod Crane disappeared. 478, 9. Remote period. An example of Irving's quiet humor and genial satire. 18. Cognomen [L. con, with; nomen, name]. Surname. Roman families of position had three names. The cognomen was the last of the three. 479, 13. Eel-pot. A basket made in a peculiar shape, and used to catch eels. 24. "Spare the rod and spoil the child." Cf. Butler's "Hudi- bras," Part II. C. i. 1. 843. "Love is a boy by poets styl'd; Then spare the rod and spoil the child. '- "He that spareth his rod hateth his son." — Prov. xiii. 24. 480, 28. Going the rounds. This custom of boarding the school- master around the neighborhood is still kept up in certain sections of the country. "Boarding round" was the universal custom in olden times in New England. 481, 7. Useful and agreeable. Contrast this description of a country schoolmaster with the sketch of Goldsmith's village master EXPLANATORY NOTES. 549 in the "Deserted Village," I. 193; and the college pedagogue de- scribed by Whittier in his " Snow-Bound.' ; 1 5 . The Lion bold, etc. Allusion is made to the rude couplet in the "New England Primer," which was placed beside the picture of a lion resting his paw on a lamb. This served to explain the letter L. "The Lion bold The Lamb doth hold." 16. Whilome [A. S. whilon, sometime]. Formerly, once, of old. 482, 5. By hook and by crook. Somehow; in one way or another. Many suggestions have been ventured in explanation of this phrase, but none are satisfactory. See Brewer's "Dictionary of Phrase and Fable," and Edwards's "Words, Facts, and Phrases." 483, 6. " History of New England Witchcraft." Cotton Mather (1663-17 28), a profound and industrious scholar and celebrated theologian of New England, was the author of 382 works, mostly theological. His best known work was "Magnalia Christi Americana," "a bulky thing," as the author called it, of 1300 pages. The work is a mighty chaos of fables and blunders, discussing almost every question, particularly theology and witchcraft. "It is never possible to tell," says Professor Moses Coit Tyler, "just where the fiction ends and the history begins." Irving probably had the "Magnalia" in mind. 484, 13. Linked sweetness. See Milton's "L'Allegro," 1. 140. "Of linked sweetness long drawn out." 486, 16. Saardam. A little town in Holland. 16. Stomacher. Part of the waist of a woman's dress, used as an ornament or support. "Instead of a stomacher a girding of sack- cloth." — Isaiah iii. 24. 487, 2. Stronghold. Van Tassel's stronghold is supposed to be the same cottage which Irving bought for a residence, and became known as "Sunnyside." Irving describes it as "a little old-fash- ioned stone mansion, all made up of gable ends, and as full of angles and corners as an old cocked hat." 488,9. Mind's eye. Cf. " In my mind's eye, Horatio." — ** Ham- let," I. Sc. 2. 1 o. Pudding in his belly. ' ' That roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly." — Shakespeare. 1 Hen. IV., II. 4. 489, 1 1 . Setting out for Kentucky. At this time these States were thought of as in the remote West. 550 EXPLANATORY NOTES. 27. Dresser. An old-time article of kitchen furniture, somewhat resembling the modern sideboard, on which the table dishes were arranged. 490, 1. Linsey-woolsey. Cloth made of linen and wool from which homespun garments were made. 4. Gaud [Lat. gaudium, gladness, joy]. Show, ornament. Also spelled gawd in Shakespeare. 8. Asparagus tops. Commonly used to ornament the old-fash- ioned fireplace in summer. 9. Mock-oranges. A species of gourds, of various colors, shaped like oranges, commonly used as household ornaments. 13. Old silver, etc. For additional details of the furniture of a well-to-do Dutch farmhouse, see Irving's "Knickerbocker's History of New York." 20. Knight-errant [A. S. cnight, boy, servant; Eng. knight, a soldier who fought on horseback: errant, Lat. errare, to wander]. A soldier who travelled to exhibit his military prowess. 24. Castle-keep. The castle dungeon, used as a prison for cap- tives, or as a place of last defence. 491, 16. Herculean. Hercules, one of the most celebrated heroes of Greek legends, was famous for his great strength and incredible feats. 20. Tartar.- The Tartars, inhabitants of Tartary, once a large province in Central Asia, were noted for their horsemanship. 492, 11. Don Cossacks. The Don Cossacks belonged to one of the great branches of the Cossack people, inhabiting a vast fertile plain on the River Don. They are noted for their skilful and daring horsemanship. The Cossacks furnish a large and valuable con- tingent of light cavalry to the Russian army. 19. Rantipole. A wild, harum-scarum fellow, a madcap. One of the nicknames given to Napoleon III. "Dick be a little rantipolish." — Colman's "Heir-at-Law." 493, 9. Supple-jack. The popular name of a tough and flexible Southern vine, often used for walking sticks. 15. Achilles. The hero of Homer's " Iliad "; one of the bravest of the Greek warriors who took part in the siege of Troy. 495, 16. Harried [Fr. harrier, to vex]. Harassed, vexed. 24. Quilting frolic. An old-time merrymaking. The women were invited in the afternoon to ' ' quilt " ; toward night the men came EXPLANATORY NOTES. 551 to tea, after which followed games, dancing, gossip, etc. The "apple bee " and "husking bee " were similar merrymakings. Says Irving: "Now were instituted 'quilting bees,' and 'husking bees,' and other rural assemblages, where, under the inspiring influence of the fiddle, toil was enlivened by gayety and followed up by the dance.' — " History of New York," Bk. VII. ch. 2. 499» T 7- Gorget [Fr. gorge, the throat; garget, the throat, in- Chaucer]. The gorget was that part of ancient armor which de- fended the neck. Also a crescent-shaped ornament formerly worn by military officers on the breast. 19. Monteiro. Fancy-colored, jaunty. Derivation of the word is in some doubt. 500, 12. Treacle. The syrup drained from sugar in making it. Molasses. Literally, means an antidote against the bite of wild beasts. Triacle, a sovereign remedy, commonly used in Middle English. 501, 13. With scissors and pincushions. For more details of the quaint style of dress among the Dutch people see Irving's " Hist, of N. Y.," Bk. III. ch. 4. 502, 12. Oly Koek [Dutch olie koek, oil cake]. Cakes, like dough- nuts and crullers, fried in lard. 20. Higgledy-piggledy. Take notice of the numerous colloquial and familiar phrases used by Irving in his easy style of writing, as "higgledy-piggledy'-' "topsy-turvy," "all hollow," "by hook and by crook," etc. 504, 4. St. Vitus. Sometimes held to be the patron saint of the dance. He was supposed to have control over nervous and hysterial affections. Hence his power was invoked against the nervous disease, marked by irregular and involuntary movements of the muscles, called chorea, or more commonly St. Vitus's dance. 26. Cow-boys. A gang of plunderers infesting the neutral ground lying between the British and American lines during the war of the Revolution. In the second volume of his "Life of Washington," Irving gives a detailed and graphic account of the troubles and trials of this portion of the river during the Revolution. 505, 8. Mynheer [Ger. mein, my; herr, a lord, sir]. A Dutch word meaning Mr. or Sir. 9. White Plains. A battle of little advantage to the Americans was fought here in 1776. 552 EXPLANATORY NOTES. 506, 15. Major Andre\ This brave, but unfortunate, British officer was captured by three patriots in this neighborhood while carrying despatches from the traitor Benedict Arnold to the British general Sir Henry Clinton. Andre was hanged as a spy, and his body buried beneath the gallows. Read details of this interesting topic in some history of the United States. 508, 21. Pillion. A cushion for a woman to ride on behind a person on horseback. Rarely used to-day. 27. T6te-a-Tete. Literally, head to head. A familiar conversa- tion, a cozy talk, a confidential interview. 509, 17. Timothy. A name commonly given to a species of grass. One Timothy Hanson is said to have carried the grass to England and hence gave rise to the name. 19. Witching time of night. Cf. "Hamlet,'- III. 2, 1. 406. ' "T is now the very witching time of night When grave-yards yawn, '2 etc. 510, 11. Goblin [Fr. gobelin, a hobgoblin]. An evil spirit, a frightful phantom; a fairy, an elf. 513, 27. Stave. A staff or metrical portion of a tune. A verse in psalm-singing. 515, 20. Reach that bridge. It was a superstitious notion that witches could not cross the middle of a stream. Cf. Burns's "Tarn o' Shanter " — "A running stream they darena cross." 517, 2. Corduroy [Fr. corde-du-roi, cord of the king]. A thick cotton cloth, corded or ribbed, from which wearing apparel for common use was often made. 4. Dog's ears. The corner of a leaf in a book, turned down like the ear of a dog. 518, 17. Ten Pound Court. A court having jurisdiction over cases involving sums not over ten pounds, or about fifty dollars. 519, 6. Unfortunate pedagogue. Notice the various epithets given by Irving to Ichabod Crane; as "worthy pedagogue," "a huge feeder," "the enraptured Ichabod," etc. '