THE WORKS 
 
 ov 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 NEW EDITION, REVISED 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 G. P. PUTNAM, 11.- NASSAU STREET. 
 
 1860 
 
Qrrr 
 
 V/^'^^" THOMAS 
 ^^Q- 3.. 1940 
 
L|eof|Teij C^u-yc 
 
 :^t;A'\^ -^-rrr^\ 
 
THE 
 
 SKETCH BOOK 
 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gext' 
 
 "I bar(> nn wife nwr ftMUlren, (fvxl or bad, U> prrrtUUi tnr. A m^re »[i*<r- 
 Uti/r of otlier nifn'* UirUttien lunl a/lventare)!, anrl liow tlMsy {»!fty th*lr paru, 
 whkb, iTMstiilnk.t, tre dtreriKly {vrexenud anU> nrus, as from a eotnntAn tb«atra or 
 •c«!»«." — Burton. 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S REVISKD EDITION 
 
 OOM/T-ETE r>; OVE VOIXME. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 PUTNAM, 115 NASSAU STREET 
 I860. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, by 
 
 "Washington Irviko, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of tlio District Court for the Soutliern District of 
 
 New Yorlc. 
 
f^C 
 
 Al 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FAOB 
 
 Tub Aurnos's Aooottxt of Himself, 9 
 
 The Yotage, 13 
 
 RosooE, 21 
 
 The Wife, .31 
 
 Rip Van "Winkle, 41 
 
 English "Weitees on Ameeioa, 65 
 
 EuEAL Life in England, 77 
 
 '"'riE Beoken IIeabt, 87 
 
 The Aet of Book-making, 95 
 
 A EoTAL Poet, ^, . . 105 
 
 ■ HE CouNTET CmjEcn, 123 
 
 .iiiE Widow and heb Son, 131 
 
 A Sunday In London, 141 
 
 The Boae's Head Taveen, 145 
 
 The Mutability of Liteeatuee, 159 
 
 EuEAL Funerals, 173 
 
 The Inn Kitchen, 189 
 
 The Spectee Beidegeoom, 193 
 
 Westminstee Abbey, 213 
 
 Cheistmas, 233 
 
 The Stage Coach, 241 
 
 Cheistmas Eve, 249 
 
 Cheistmas Day, 263 
 
 The Cheistmas Dinnee, 281 
 
 London Antiques, 299 
 
vi OOin'ENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 LiniE BEiTAifT, 307 
 
 Steatfoed-ou-Avon, , 325 
 
 Teaits of I^tdian Chaeactee, 349 
 
 Philip of Pokanoket, 363 
 
 John Bull, 385 
 
 The Peide of the Tillage, 399 
 
 The Anglee, .411 
 
 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, 423 
 
 VEmoY, 463 
 
PKEFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 
 
 The following papers, with two exceptions, were written in Englaird, 
 Olid formed but part of an intended series for which I had made notes and 
 memorandums. Before I could mature a plan, however, circumstances 
 compelled me to send them piecemeal to the United States," where thej' 
 were published from time to time in portions or numbers. It was not my 
 '■ntention to publish them in England, being conscious tliat much of their 
 contents could 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 Iiad appeared in this 
 occasional manner, they began to find their way across the Atlantic, and 
 to be inserted, with many kind encomiums, in tlie London Literary 
 Gazette. It was said, also, that a London bookseller intended to publish 
 them in a collective form. I determined, therefore, to bring tliem forward 
 myself, that they might at least have the benefit of my superintendence 
 and revision. I accordingly took the printed numbers which I had 
 received from the United States, to Mr. John Murray, the eminent 
 publisher, from whom I had already received friendly attentions, and left 
 them with him for examination, informing him that should he be mclined 
 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 liad left with him might be returned to me. The followuig was hia 
 roply. 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 My DEAR Sir, 
 
 I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind inten- 
 tions towards me, and tliat I entertain the most unfeigned respect for yom 
 most tasteful talents. My house is completely filled Avith workpeople al 
 this time, and I have only an office to transact business in ; and yesterday 
 I was wholly occupied, or I should have done myself the pleasure 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 tliat 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 tlieir circulation, and shall be most ready to attend to any future 
 plan of yours. 
 
 With much regard, I remain, dear sir. 
 
 Your faithful servant. 
 
 JoiiN Murray. 
 
 fliis was dislieartening, 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 
 spurious edition. I now thought of Mr. Archibald Constable as publisher, 
 having been treated by him with much hospitality during a visit to Edin- 
 burgh ; but first I determined to submit my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) 
 Scott, being encouraged to do so by the cordial reception I had experi- 
 enced from him at Abbotsford a few years previously, and by the favorable 
 opinion he had expressed to others of my earlier writings. I accordingly 
 sent liim 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 tlie pleas- 
 ure of partaking of his hospitality, a reverse had taken place in my affairs 
 which made tlie successful exercise of my pen all-important to me; I 
 begged him, therefore, to look over the hterary articles I had forwarded to 
 him, and, if he thought they would bear European repubhcation, to ascer- 
 tain whether Mr. Constable would be inclined to be tlie publisher. 
 
 The parcel containing my work went by coach to Scott's addiess in 
 Edinburgh ; the letter went by mail to liis residence in the country. By 
 the very firtt post I received a reply, before he had seen my worlt. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 " I was down at Kelso," said he, " when your letter reached Abbots- 
 ford. I am now on my way to town, and will converse with Constable, 
 and do all in my power to forward your views — I assure you notliing 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 w^ljfly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about to be set up in 
 Edinburgh, supported by the most respectable talents, and amply furnished 
 witli all the necessary information. The appointment of the editor, for 
 wliich ample funds were provided, would be five hundred pounds sterling a 
 year, with the reasonable prospect of further advantages*. This situation, 
 being apparently 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 because 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 si-Jt you, let me know as soon as possible, addressing Castlo- 
 street, Edinburgh." 
 
 Id 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 to crijnp 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 unperfect draught of my reply, wluch under- 
 went 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 unwarrantable liberty ; but, somehow 
 or other, there is a genial sunshine about you that warms every creeping 
 Ihin^ into heart and confidence. Your literary proposal both surprisca 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 and flatters me, as it evinces a much higher opinion of my talents than 1 
 have myself." 
 
 I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly unfitted lor 
 tlie situation offered to me, not merely by my political opinions, but by the 
 very constitution and habits of my mind. " JNIy 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 com- 
 mand of my talents, such as they are, and liave to watch the varjOgs of 
 ray mind as I would those of a weather-cock. Practice and training maj' 
 bring me more into rule ; but at present I am as useless for regular ser- 
 vice as one of my ovn'h 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 occasionally shift my residence 
 and write whatewr is suggested by objects before me, or whatever rises 
 in my imagination ; and hope to write better and more copiously 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. Shoidd Sir. Constable feel inclined to make a bargain for the wares 
 I have on hand, he will encourage me to further enterprise ; and it will 
 be something hke trading with a gipsy for tlie fruits of his prowlings, 
 who may at one time have notliing 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 authors and book- 
 sellers, that I might take my choice ; expressing the most encouraging 
 confidence of tlie success of my work, and of previous works which I had 
 produced in America. " I did no more," added he, " Uian open the 
 trendies 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 v.'itli every 
 degree of attention. Or, if ym^hink it of consequence in the first place 
 
 v^ 
 
PREFACE. « 
 
 to see me, I shall be in London in the course of a month, and wliatevei 
 my experience can command is most heartily at your command. But I 
 can add little to wliat I have said above, except my earnest recommenda- 
 tion to Constable to enter into the negotiation."* 
 
 Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I had deter- 
 mined 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 
 meuijt I wrote to that efTect 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 accompt ; 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 
 alt(^ether damming up the road in such cases between the author and the 
 public, which they were once able to do as offectually as Diabolus in John 
 Bunyan's Holy War closed up the windows of my Lord Understanding's 
 mansion. I am sure of one thing, that you have only to be known to the 
 British public to be admired by them, and I would not say so unless 1 
 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 
 
 • I canDOt avoid snbjoinin.t in a note a succeeding paragraph of Scott's letter, which, 
 thongh it does not relate to the main subject of our correspondence, was too characteristic 
 to be omitted. Some time previously I had sent Miss Sophia Snott 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 conjured into a 
 pint bottle. Scott observes : " In my hurry, I 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 mach more of papa's folly 
 than she would ever otherwise have learned ; for I had taken special care they should never 
 3«j any of those things during their earlier years. I think I told you that Walter is sweep- 
 ing the firmament with a feather like a maypole and indenting the pavement with a itword 
 like a scythe — in other words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 18th dragoons." 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 illustrated. Constable was extremely willing to enter into consideration 
 of a treaty for your works, but 1 foresee will be still more so when 
 
 Your name is np, 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 myself great pleasure in once agf >,n 
 shaking you by the hand." fQj^ 
 
 The first volume of the Sketch Book was put to press in London as 
 I had resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller 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 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 
 r was sticking in the mire, and, more propitious than Hercules, he put his 
 own shoulder to the wheel. Through his favorable representations, Mur- 
 ray 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 became my publisher, conducting himself in all his dealings 
 with that fair, open, and liberal spirit which had obtained for him the Well- 
 merited appellation of the Prince of Booksellers. 
 
 Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter 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 l:is literary 
 contemporaries ever applied to nim for aid-or counsel that did not experi- 
 ence the most prompt, generous, and effectual assistance ! 
 
 W. I. 
 
 Sunny side, 1848. 
 
THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 
 
 "I am of this raind witli Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her shelwas turned eft- 
 BOODS iuto a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on ; so llie traveller thai 3..iagletb 
 from his owne country is in a short time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faiae 
 to alter liis mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would." 
 
 Lyly's Eui'nuF.3, 
 
 I was always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing strange 
 characters and manners. Even wlien a mere child I began my 
 travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and 
 unknown regions of my native city, to tlie frequent alarm of my 
 parents, and the emolument of the town-criei*. As I grew into 
 boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. My holiday 
 afternoons were spent in rambles about the surrounding country. 
 I made myself familiar with all its places famous in history or 
 fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had been 
 committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighboring vil- 
 lages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting theii 
 habits and customs, and conversing v.dth their sages and great 
 men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the summit of 
 the most distant liill, 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 v/ith my years. Books 
 of voyages and travels became tny passion, and in devouvuig theii 
 
10 THE. SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 contents, I neglected tlie regiilar'exercises of the school. How 
 v\'istfullj Avould I -wander about the pier-heads in fine weather, 
 imd Avatch 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 elsev^'here its gratification: for on no country 
 have the channs 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 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 poetical 
 association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, the 
 refinements of highly-cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of 
 ancient and local custom. My native country was fall of youth- 
 ful promise : Europe was rich in the acciunulated treasures of 
 a^. Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, and every 
 mouldering stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the 
 scenes of renowned achievement — to tread, as it were, in the foot- 
 steps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle — to meditate 
 on the falling tower — to escape, in short, from the common-place 
 
THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 11 
 
 realities of the present, and lose myself among tlie shadowy 
 grandeurs of the past. 
 
 I had, beside aU 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 min gled 
 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 aU 
 animals degenerated in America, and man among the number. 
 A great man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as superior 
 iio a great man of America, as a peak of the Alps to a highland 
 of the Hudson ; and in this idea I was confirmed, by observing 
 the comparative importance and swelling magnitude of many 
 English travelers among us, who, I was assured, were very little 
 people in their own country. I will visit this land of wonders, 
 thought I, and see the gigantic race from which I am degenerated. 
 
 It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving pas- 
 sion 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 pliilosopher ; but 
 rather with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of 
 the picturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to 
 another ; caught, sometimes by the delineations of beauty, some- 
 times by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the 
 loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion for modem tourists 
 to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios 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 
 
U THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 memorandums I have taken down for tlie purpose, my heart 
 almost fails me at finding how my idle humor has led me aside 
 from the great objects studied by every regular traveler who 
 would make a book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment 
 with an unlucky landscape painter, who had traveled on the con- 
 tinent, but, following the bent of his vagrant inclination, had 
 sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His sketch-book 
 •was accordingly crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and 
 obscure ruins ; but he had neglected to paint St. Poter'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. 
 
 Shijis, ships, I will descrie you 
 
 Amidst the main, 
 Z will come and try yon, 
 What you are protecting. 
 And projecting, 
 What's yoar 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. 
 Ilalloo I my fancie, whither wilt thou go 7 
 
 Old Poem. 
 
 To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make 
 is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly 
 scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted 
 to receive new and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters 
 that separates the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. 
 There is no gradual transition by which, as in Europe, the fea- 
 tures and population of one country blend almost imperceptibly 
 with those of another. From the moment you lose sight of the 
 land you have left, all is vacancy until you gtep on the opposite 
 shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of 
 another world. 
 
 In travelmg 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 
 
14 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 drag, it is true, " a lengthening chain " at each remove of our pil- 
 grimage ; but the chain is unbroken : Tve can trace it back link by 
 link ; and we feel that the last still grapples us to home. Bui 
 a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of 
 being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, and 
 gent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not mere- 
 ly imaginary, but real, between us and our homes — a gulf subject 
 to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering distance palpa* 
 ble, 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 volmne of the world and its con- 
 cerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened another. That 
 land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained aU 
 most dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might occur in it — 
 what changes might tiike place in me, before I should visit it 
 again I Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he 
 may be driven by the imcertain 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 expres- 
 sion. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself 
 in reveries, a sea voyage is fuU of subjects 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 dehghted to 
 loll over the quarter-raUing, 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 bil- 
 
THE VOYAGE. l£ 
 
 lows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those 
 happy shores. 
 
 Tliere was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe 
 with which 1 looked down, from my giddy height, on the mon- 
 sters 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 phantasms that swell the tales of 
 fishermen and sailors. 
 
 Sometimes a distant sad, 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 ! "^Tiat a gloi'ious monument of human invention ; 
 which has in a manner triumphed over wind and wave ; has 
 brought the ends of the world into communion ; has established 
 an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of 
 tlie 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, be- 
 tween which nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable 
 barrier. 
 
 We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a dis- 
 tance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony of the 
 surj'ounding 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 wluch some of tlie crew 
 
16 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 had fastened themselves to this spar, to preveut their being Avush- 
 ed off hj 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 whiten- 
 ing among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the 
 'waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of 
 their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! what 
 prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often 
 has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, 
 to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How 
 has expectation darkened into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and 
 flread into despair ! Alas ! not one memento may ever return for 
 love to cherish. AH that may ever be known, is, that she sailed 
 from her port, " and was never heard of more !" 
 
 The sight of tliis 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 
 wliich will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer 
 voyage. As we sat round the dull Hght of a lamp in the cabin, 
 that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of 
 shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short 
 one related by the captain. 
 
 " As I was once saiUng," said he, " in a fine stout ship across 
 the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs wliich pre- 
 vail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead 
 even in the day tune ; but at night the weather was so thick that 
 
THE VOYAGE, - . H 
 
 we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the 
 ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch \for- 
 ward to look out for fishing smacks, wliich are accustomed to'iie 
 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 neglected to hoist a light. "We struck 
 her just amid-ships. The force, the size, and weight of our ves- 
 sel bore her down below the Avaves ; we passed over her and 
 v/ere hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking 
 beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches 
 rushing from her cabin ; they just started from their beds to be 
 swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry 
 mingling with the Avind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept 
 us out of aU farther heai-ing. I shall never forget that cry ! It 
 was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under 
 such headway. We retm-ned, as neai'ly 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 listen- 
 ed if we might hear the halloo of any survivors : but all was 
 silent — we never saw or heard any thing of them more." 
 
 I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to aU my fine 
 fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was 
 lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, suUen 
 sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. Deep called unto 
 deep. At times the black volume of clouds over head seemed 
 rent asunder by flashes of lightning which quivered along the foam- 
 ing bUlows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. 
 
18 rf - THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 i 
 
 The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were 
 echoed and prolonged bj the mountain waves. As I saw ijxQ 
 ship staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it 
 seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved 
 her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water : her bovv 
 was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending 
 surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dex- 
 terous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. 
 
 "When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene stiU followed me. 
 The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded Hke fune- 
 real wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and 
 groaning of bulk-heads, as tlie 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: tLs mere 
 starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him 
 entrance. 
 
 A fine day, however, Avith 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. TVIien the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail 
 swelled, and careering gayly over ihQ curling waves, how Jofty, 
 how gallant she appears — ^how she seems to lord it over the deep ! 
 
 I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, for 
 with me it is almost a continual reverie — ^but it is time to get to 
 shore. 
 
 It Avas a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of " land !" 
 was given from the mast-head. None but those Avho have expe- 
 rienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations 
 wliich i-ush into an American's bosom, when he first comes in sight 
 
THE VOYAGE. 19 
 
 of Europe. There is a volume of associations with the very - tL 
 name. It is the land of promise, teeming with eveiy thing of 
 which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years 
 have pondered. 
 
 From that time until the moment of amval, it was all fever- 
 ish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian 
 giants along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out 
 into the channel ; the "Welsli mountains, towering into the clouds ; 
 all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, 
 I reconnoitred the shores Avith a telescope. My eye dwelt with 
 dehght 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 expectants of friends or relatives. 
 1 could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was consigned. 
 I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands 
 were thrust into his pockets ; he was whistling thoughtfully, and 
 walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded him by 
 the crowd, in deference to his temporary Importance. There 
 were repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged between 
 the shore and the sliip, as friends happened to recognize each 
 other. I particularly noticed one young woman of humble dress, 
 but interesting demeanor. She was leaning forward from amonCT 
 the crowd ; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, 
 to catch some wished-for countenance She seemed disappointed 
 and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice call her name. It waa 
 from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had ex 
 
20 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 cited the sympathy of every one on board. Wlien 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 liis wife 
 before he died, He had been helped on deck as Ave came up the 
 river, and was now leiming against the shrouds, with a counte- 
 nance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even 
 the eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of 
 his voice, her eye darted on his features ; it read, at once, a whole 
 volume of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, 
 and stood wringing them in silent agony. 
 
 All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaint- 
 ances — 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 laixd- 
 
ROSCOE. 
 
 -In (he service of mankin J to bs 
 
 A guardian god below ; still to employ 
 Tlie mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
 Such ax may raise us o'er the groveling herd, 
 And make us shine for ever — that is life. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 One of the fii'st places to ■wliicli a stranger is taken in Liverpool 
 is the Atliena2um. It is established on a liberal and judicious 
 plan ; it contains a good library, and spacious reading-room, and 
 is the great literary resort of the place. Go there at what hour 
 you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave-looking person- 
 ages, 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 ad- 
 vanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once have been com- 
 manding, but it was a little bowed by time — perhaps by care. 
 He had a noble Roman style of countenance ; a head that would 
 have pleased a painter ; and though some slight furrows on his 
 brow showed that wasting thought had been busy there, yet his 
 eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was some- 
 thing in his Avhole appeai'ance that indicated a being of a different 
 order from the bustling race around liim. 
 
 I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Rosooe. 
 
2a THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration. TliiS; 
 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 m the solitudes of America. Ac- 
 customed, as we are in our country, to know European wi'iters 
 only by their works, we cannot conceive of them, as of other men, 
 engrossed 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 Avith the emana- 
 tions of their genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary glory. 
 
 To find, therefore, the elegant histox'ian of the Medici, ming» 
 ling 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 IMr. Roscoe derives his highest 
 claims to admiration. It is interesting to notice how some ininds 
 seem almost to create themselves, springing up under every dis- 
 advantage, and working their solitary hut irresistible way through 
 a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disappointing 
 the assiduities of art, with which it would rear legitimate dullness 
 to maturity; and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her 
 chance productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the 
 winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of 
 the world, and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of 
 early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even 
 in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and 
 spread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. 
 
 Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place 
 apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent ; in the very 
 market-place of trade ; without fortune, family comicctions, or 
 patronage; se]f-j)rompted, self-sustained, and ahnost self-tauglit, 
 
ROSCOE. 23 
 
 he has conquei'ed every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, 
 an'jf, having become one of the ornaments of the nation, has 
 turned the Avhole force of his talents and influence to advance 
 p.nd 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 
 mei'its, he is but one among the many distinguished authors of 
 this intellectual nation. They, however, in general, live but for 
 their own fame, or their own pleasures. Their private histoiy 
 presents no lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of 
 human frailty and inconsistency. At best, they are prone to 
 steal away from the bustle and commonplace of busy existence ; 
 to indulge in the seFishness of lettered ease ; and to revel in 
 scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoyment. 
 
 Ml-. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the accord- 
 ed privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no gai'den of 
 thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth into the high- 
 ways 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 fountains, where the laboring man may turn 
 aside from the dust and heat of the day, and drink of the living 
 streams of knowledge. There is a " daily beauty in his life," on 
 which mankind may meditate and grow better. It exhibits no 
 lofty and almost useless, because inimitable, example of excel- 
 lence ; but presents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable 
 virtues, which ax'e within every man's reach, but which, unfor- 
 tunately, are not exercised by many, or this world would be a 
 paradise. 
 
 But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 citizens of our young and busy country, where litemtui'e and tlio 
 elegant arts must grow up side by side with, the coai-ser plants of 
 diiily necessity ; and must depend for their culture, not on the 
 exclusive devotion of time and wealth, nor the quickening rays of 
 titled patronage, but on hours and seasons snatched from the 
 pursuit of worldly interests, by mtelligent and public-spirited 
 individuals. 
 
 He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours 
 of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it can give 
 its own impress to suri'ounding objects. Lilce his own Lorenzo 
 De' Medici, on Avhom he seems to have fixed his eye as on a 
 pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven the history of his life 
 with the history of his native to^vn, and has made the foundations 
 of its fame the monuments of his virtues. TTherever you go in 
 Livei'pool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is ele- 
 gant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing merely in 
 the channels of tratfick ; he has diverted from it invigorating rills 
 to refresh the garden of literature. By his own example and 
 constant exertions he has efiected that union of commerce and 
 the mteUectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of his 
 latest ■wTitings : * and has practically proved how beautifully they 
 may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. The 
 noble institutions for literary and scientific pui"poses, which reflect 
 Buch credit on Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse to the 
 public mind, have mostly been originated, and have aU been 
 effectively promoted, by Mr. Roscoe ; and when we consider the 
 rapidly increasing opulence and magnitude of that town, which 
 promises to vie in commercial importance Avith the metropolis, it 
 will be perceived that in awakening an ambition of mental im- 
 
 • Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 
 
KOSCOE. 2& 
 
 provemcnt among its inhabitants, he lias effected a great benefit 
 to the cause of British literature. 
 
 In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — in 
 Liveq)ool he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was told of his 
 having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity him, as I 
 heard some rich men do. I considered him far above the reach 
 of my pity. Those who live only for the world, and in the world, 
 may be cast down by the frowns of adversity ; but a man like 
 Roscoe is not to be overcome by the reverses of fortune. They 
 do but drive him in upon the resources of his own mind ; to the 
 superior society of liis 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 Avitli antiquity and posterity ; with antiquity, in the sweet 
 communion of studious retirement; and with posterity, in the 
 generous aspirings after future renown. The solitude of such a 
 mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited by those 
 elevated meditations which are the proper aliment of noble souls, 
 *nd are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the wilderness of this 
 world. 
 
 While my feehngs were yet alive on the subject, it was my 
 fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding 
 out Avith 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 Grecian style. It was not in the purest 
 taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was delight- 
 ful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps of 
 trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a variety 
 of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a broad qu'iet 
 
 2 
 
2G 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 sheet of Avater tlirougli an expanse of green meadow-land ; wliUc 
 the Welsh mountains, blended with clouds, and melting into dis- 
 tance, boi'dered the horizon. 
 
 This was Eoscoe's favorite residence during the days of his 
 pi-osperitj. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and liter- 
 ary reth'ement. 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 Avindows Avere closed — the Ubrary Avaa 
 gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were loitering about the 
 place, whom my fimcy pictured into retainers of the law. It was 
 like \dsiting some classic fountain, that had once Avelled its pure 
 waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with the 
 Hzai'd and the toad brooding over the shattered mai'bles. 
 
 I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which had 
 consisted of scai'ce and foreign books, from many of which he 
 had drawn the materials for his Italitm histories. It had passed 
 under the hammer of the auctioneer, and Avas dispersed about 
 the counhy. The good people of the A"icmity thronged like 
 wreckers to get some pai't of the noble vessel that had been 
 driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associa- 
 tions, 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 Aveapons 
 which they could not Avield. We might picture to ourselves 
 some knot of speculators, debating with calculating broAV over 
 the quaint binding and illummated nargm of an obsolete author; 
 of the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, Avith AA'hich some suc- 
 cessful purchaser attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain 
 ho had secured. 
 
 It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's mis 
 
ROSCOE. 31 
 
 fortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious mind, 
 that the parting with his books seems to have touched upon his 
 tenderest feelings, and to have been the only cu-cumstance that 
 could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows 
 how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts 
 and innocent hours become in the seasons of adversity. Wlien 
 all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain 
 their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse 
 of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these 
 only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and 
 cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived hope, 
 nor deserted sorrow. 
 
 I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of Liver- 
 pool had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe 
 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 oppor- 
 tunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind stioigghng 
 under misfortunes, by one of the most dehcate, but most ex- 
 pressive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to 
 estimate a man of genius pi'operly 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 com- 
 mon materials which form the basis even of the loftiest character. 
 Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a 
 man of business ; others as a politician ; all find him engaged 
 like themselves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, 
 by themselves on some points of worldly wisdom. Even that 
 amiable and unostentatious simpUcity of character, which gives 
 
r 1r" 
 
 ■>^ 
 
 • 
 
 .% 
 
 % 
 
 
 
 
 3fe« 
 
 ^*^ 
 
 ». 
 
 
 
 ^B?,'' 
 
 
 :H' 
 
 
 
 ^<: 
 
 
 
 THE 
 
 .,SKETCH BOOK 
 
 ^ 
 
 the nameless grace to real excellence, may cause him to be 
 undervalued by some coarse minds, M^ho 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 Roscoe. — The intelligent traveler who visits it inquires where 
 Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the literary landmark of the place, 
 indicating its existence to the distant scholar. — He is, like 
 Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic 
 dignity. 
 
 The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. TJoscoe to his books 
 on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. If 
 any thing can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated thought 
 here displayed, it is the conviction, that the whole is no effusiop 
 of fancy, but a foithful transcript from the writer's heart. 
 
 TO MY BOOKS. 
 
 As one who, destined from his frienda to part. 
 Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
 To share their converse and enjoy their smilo, 
 
 And tempers as he may affliction's dart ; 
 
 Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 
 
 Teachers of wisdom, who could once begtiile 
 My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 
 
 I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 
 
11 
 
 , ! ROSCOE ' /^' 
 
 For pass a feW short yeaisAor days, or LourR. > 
 And happier seasonMmay their dawn 'whW. 
 And all your sacred fellowship restore . 
 When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
 Mind shall with mind direct communion hold. 
 And Modred scirits meet to part no more. 
 
THE WIFE. 
 
 The treasures of tlie deep are not so precions 
 As arc tlie conccal'd comforts of a man 
 Locked up in woman's love. I sceut the air 
 Of blessings, wlien I come but near the liouse. 
 What a delicious breath marriage sends forlli . . 
 The violet bed's not sweeter. 
 
 MiDDLKTOn. 
 
 I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which 
 women sustain the most overwliehning revei^es of fortune. 
 Those disasters which break down thfe spin't 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 aU weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial 
 roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly 
 rismg in mental force to be the comforter and support of her 
 husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firm- 
 ness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. 
 
 As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foUage about 
 the oak, and been hfted by it into sunsliine, will, when the hardy 
 plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing 
 
32 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 tendrils, and bind up its shattered bouglis; so is it beautifully 
 ordered by Provideuce, tliat Avoman, who is the mere dependent 
 and ornament of man in his happier lioul-s, should be his stay and 
 solace Avhen smitten -with sudden calamity ; winding herself into 
 the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the droop- 
 ing head, and binding up the broken heart. 
 
 I was once congratulating a friend, Avho had around him a 
 blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. " I can 
 wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than to have 
 a Avife and children. K you ai'e prosperous, there they ai'c to 
 share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort 
 you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man falling 
 into misfortune is more apt to reti*ieve his situation in the world 
 than a single one ; partly because he is more stimulated to exer- 
 tion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings Avho 
 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 humiliation, yet thefe is still a little Avorld of love at home, 
 of Avhich he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run 
 to Avaste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, 
 and his heart to fall to ruin hke some deserted mansion, for want 
 of an inhabitant. 
 
 These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of 
 "which I was once a Avitness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had 
 miu'ried a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought 
 up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no for- 
 tune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in the 
 anticipation of indulging her in CA^ery elegant pursuit, and admin- 
 istering to those delicato tastes and fancies that spread a kind of 
 
THE WIFE 33 
 
 witchery about the sex. — " Her life," said he, " shall bo like a 
 fairy tale." 
 
 The very difference in "their characters produced an harmonious 
 combination : he was of a romantic and somewhui serious cast ; 
 she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rap- 
 ture 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 taU manly person. The 
 fond confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call 
 forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if 
 he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never 
 did a couple set forward on the flowery path of early and well- 
 suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. 
 
 It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have 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 himself reduced almost to penury. 
 
 For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with 
 
 a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but 
 
 a protracted agony ; and what rendered it more insupportable was 
 
 the necessity of keeping up a smile in the 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 cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender 
 
 blandishments to win him back to happiness ; but she only drove 
 
 tlie arrow deeper into his soul.. The more he saw cause to love 
 
 2* 
 
3« 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 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 — tlie song will die away from those lips — 
 the lustre of those ejes will be quenched with sorrow ; and the 
 happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be 
 weighed down Hke mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. 
 
 At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situa- 
 tion in a tone of the deepest despair. Wlien 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 di-ives me almost to madness !" 
 
 " And why not ?" said I. " She must know it sooner or later : 
 you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break 
 upon her in a more startling manner, than if imparted by your- 
 self; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. 
 Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympa- 
 thy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that 
 can keep hearts together — an unreserved conmiunity of thought 
 and feeling. She wiU soon perceive that something is secretly 
 preying upon your mind ; and true love will not brook reserve ; 
 it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those 
 it loves are concealed from it." 
 
 " Oh, but, my friend ! to think Avhat a blow I am to give to 
 all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to the 
 earth, hy telling her that her liusband is a beggar ! that she is to 
 forego all the elegancies of life — aU the pleasures of society — ^to 
 shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! To tcU her that I 
 have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have 
 continued to move in constant brightness — ^the light of every eye 
 
THE WIFE. 35 
 
 •^tlie adiairation of every heart! — How can slie bcaj' poverty? 
 Bhe Las been brouglit 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 
 soiTow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had sub- 
 sided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the sub- 
 ject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to hia 
 wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively. 
 
 " But how are you to keep it from her ? It is necessary she 
 should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alterar 
 tion of your circumstances. You must change your style of 
 living nay," observing a pang to pass across his counte- 
 nance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never 
 placed your happiness in outward show — you have yet friends, 
 warm friends, who wiU 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 hsr," 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, burst- 
 ing into a transport of grief and tenderness. 
 
 "And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasp- 
 ing 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 sympa- 
 thies of her nature ; for she wiU rejoice to prove that she loves 
 3'ou for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark 
 of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad dayliglit of 
 prosperity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the 
 
36 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 dark hour of adversity. No man knows Avliat 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 ima- 
 gination of Leslie.* I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; and 
 following up the impression I had made, 1 finished by persuading 
 him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife. 
 
 I must confess, notwithstanding aU I had said, I felt some 
 httle solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude 
 of one whose whole 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 reveled. Besides, ruin 
 in fashionable life is accompanied by so many gallmg mortifica- 
 tions, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. — In short, I could 
 not meet Leslie the nest morning without trepidation. He had 
 made the disclosure. 
 
 " And how did she bear it ?" 
 
 " Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a rehef to her mind, 
 for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all 
 that had lately made me unhai^py. — 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, Avhere it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation; 
 she suj0fers no loss of accust9med conveniencies 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 
 
THE WIFE. 37 
 
 secret the belter. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then it 
 is a single misery, and soon over whereas you otherwise suffer 
 it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so 
 much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle 
 between a proud mind and an empty purse — ^the keeping up a 
 hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to 
 appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its shai-pest sting." On 
 this point I found Leslie perfectly prepai-ed. He had no false 
 pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform 
 to their altered fortunes. 
 
 Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. He 
 had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small cottage in 
 the country, a few miles from tov/n. He had been busied all day 
 in sending out furniture. The new estabhshment required few 
 articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furni- 
 niture 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 some of 
 the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had 
 leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melting tones of 
 her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic 
 gallantry in a doting husband. 
 
 He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had beeii 
 all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become 
 strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and, as it 
 was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. 
 
 He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he walked 
 out, fell mto a fit of gloomy musing. 
 
 " Poor Mary !" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from 
 bis lips. 
 
88 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 " Aiul Avliat of her ?" asked I : " lias any thing happened to 
 hei-?" 
 
 " Wliat," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is it nothing 
 to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a miserable 
 cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her 
 wretched habitation ?" 
 
 " Has she then repined at the change ?" 
 
 " Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
 humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever 
 known her ; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
 comfort !" 
 
 "Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, 
 my friend; you never were so rich — you never knew the 
 boundless treasures of excellence you 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 introduced into a humble 
 dwelhng — she has been employed all day in arranging its misera- 
 ble equipments — she has, for the first time, known the fatigues 
 of domestic employment — 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, 
 exhausted and spu-itless, brooding over a prospect of future 
 poverty." 
 
 There was a degree of probabiHty 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 
 snaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, 
 we came in sight of the cottaa;e. It was humble enoua;h in its 
 
THE WIFE. 39 
 
 appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing 
 rural look. A Avild vine had overrun one end with a profusion 
 of foliage; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it; 
 and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about 
 the door, and on the grassplot in front. A small wicket gate 
 opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to 
 the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music 
 — Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and listened. It was 
 Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, 
 a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. 
 
 I felt Leslie's hand- tremble on my arm. He stepped forward 
 to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel 
 walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and 
 vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping 
 forth to meet us : slie Avas 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 
 never seen her look so lovely. 
 
 " My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are come 1 
 I have been watching and watching for you ; and nmning down 
 the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table imder 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 every thing is 
 60 sweet and stiU here — Oh !" said she, putting her arm within 
 nis, 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 
 
40 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes; and he has 
 often assured me, that though the world has since gone pros- 
 perously with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet 
 never ]ias he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity. 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 [The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrick 
 Kniclterbocker, an old gentleman of New- York, who was very curious 
 in the Dutch Jiistory of the province, and tlie manners of the descendants 
 from its primitive settlers. Ills liistorical 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 
 family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreaduig 
 sycamore, 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 
 bis worJc, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. 
 Jts chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a Httle 
 questioned, on its first appearance, but has since been completely estab- 
 hshed ; 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 
 labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and 
 though it did now and then kick up the dust a little m the eyes of hia 
 neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the 
 
42. THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 truest deference and affection ; yet his errors and follies are rcmembercd 
 " more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected, that he 
 never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be 
 appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk, whose good 
 opinion is well wortli having ; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who 
 have gone so far as to imprint his Hkeness on their new-year cakes ; ana 
 have tlius given him a cliance for immortality, almost equal to the being 
 stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's farthing.] 
 
RIP YAN WINKLE. 
 
 A POSTHUMOUS "WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 
 
 By Woden, God of Saxons, 
 
 From whence comes VVensday, tliat is VV'odensdar. 
 
 Trnth is a thing that ever I will keep 
 
 Unto tliylke day in wliicli I creop into 
 
 My sepulchre 
 
 1^ 
 Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must i*eracmbei 
 
 the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of 
 the gi*eat Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of 
 the river, swelhng 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, produces 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 barome- 
 ters. "VMien the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in 
 blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear even- 
 ing sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloud- 
 less, 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. 
 V At the foot of these fairy mountams, the voyager may have 
 
44 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 descried tlie light smoke curling up from a village, whose 
 shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of 
 the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer land- 
 scape. 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 Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace !) aiid there were some 
 of the 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 
 (wluch, 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 Hip Van Winkle. He was a descendant . 
 of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous 
 days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of 
 Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial 
 character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple 
 good-natured man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an 
 obedient hen-pecked husband. Ladeed, to the latter circumstance 
 might be owmg that meekness of spirit which gained him such 
 universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be obse- 
 quious and conciliating abroad, who are under the disciphne of 
 shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant 
 and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and 
 a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teach- 
 ing 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. 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 45 
 
 CerUiin it is, that he was a gi'eat 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, hanging on his skirts, clam- 
 bering 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 insuperable aver- 
 sion 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 en- 
 couraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece 
 on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and 
 swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or 
 wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even 
 in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country 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 Rip was ready to attend to any 
 body's business but his own ; but as to doing family duty, and 
 keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. 
 
 In foct, he declared it was of no use to work on his faj-m 5 it 
 
46 - THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the wholo country ; 
 every thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of 
 him. His fences were continually falling to pieces ; his cow would 
 either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to 
 grow quicker in his fields than any where else ; the rain always 
 made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to 
 do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away 
 under his 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, Avith 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 father's cast-oiF galligaskins, which he 
 had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her 
 train in bad weather. 
 
 Rip Yan Winkle, howevei', was one of those happy mortals, 
 of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy/^at 
 white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or 
 trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than wwk for a 
 pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in 
 pei'fect contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in his 
 ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was 
 bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue 
 was incessantly going, and every thing he said or did was sure to 
 produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way 
 of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use 
 had groAvn into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his 
 head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This^ however, always 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 47 
 
 provoked a fresli volley from his wife; so tliat 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. 
 
 Rip'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 ujion "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 what 
 courage can Tvithstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors 
 of a woman's tongue ? The moment "Wolf entered the house his 
 crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or curled between his 
 legs, he sneaked about Avith a gallows air, casting many a side- 
 long glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a 
 broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping preci- 
 pitation. 
 
 Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van "Winkle as years 
 of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mellows with age, 
 and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with 
 constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when 
 driven ftom home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
 sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village ; 
 which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated 
 by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here 
 they used to sit in the shad6 through a long lazy summer's day, 
 talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy 
 stories about nothing. But it would have been Avorth any states- 
 man's money to have heard the profound discussions that some« 
 times took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their 
 hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would 
 
48 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van BammeL 
 the schoolmaster, a dappei* learned Kttle man, who was not to be 
 daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how 
 sagely they would deliberate upon public events some month", 
 after they had taken place. 
 
 The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by 
 Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the- 
 am, 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 accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was 
 rarely heard to speak, but smoked liis pipe incessantly. His 
 adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), per- 
 fectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. 
 "Wlien 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 j^leased, he would inhale the 
 smoke sloAvly 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 strong-hold the unlucky Rip 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 personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, 
 sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged 
 him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. 
 
 Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and 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. 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE, 49 
 
 Here he ■would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and 
 share the contents of his wallet with "Wolf, with whom he sympa- 
 thized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. " Poor Wolf," he 
 would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; hut never 
 mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to 
 stand hy thee !" "Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his 
 master's face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe lie 
 reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 
 
 In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had 
 unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaut- 
 skill mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel 
 shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the 
 reports of his gun. Panting 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 between 
 the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile 
 of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, 
 far below him, moving on its silent but majestic coui'se, with the 
 reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here 
 and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in 
 the blue highlands. 
 
 On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, 
 
 wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from 
 
 the impending cliffs^ and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of 
 
 the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene ; 
 
 evening was gi'adually 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 
 
 hca\y sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Uame 
 
 Van "Winkle. 
 
 3 
 
50 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 As he Avas about to descend, he heard a voice from a distariv^e 
 hailooh-ig, " Eip Van Winkle ! Eip Yan Winkle !" He looked 
 round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight 
 across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived 
 bim, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry 
 ring through the still evening air; "Rip 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 fearfully 
 down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing 
 over him ; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and per- 
 ceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending 
 under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was 
 surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented 
 place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in 
 need of l^s assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 
 
 On nearer approach he was still more sui-prised at the singu- 
 larity of the stranger's appeai*ance. He was a short square-built 
 old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. Hia 
 dress was of the antique Dutch fasliion — a cloth jerkin strapped 
 round the waist^ — several pair of breeches, the outer one of amplfi 
 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 Rip to approach and 
 assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of 
 this new acquaintance. Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and 
 mutually reUeving each other, they clambered up a nai'row gully, 
 apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they as- 
 cended. Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like dis- 
 tant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather 
 cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path con- 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. fil 
 
 ducte<l. lie paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the 
 muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers whicli often 
 take place in mountain heights, lie proceeded. Passing through 
 the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, sur- 
 rounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which 
 impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught 
 glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During 
 (he whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence ; 
 for though the former marveled 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. 
 
 On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of Avonder pre- 
 sented 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 fashion ; some wore short doublets, 
 others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them 
 had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. 
 Their visages, too, were peculiar : one had a large head, broad 
 face, and small piggish eyes : the face of another seemed to con- 
 sist entirely of nose, and v»'as surmounted 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 
 fee 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 Rip 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 eettlement 
 
53 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these 
 folks vrere evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained 
 the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, 
 the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. 
 Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of 
 the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the 
 mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 
 
 As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly 
 desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue- 
 like ga?:e, 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 pro- 
 found 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 provoked another; and he reiterated 
 his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were 
 overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, liis head gradually de- 
 clined, 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 nigbt." He recalled the oc- 
 currences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg ot 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 63 
 
 liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among tlie rocka 
 — the wobegone party at ninc-pnis — the flagon — " Oh ! that 
 flagon ! that wicked flagon !" thought Rip — " what excuse shall 
 I make to Dame Van Winkle !" 
 
 He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well- 
 oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the 
 barrel incrusted with rust, the Iqck 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 gam- 
 bol, 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 Avith 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 Van Winkle." With some difiiculty he got down 
 into the glen : he found the guUy up which he and his companion 
 had ascended the preceding evening ; but to his astonishment a 
 mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to 
 rock, and fiUing the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, 
 made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way 
 through thickets of birch, sassfifras, and witch-hazel, and some- 
 times tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted 
 their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of net- 
 work in his path. 
 
 At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through 
 
54 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 tlie cliffs to tlie amphitheatre ; but no traces of such opening 
 remained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall, over 
 vrhich the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and 
 JfeU into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the 
 surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Eip was brought to a 
 stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only 
 answered by the cav\-ing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in 
 air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, 
 secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the 
 poor man's perplexities. TMiat was to be done? the morning 
 Avas passing away, and Eip felt famished for want of his break- 
 fast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to 
 meet his wife ; but it would not do to starve among the moun- 
 tains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, 
 with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps home- 
 ward. 
 
 As he approached the village he met a number of people, but 
 none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had 
 thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. 
 Their di-ess, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he 
 was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of 
 surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably 
 sti'oked their chins. The constant recun'ence of this gesture 
 induced Eip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonish- 
 ment, he found his beard had gro^vn a foot long ! 
 
 He had now entered the skii'ts of the village. A troop oJ' 
 etrange 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 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 53 
 
 were rows of Louses which he had never seen before, and those 
 which had been his famiUar haunts had disappeared. Strange 
 names were over the doors — strange faces at the windows — ■ 
 every thing was strange. His mind now misgave hlra; he began 
 to doubt -tthether both he and the world around him w^ere not 
 bewitched. Surely this was his native village, 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 — Rip was sorely perplexed — 
 " That flagon last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head 
 sadly !" 
 
 It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own 
 house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every 
 moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He 
 found the house gone to decay — tlie roof 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 — " jSIy 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 desolateness 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 noAv hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the 
 village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden build- 
 in"' stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them 
 broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the 
 
56 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonatlian Doolittle.' 
 Instead of the great tree tliat used to slielter tlie quiet little Dutch 
 inn of yore, tliere now Avas reared a tall naked pole, with some- 
 thing 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 recog« 
 nized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under 
 which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but even this 
 was singularly metamoi'phosed, The red coat was changed for 
 one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a 
 sceptre, the head was decorated Avith a cocketl hat, and under- 
 neath was painted in large characters, General Washing- 
 ton. 
 
 There Avas, 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 A'ain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, 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, Avilh his pockets full of hand- 
 bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elec- 
 tions — ^members of congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of 
 seventy-six — and other words, Avhich were a perfect Babylonish 
 jargon to the bewildered Van "Winkle. 
 
 The appearance of Eip, Avith his long grizzled beard, his rusty 
 fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of Avomen and chil- 
 dren at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern poHti- 
 ciaxis. They croAvded round him, eyeing him from head to foot 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. W 
 
 with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, di-awing 
 him partly aside, inquired " on which side he. voted ?" Rip stared 
 in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled 
 him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " Whe- 
 ther he was Federal or Democrat ?" Rip was equally at a loss 
 to comprehend the question ; when a knowing, self-important old 
 gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the 
 crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he 
 passed, and planting liimself before Van Winkle, with one arm 
 akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp 
 hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an 
 austere tone, " what brought him to the election -with a gun on 
 his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to 
 breed a riot in the village ?" — Alas ! gentlemen," cried Rip, 
 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 hut 
 restored order ; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, 
 demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, 
 and whom he was 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." 
 
 Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, ""^Tiere's 
 Nicholas Vedder?" 
 
 There was a silence for a little while, when an eld man replied, 
 In a thin piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder ! why, he is dead and 
 gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden tombstone in 
 
 3* 
 
68 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 the cliurch-yai'd tliat used to tell all about him, but that's rotten 
 and gone too." 
 
 " AYhere's Brom Dutcher ?" 
 
 " Oh, he Tvent off to the army in the beginning of the war 5 
 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 again." 
 « " Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ?" 
 
 " He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and 
 is now in congress." 
 
 Eip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his 
 home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. 
 Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous 
 lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand : 
 war — -congress— Stony Point ; — ^lie had no courage to ask after 
 any more friends, but cried out in despau', " Does nobody here 
 know Eip Tan Winkle ?" 
 
 " Oh, Eip Tan Winkle !" exclaimed two or three, '- Oh, to 
 be sure! that's Eip Tan Winkle yonder, leaning against the 
 tree." 
 
 Eip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he 
 went up the mountam : appai-ently as lazy, and certainly as rag- 
 ged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He 
 doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another 
 man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked 
 hat demanded who he was, and what Avas his name ? 
 
 " God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end ; " I'm not my- 
 self — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody 
 eke 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 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 69 
 
 clumged, and I'jh changed, and I can't tell wllat's my name, or 
 who I am !" 
 
 The by-slanders began now to look at each othei*, nod, wink 
 significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There 
 was a "« hisper, 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 precipita- 
 tion. 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, Rip," cried she, " hush, you little fool ; 
 the old man Avon't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of 
 the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recol- 
 lections in his mind. " What is your name, my good woman ?" 
 asked he. 
 
 " Judith Gardcnier." 
 
 " And your fathei"'s name ?" 
 
 "All, poor man. Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's . 
 twenty years sincQ he went away from home with his gun, and 
 never has been heard of since — his dog came home without him ; 
 but whether he sliot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, 
 noDody can teU. 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 loo had died but a short time since ; she broke a 
 blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedler." 
 
 There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence 
 The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his 
 daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father !" cried 
 
60 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 he — "Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Eip Van Winkle now; 
 ' — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ?" 
 
 All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
 among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering imder it 
 in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough ! it is Rip 
 Van Winkle — it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor- 
 — Why, where have you been these twenty long years ?" 
 
 Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had 
 been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they 
 heard it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their 
 tongues in their cheeks : and the self-important man in the cocked 
 hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, 
 screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — 
 upon Avhich there was a general shaking of the head throughout 
 the assemblage. 
 
 It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter 
 Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He 
 was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one 
 of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most 
 ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the won- 
 derful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected 
 Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory 
 manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed 
 down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill moun- 
 tains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was 
 affirmed that the great Hendi-ick 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 M'ay 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 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 61 
 
 had once seen tliem in tlieir old Dutch di'csses playing at nine- 
 pins in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he liimself had heard- 
 one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peala 
 of thunder. 
 
 To make a long story short, the company broke up, and 
 returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's 
 daughter took him home to live with her ; she had a snug, well- 
 lurnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom 
 Rip recollected for one of the urchins Siat used to climb upon his 
 back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, 
 seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the 
 farm ; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to any thing 
 else but his business. 
 
 Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon found 
 many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the 
 wear and tear of time ; and preferred making friends among the 
 rising generation, Avith Avhom he soon grew into great favor. 
 
 Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy 
 age Avhen 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 ^e patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times 
 " before the war." It ■vvas some time before he could get into the 
 regular track of gossip, or .could be, made to comprehend tlie 
 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 
 tliere was one species of despotism imder which he had long 
 
oa THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Happily that was 
 at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, 
 and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading 
 tlie tyranny of Dame .Van Winkle. Wlienever 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 Rip had been out of his 
 head, aiid that this Avas one point on which he always remained 
 flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally 
 gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder- 
 storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say 
 Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nme-pins ; 
 and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neigh- 
 borhood, Avhen life hangs heavy on their hands, that they miglit 
 have a quieting draught out of Hip Van Winkle's flagon. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knick- 
 erbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick dcr 
 Eothbart, and the Kypphaiiser mountain: the subjoined note, however, which 
 he had appended to the tale, shows tha'; it is an absolute fact, narrated with big 
 usual fidelity : 
 
 " The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but ne^er- 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 63 
 
 tlicless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch eettle- 
 ment3 to have been very subject to marvelous events and appearances. Indeed, 
 [ have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson j 
 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 conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bar 
 gain ; nay, I 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, there- 
 fore, is beyond the possibility of doubt, 
 
 D. K." 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 The following are traveling notes from a memorandum -book of Mr. Knick- 
 erbocker : 
 
 The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region full of 
 fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influenced tho 
 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 propitiated, she would spin light summer clouda 
 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, caus- 
 ing 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, wo 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 
 
B4 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 deer lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and 
 among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud ho ! ho ! leaving him 
 aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging torrent. 
 
 The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock or 
 cUff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the flowering vines which 
 clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in its neighborhood, 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 basking 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 boldest 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 gourda 
 placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized and made off with it, 
 but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great 
 Btream 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 Hudacnj 
 and continues to flow to the present day ; being the identical etreaui known by 
 the name of the Kaatcrs-kill. 
 
ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 
 
 ' Mi thinks I see in mv mind a nob'e and pnissant nation, rousing herself like a strong man 
 after sleej), and shaking her invincible locks : methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty 
 youth, and kindhng her endazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam." 
 
 Milton on the Liberty of the PRcas 
 
 It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary ani- 
 mosity daily growing up between England and America. Great 
 curiosity has been awakened of late with respect to the United 
 States, and the London press has teemed with volumes of travels 
 through the Republic ; but they seem intended to diffuse error 
 rather than knowledge ; and so successful have they been, that, 
 notwithstanding the constant intercourse between the nations, 
 there is no people concerning whom the great mass of the British 
 public have less pure information, or entertain more numerous 
 prejudices. 
 
 English travelers are the best and the worst in the world. 
 Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal 
 them for profound and philosophical views of society, or faithful 
 and graphical descriptions of external objects ; but when either 
 the interest or reputation of their own country comes in collision 
 with that of another, they go to the opposite extreme, and forget 
 their usual probity and candor, in the indulgence of splenetic 
 remark, and an illibei'al spirit of ridicule. 
 
6G THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the more 
 remote the country described. I would place imphcit confidence 
 in an Englishman's description of the regions beyond the cataracts 
 of the Kile ; of unkno\m islands in the Yellow Sea ; of the inte- 
 rior of India ; or of any other tract which other travelers might 
 be apt to picture out with the illusions of their fancies ; but I 
 would cautiously receive his account of his immediate neighbors, 
 and of those nations with which he is in habits of most frequent 
 intercourse. Plowever I might be disposed to trust his probity, I 
 dare not trust his prejudices. 
 
 It has also been the pecuhar lot of our country to be \isited 
 by the worst kind of English travelers. "While men of philo- 
 sophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from England 
 to ransack the poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study the 
 manners and customs of barbarous nations, with wliich she can 
 have no permanent intercourse of profit or pleasure ; it has been 
 left to the broken-down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the 
 wandering mechanic, the Manchester and Birmingham agent, to 
 be her* oracles respecting Am.erica. From such sources she is 
 content to receive her information respecting a country in a sin- 
 gular state of moral and physical development ; a country in 
 which one of the greatest political experiments in the history' of 
 the world is now performing ; and which presents the most pro- 
 found and momentous studies to the statesman and the phi- 
 losopher. 
 
 That such mtn should give prejudicial accounts of America 
 is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contempla- 
 tion are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The national 
 character is yet in a state of fermentation ; it may have its frothi- 
 ness and sediment, but its ingredients are sound and wholesome ; 
 
ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 67 
 
 it has already given proofs of powerful and generous qualities ; 
 and the whole promises to settle down into something substan- 
 tially excellent. But the causes which are operating to strengthen 
 and ennoble it, and its daily indication of admirable properties, 
 are all lost upon these purblind observers ; who ai'e only atfected 
 by the little asperities incident to its present situation. They are 
 capable of judging only of the surface of things ; of those mat- 
 ters which come in contact with their private interests and per- 
 sonal gratifications. They miss some of the snug conveniences 
 and petty comforts Avhich 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 estimation of 
 naiTow minds ; wliich either do not perceive, or will not acknow- 
 ledge, that they are more than counterbalanced among us by great 
 and generally diffused blessings. 
 
 They may, perhtrjis, have been disappointed in some unrea- 
 sonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have pictured 
 America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold and silver 
 abounded, and the natives were lacking in sagacity ; and where 
 they were to become strangely and suddenly rich, in some unfore- 
 seen, but easy manner. The same weakness of mind that in- 
 dulges absurd expectations produces petulance in disappointment. 
 Such persons become embittered against the country on finding 
 that there, as every where else, a man must sow before he can 
 reap ; must win wealth by industry and talent ; and must contend 
 with the common difficulties of nature, and the shrewdness of an 
 uitelligent and enterprising people. 
 
 Perhaps, through mistaken, or ill-directed hospitality, or from 
 
tj8 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the stningor, 
 prevalent among my countrymen, they may have been treated 
 with unwonted respect in America ; and having been accustomed 
 all their lives to consider themselves below the surface of good 
 society, and brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority, they 
 become arrogant on the common boon of civility: they attribute 
 to the lowliness of others their own elevation ; and underrate a 
 society where there are no ai'tificial distinctions, and where, by 
 any chance, such individuals as themselves can rise to conse- 
 quence. 
 
 One would suppose, however, that uiformation coming from 
 such sources, on a subject where the truth is so desirable, 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 scrutinized before their evidence was admitted, in 
 such sweeping extent, against a kindred nation. The very reverse, 
 however, is the case, and it furnishes a striking instance of human 
 inconsistency. Nothing can surpass the vigilance with which 
 English critics will examine the credibility of the traveler who 
 publishes an account of some distant, and comparatively unimpor- 
 tant, 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 cu- 
 rious knowledge : while they will receive, with eagerness and 
 unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations of coarse and ob- 
 scure writers, concerning a country with Avhich their own is placed 
 in the most important and dehcate relations. Nay, they will even 
 make these apocryphal volumes text-books, on which to enlarge 
 with a zeal and an ability worthy of a more generous cause. 
 
ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 69 
 
 I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hackneyed 
 topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the undue interest 
 apparently taken in it by my countrymen, and certain injurious 
 effects which I apprehended it might produce upon the national 
 feeling. "We attach too much consequence to these attacks. 
 They cannot do us any essential injury. The tissue of misrepre- 
 sentations attempted to- be woven round us are like cobwebs 
 woven round the limbs of an infant giant. Our country continti- 
 ally outgrows them. One falsehood after another falls off of itself. 
 We have but to live on, and every day we live a whole volume 
 of refutation. All the writers of England united, if we could 
 for a moment suppose their gi'eat minds stooping to so unworthy 
 a combination, could not conceal our rapidly-growing importance, 
 and matchless prosperity. They could not conceal that these are 
 owing, not merely to physical and local, but also to moral causes 
 — to the political liberty, the general diffusion of knowledge, the 
 prevalence of sound moi'al and religious principles, which give 
 force and sustained energy to the character of a people ; and 
 which, in fact, have been the acknowledged and wonderful sup- 
 porters 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 
 Us thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, and from their 
 collective testimony is national glory or national disgrace estab- 
 lished. 
 
 For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little 
 importance whether England does us justice or not; it is, per- 
 
70 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 haps, of far more importance to herself. She is instilling angct 
 and resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation^ to grow with 
 its growth and strengthen with its strength. If in America, as 
 some of her writers are laboring to convince her, she is hereafter 
 to find an invidious rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank 
 those very writers for having provoked rivalship and irritated 
 hostiUty. Every one knows the all-pervading influence of litera- 
 ture at the present day, and how much the opinions and passions 
 of mankind are under its control. The mere contests of the 
 sword are temporary ; their wounds are but in the flesh, and it is 
 the pride of the generous to forgive and forget them ; but the 
 slanders of the pen pierce to the heart ; they rankle longest in 
 the noblest spu-its; they dwell ever present in the mind, and 
 render it morbidly sensitive to tlie 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 oifence. 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 education of the poorest classes 
 makes every individual a reader. There is nothing pubhshed 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 
 
ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 71 
 
 mass of latent resentment. Possessing, then, as England does, 
 tlie fountain-head whence the literature of the language Cows, 
 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 iu 
 peace and kindness. Should she, however, persist in turning 
 it to waters of bitterness, the time may come when she may- 
 repent her folly. The present friendship of America may be of 
 but little moment to her ; but the future destinies of that country 
 do not admit of a doubt ; over those of England there lower some 
 shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive ; 
 should those reverses overtake her, from which the proudest 
 empires have not been exempt ; she may look back with regret 
 at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a nation she might 
 have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying her only chance 
 for real friendship beyond the boundaries of her own dominions. 
 There is a general impression in England, that the people of 
 the United States are inimical to the parent country. It is one 
 of the errors which have been diligently propagated by designing 
 writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political hostility, and 
 a general soreness at the illiberality of the English press ; but, 
 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 bigotry. The 
 bare name of Englishman was a passport to the confidence and 
 hospitality of every family, and too often gave a transient cur- 
 rency to the Avorthless and the ungrateful. Throughout tlie coun- 
 try there was something of enthusiasm connected with the idea of 
 England. We looked to it with a hallowed feeling of tenderness 
 and veneration, as the land cf our forefathers — the august reposi- 
 
72 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 tory 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 toward which our hearts yearned with such Jiroh- 
 l;ing3 of warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, when- 
 ever there was the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring 
 forth, it was the delight of the generous spirits of our countiy to 
 show that, in the midst of hostilities, they still kept aUve the 
 sparks of future friendship. 
 
 Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden band of kindred 
 sympathies, so i-are 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 vassalage; which might have inter- 
 fered occasionally with our true interests, and prevented the 
 growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give up the 
 kindred tie ! and ther i 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 farther 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 Eng- 
 land may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination on o'lir part 
 would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt and sjoirited 
 vindication of our country, nor the keenest castigation of her 
 slanderers — ^but I allude to a disposition to retahate in kind ; to 
 retort sarcasm, and inspire prejudice ; which seems to be spread- 
 ing widely among our -wi-iters. Let us guard particularly against 
 Buch a temper, for it would double the evil instead of redressing 
 tlie wrong, Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse 
 
ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 73 
 
 and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and an unprofitable contest. It ia 
 the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted into petulance, rather 
 tlian warmed into indignation. K England is AvilLing to permit 
 the mean jealousies of trade, or the rancorous animosities of poli- 
 tics, to deprave the integrity of her press, and poison the fountain 
 of public opinion, let us beware of her example. She may deem 
 it her interest to diffuse error, and engender antipathy, for the 
 purpose of checking emigration ; we have no purpose of the kind 
 to serve. Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to 
 gratify, for as yet, in all our 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 faU short, therefore, of their aim ; 
 but they foster a querulous and peevish temper among our writers ; 
 they sour the sweet flow of our early literature, and sow thorns 
 and brambles among its blossoms. What is still worse, they cir- 
 culate through our o-\vn 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 preju- 
 dice, wiUfully saps the foundation of his country's strength. 
 
 The members of a republic, above aU other men, should bo 
 candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions of the 
 sovereign mind and sovereign wiH, and should be enabled to come 
 to all questions of national concern with calm and unbiased judg- 
 ments. From the pecuhar nature of our relations with England, 
 we must have more frequent questions of a diflBcult and delicate 
 
74 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 character vnth her thau with any other nation; questions that 
 affect the most acute and excitable feelings ; and as, in the adjust- 
 ing of these, our national measures must ultimately be determined 
 by popular sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to 
 purify it from all latent passion or prepossession. 
 
 Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from evei:y 
 portion of the earth, we should receive all with impartiahty. 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 
 wliich spring from liberality of opinion. 
 
 What have we to do with national prejudices ? They are the 
 inveterate disea^^es of old countries, contracted in rude and igno- 
 rant ages, when nations knew but little of each other, and looked 
 beyond their OAvn boundaries with distrust and hostility. "We, on 
 the contrary, have sprung into national existence in an enlight- 
 ened and plulosophic age, when the different parts of the habita- 
 ble 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 Ave would the local superstitions of the old 
 world. 
 
 But above all let us not be influenced by any angry feelings, 
 BO far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is really excel- 
 lent and amiable in the English character. "We are a young 
 people, necessarily an imitative one, and must take our examples 
 and models, in a great degree, from the existing nations of Europe. 
 There is no country more worthy of our study than England. 
 The spirit of her constitution is most analogous to ours. The 
 manners of her people — their intellectual activity — their freedom 
 
ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 75 
 
 of opinion — their habits of thinking on those subjects which con- 
 cern the dearest interests and most sacred chaiities 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 how- 
 ever the superstructure may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, 
 there must be something solid in the basis, admirable in the mate- 
 rials, and ttable in the structure 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 iUiberality of 
 British authors, to speak of the English nation without prejudice, 
 and with determined candor. While they rebuke the indiscrimi- 
 nating 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 volume of refer- 
 ence, wherein are re?«rded sound deductions from ages of expe- 
 rience ; and while we avoid the errors and absurdities which may 
 have crept into the page, we may draw thence golden maxims of 
 practical wisdom, wherewith to fitrengthen and to embellish oux 
 national character. 
 
RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 
 
 oil I friendly to the best pnrsDJts of man. 
 Friendly to tbooght, to virtue, and to peacu. 
 Domestic life in rural pleasarcti past 1 
 
 COWPKR- 
 
 The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the English 
 character must not confine his observations to the metropolis. 
 He must go forth into the country ; he must sojourn in villages 
 and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cottages ; 
 he must wander through parks and gardens ; along hedges and 
 green lanes ; he must loiter about country churches ; attend 
 wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals; and cope with the 
 people in all their conditions, and all their habits and humors. 
 
 In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and fash- 
 ion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and 
 intelligent society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely by 
 boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metropolia 
 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 gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of carni- 
 val, return again to the apparently more congenial habits of rural 
 life. The various orders of society are therefore diffused over 
 
73 1HE SKETCH HOOK. 
 
 the whole surface of the kingdom, and the most retired neighbor, 
 hoods aflfbrd sjjecimens of the different ranks. 
 
 The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling. 
 They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a 
 keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the country. 
 This passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of 
 cities, born and brought up among brick walls and bustling 
 streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for 
 rural occupation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the 
 vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride 
 and zeal in the cultivation of his flower-garden, and the maturing 
 of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his 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 dingy quar- 
 ters of the city, the drawing-room window resembles frequently a 
 bank of flowers ; every spot capable of vegetation has its grass- 
 plot and flower-bed ; and every square its mimic park, laid out 
 with picturesque taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. 
 
 Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to form 
 an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is either 
 absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand engagements 
 that dissipate time, thought, and feeling, in this huge metropolis. 
 He has, therefore, too commonly a look of hurry and abstraction. 
 Wlierever he happens to be, he is on the point of going some- 
 where else ; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind 
 is wandering to another ; and while paying a friendly visit, he is 
 calculating how he shall economize time so as to pay the other 
 visits allotted in the morning. An immense metropolis, like 
 
RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND, 71 
 
 London, is calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting. In 
 their casual and transient meetings, they can but deal briefly in 
 commonplaces. They present but the cold superficies of 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 formali- 
 ties 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 
 eveiy requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratifica- 
 tion, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, hoi'ses, dogs, 
 and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no 
 constraint either upon his guests or himself, but in the true spirit 
 of hospitality provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves every 
 one to partake according to his inclination. 
 
 The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in 
 what is called landscape gardening, is unrivaled. They have 
 studied nature intently, and discover an exquisite sense of her 
 beautif il forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms, 
 which (n 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 witch- 
 ery, about thoir 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 wood- 
 land glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them ; 
 
80 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 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 ita 
 bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters ; 
 while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown green and dank 
 with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. 
 
 These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; but what 
 most delights me, is the creative talent with which the English 
 decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest 
 habitation, the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in 
 the hands of an Enghshman of taste, becomes a little paradise. 
 With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its 
 capabilities, and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The 
 sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the 
 operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be 
 perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees ; the cau- 
 tious pruning of others ; the nice distribution of flowers and plants 
 of tender and graceful foliage ; the introduction of a green slope 
 of velvet turf; the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or 
 silver gleam of water : all these are managed with a delicate tact, 
 a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with 
 which a painter finishes up a favorite picture. 
 
 The residence of people of fortune and refinement in tlie 
 country has difiused 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 bordered with snug box, the woodbine 
 trained up against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the 
 
RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 81 
 
 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, flowing down from high 
 sources, and pervading the lowest levels of the public mind. If 
 ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the 
 cottage of an English peasant. 
 
 The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the 
 English has had a great and salutary efiect upon the national 
 ^character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English 
 gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which char- 
 acterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union 
 of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of 
 complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living so 
 much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigoratmg 
 recreations of the country. These hardy exercises produce also a 
 healthful tone of mind and spii'its, and a manliness and simplicity 
 of manners, which even the follies and dissipations of the town 
 cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the 
 country, too, the different orders of society seem to approach 
 more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favoi'ably 
 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, thi'ough 
 the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial 
 farmers, down to the laboring peasantry ; and wliile it has thus 
 banded the extremes of society together, has infused into each 
 intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be 
 
 confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it was 
 
 4* 
 
82 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 fonnerly ; the larger estates having, in late years of distress, 
 absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the country almost 
 annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, 
 I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system I have 
 mentioned. 
 
 In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It 
 leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; 
 it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by 
 the purest and most elevating of external influences. Such a 
 inan may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The 
 man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an inter- 
 course with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he 
 casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside 
 his distance and reserve, and is glad to wave the distinctions of 
 rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common 
 life. Indeed the very amusements of the country bring men 
 more and more together ; and the sound of hound and horn blend 
 all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why 
 the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior or- 
 ders in England than they are in any other country ; and why 
 the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and extremi- 
 ties, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution 
 of fortune and privilege. 
 
 To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be 
 attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; 
 the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incompara- 
 ble descriptions of nature that abound in the British poets, that 
 have continued dovna. from " the Flower and the Leaf" of Chau- 
 cer, and have brought into our closets aU the freshness and fra- 
 gi-ance of the dcAvy landscape. The pastoral writers of othei" 
 
RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 83 
 
 countries appear as if tliey had paid nature an cccasional visit, 
 and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British 
 poets have lived and reveled with her — they have wooed her in 
 her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. 
 A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle 
 to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter in the stream — a 
 fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy 
 unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by 
 these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into 
 some beautiful morality. 
 
 The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupa- 
 tions has been wonderful on the face of the country. A groat 
 part of the island is rather level, and would be monotonous, were 
 it not for the charms of culture : but it is studded and gemmed, 
 as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered with pai'ks 
 and gardens. It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, 
 but rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered 
 quiet. Every antique farm-hou?e and moss-grown cottage is a 
 picture : and as the roads are continually winding, and the view 
 is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a con- 
 tinual succession of small landscapes of captivating loveliness. 
 
 The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral 
 feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in th6 mind 
 ■with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-established princi- 
 ples, of hoary usage and reverend custom. • Every thing seems 
 to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The 
 old church 'of remote architecture, with its low massive portal ; 
 its gothic tower ; its windows rich Avith tracery and painted glass, 
 in scrupulous preservation ; its stately monuments of warriors and 
 wortliies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the 
 
M THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 soil ; its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeo- 
 manry, whose progeny still plough the same fields, and kneel at 
 the same altar — the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly 
 antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages 
 and occupants — the stile and footpath leading from the church- 
 yard, across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge-row5, according 
 to an immemorial right of way — the neighboring vUlage, with its 
 venerable cottages, its public green sheltered by trees, under 
 which the forefathers of the present race have sported — the an- 
 tique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural domain, 
 but looking down with a protecting air on the surrounding scene : 
 all these common features of English landscape evince a calm 
 and settled security, and hereditary transmission of homebred 
 virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly 
 for the moral character of the nation. 
 
 It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the bell is 
 sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the 
 peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces and modest cheer- 
 fulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church ; but 
 it is stUl more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering 
 about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble 
 comforts and embellishments which their own hands have spread 
 around them. 
 
 It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of affection 
 in the domestic scene,- that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest 
 virtues and purest enjoyments ; and I cannot close these desultory 
 remarks better, than by q^ioting the words of a modem 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, 
 
RUKAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 88 
 
 But chief from modest mansions numberless, 
 In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 
 Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-rooPd 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 Httle quiet nest 
 All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 
 That can, the world eluding, be itself 
 A world enjoy'd ; that wants no witnesses 
 But its own sharers, and approving heaven ; 
 That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, 
 Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.* 
 
 * From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the BeverecJl 
 Bann Kennedy, A. M. 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 I never heard 
 Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
 Willi care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
 The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 
 
 MlDDLETON 
 
 It iri a common practice witli those who have outlived the suscei> 
 tibility of earlj feeling, or have been brought up in the gay 
 heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at aU love stories, and to 
 treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of novelists 
 nnd poets. My observations on human nature have induced 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, 
 5till there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest 
 bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are 
 sometimes desolating in their efiects. Indeed, I am a true be- 
 liever in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of his doctrmes- 
 Shall I confess it ? — I believe in broken hearts, and the possibUity 
 of dying of disappointed love. I do not, however, consider it a 
 malady often fatal to my own sex ; but I firmly believe that it 
 withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave. 
 
 Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature 
 leads him forth into th 3 struggle and bustle of the world. Love 
 
88 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 is but the embellisliinent of his early life, or a song piped in the 
 intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for spaca 
 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 bit- 
 ter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it blasts some 
 pr'ospects of felicity ; but he is an active being — ^he may dissipate 
 his thoughts in the wliirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into 
 the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of disappointment be too fuU 
 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 medi- 
 tative life. She is more the companion of her OAvn thoughts and 
 feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where 
 shall she look for consolation ? Her lot is to be wooed and won ; 
 and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that 
 has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. 
 
 How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks 
 grow pale — ^how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and 
 none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the 
 dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the 
 arrow that is preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of woman to 
 hide from the world the pangs of wotmded affection. The love 
 of a delicate female is always shy and sUent. Even when fortu- 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. W 
 
 nate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she 
 bui-ies 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 refreshment 
 of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — " dry sorrow drinks 
 her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks uijder 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 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 shedding leaf by leaf, until, wasted and 
 perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest ; and as 
 we muse over the beautiful ruin, we 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 vai'ious declensions of 
 consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached 
 
90 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 tlie first symptom of disappointecT love. But an instance of the 
 kind was lately told to me ; tlie 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 m Ireland, he was tried, condemned, and exe- 
 cuted, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression 
 on public sjTnpathy. He was so young — so intelligent — so gene- 
 rous — so brave — so every thing that we are apt to like in a young 
 man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. 
 The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of 
 treason against his 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 impossi- 
 ble to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won 
 the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of 
 a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disin- 
 terested fervor of a woman's first and early love. Wlien every 
 worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in for- 
 tune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she 
 loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, 
 his fate could aivaken the sympathy even of his foes, Avhat 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 
 
THE BROKEN HEAR!'. 91 
 
 in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and 
 loving had dej^arted. 
 
 But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so dis- 
 honored ! there was nothing for memory to dwell on that could 
 Boothe the pang of separation — none of those tender though 
 melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene — 
 nothing to melt sorrow into those 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 in- 
 curred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, 
 and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympa- 
 thy and kmd offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked 
 and driven m 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 mto 
 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 ilone there as in the depths of soli- 
 tude ; 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 mas- 
 querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness 
 
32 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To 
 find it wandering like a spectre, lonelj and joyless, where all 
 around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, 
 and looking so wan and wobegone, 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 insensibility to the garish scene, she began, 
 with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plain- 
 tive air. She had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion it 
 was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of 
 wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, 
 and melted every one into tears. 
 
 The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great 
 interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. 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 for- 
 mer lover. He, however, persbted in his suit. He solicited not 
 her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her convic- 
 tion of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and depend- 
 ent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In 
 a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with 
 the solemn assurance, that her heart was mialterably another's. 
 
 He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene 
 might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an 
 amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy 
 one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring tpelancholy 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 1)3 
 
 that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, 
 but hopeless declme, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim 
 of a broken heart. 
 
 It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Ii-ish poet, com- 
 posed 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, Uke a smile from the west. 
 
 From her own loved islaud of sorrow ! 
 
THE ART OF BOOK-^iIAKING. 
 
 " If tint severe doom ol" Synesius be true — 'It is a greater cflcnce to steal deiul tucc's 
 labor, than their clotlies,' wliat shall become of most writers?" 
 
 Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 
 
 I HAVE often wondered at tlie extreme fecundity of the press, 
 and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which nature 
 seemed to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, should teem 
 with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, however, in 
 the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is 
 continually finding out some very simple cause for some great 
 matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregi^inations 
 about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which 
 unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book-making crafty 
 and at once put an end to my astonishment. 
 
 I was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons 
 of the British Museum, with that hstlessness with which one is 
 apt to saunter about a museum in warm weather; sometimes 
 lolling over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the 
 Lieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, 
 with nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical paintings 
 on the lofty ceilings. "Whilst I was gazing about in this idle Avay, 
 my attention was attracted to a distant door, at the end of a suit 
 of apartments. It was closed, but every now and then it would 
 
96 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 open, and some strange-favored being, generally clotlied in black, 
 would steal forth, and glide througb the rooms, without noticing 
 any of the surrounding 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 adventur- 
 ous knight-errant. I found myself in a spacious chamber, sur- 
 rounded 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 mysterious apartment, excepting that you might 
 hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occasionally, the 
 deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his position to turn 
 over the page of an old folio ; doubtless arising from that hol- 
 lowness and flatulency incident to learned research. 
 
 Now and then one of these personages would write 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 shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon 
 which tJie 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 
 
THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 97 
 
 him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at the end of 
 tie year, when the magic portal once more swung open on its 
 hinges, ho issued forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be able 
 to soar above the heads of the multitude, and to control the pow- 
 ers 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 
 inteipretation of the strange scene before me. A few words were 
 sufficient for the purpose. I found that these mysterious person- 
 ages, 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 col- 
 lection 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 literature, to which modern authors 
 repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, or " pure Eno^lish, 
 undcfiled," wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of thou'^ht 
 
 Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a comer, 
 and watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed 
 one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most 
 worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently 
 constructing some work of profound ei'udition, that would be 
 purchased by every man who wished to be thought learned, 
 placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his Lbrary, 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-colored 
 
 5 
 
98 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 cloihes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of countenance, who 
 had all the appearance of an author on good terms with his book- 
 seller. After considering him attentively, I recognized in him a 
 diligent getter-np 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 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 im- 
 planted 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 oonvevance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of cer- 
 tain birds ; so that animals which, in themselves, are little better 
 than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers 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 thc-se 
 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 
 onder new forms. What was formerly a ponderoas history re* 
 
THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 99 
 
 vires in the shape of a romance — an old legend changes into a 
 modem play — and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the 
 body for a whole series of bouncing and sparkHng essays. Thus 
 It is in the clearing of our American woodlands ; where we bum 
 down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up 
 in their place : and we never see the prostrate trunk of a tree 
 mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe of fungi. 
 
 Let us not, then, lament over the decay and obHvion into 
 which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit to the great 
 law of nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes of matter 
 shall be limited in their duration, but which decrees, also, that 
 their elements shall never perish. Generation after generation, 
 both in animal and vegetable hfe, passes away, but the vital prin- 
 ciple is transmitted to posterity, and the species continue to 
 flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and having pro- 
 duced 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 wander- 
 ing ; or to an unlucky habit of napping at improper times and 
 places, with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell 
 into a doze. StiU, 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 stQl decorated with the portraits of ancient authors, but that 
 the number was increased. The long tables had disappearetl, 
 and, in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare 
 
100 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 throng, such as may be seen plying about the great repository of 
 cast-ofF clothes, Monmouth-street. Whenever they seized upon 
 a book, by one of those incongruities common to dreams, me- 
 thought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique fashion, 
 with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, how- 
 ever, that no one pretended to clothe liimself 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 observed 
 ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. 
 He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the 
 old fathers, and, having purloined the gray beard of another, en- 
 deavored to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking common- 
 place of his countenance set at naught all the trappings of wis- 
 dom. One sickly-looking gentleman Avas busied embroidering a 
 very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of several old 
 court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had 
 trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated manuscript, 
 had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from " The Paradise of 
 Daintie Devices," and having put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one 
 side of his head, strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar ele- 
 gance. A third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered 
 himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure tracta 
 of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front ; but he was 
 lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived that he had patched 
 his small-clothes Avith scraps of parchment from a Latin author. 
 
 There were some well-dressed gentlemen, ii is true, who only 
 helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their 
 own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to 
 
THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 101 
 
 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 maniiCr 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 Eegent's Park. 
 He had decked liimself in wreaths and ribands from all the old 
 pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one side, went aboui 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 
 pufiing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of sturdy 
 self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, 
 clapped it upon his head, and swept majestically away in a for- 
 midable frizzled wig. 
 
 In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly 
 resounded from every side, of " Thieves ! thieves !" I looked, 
 and lo ! the portraits about the 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 plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen 
 old monks, stripping a modern professor ; on another, there waa 
 Bad devastation carried into the ranks of modern dramatic wri- 
 ters. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field 
 
MB THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Joiison enacted more 
 wonders than vrlien a volunteer with tlie army in Flanders. As 
 to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned some time 
 since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as 
 Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants 
 about him, as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved 
 to see many men, to whom I had been accustomed to look up 
 with awe and rererence, fain to steal oif with scarce a rag to 
 cover their nakedness. Just then my eye was caught by the 
 pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who waa 
 scrambling away in sore affright with half a score of authors in 
 full cry after him ! They were close upon his haunches : iu 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 tumult and the scuffle were 
 at an end. The chamber resumed its usual appearance. The 
 old authors shrunk back into their picture-frames, and hung in 
 shado^'y solemnity along the waUs. In short, I found myself 
 wide awake in my comer, 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 hbrarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether 
 I had a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him^ 
 
THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 103 
 
 but I soon found that the library was a kind of literary " pro- 
 serve," subject to game-laws, and that no one must presume to 
 hunt there without special license and permission. Li a word, I 
 stood convicted of being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make 
 a precipitate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors 
 let loose upon me. 
 
A ROYAL POET. 
 
 Though your body be confined, 
 
 And soft love a prisoner bound, 
 Yet the beauty of your mind 
 Neither clieck nor chain hath fouad 
 Look out nobly, then, and dare 
 Even the fetters tliat you wear. 
 
 Fletcuer. 
 
 On a soft sunny morning, in the genial month of May, I made 
 an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied and 
 poetical associations. The very external aspect of the proud old 
 pUe 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 tempera- 
 ment, filling his mind with music, and disposing him to quote 
 poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through the magni- 
 ficent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle, I passed with 
 indifference by whole rows of portraits of warriors and statesmen, 
 but lingered in the chamber, where hang the likenesses of the 
 beauties which graced the gay court of Charles the Second ; and 
 as I gazed upon them, depicted witli amorous, half-disheveled 
 
 6* 
 
lOG THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir 
 Peter Lely, which had thus enabled me to bask in the reflected 
 rays of beauty. In traversing also the " large green courts," 
 with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, and glaflbing along the 
 velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the image of the tendsr, 
 the gallant, but hapless Surry, 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 gi*ay 
 tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good pre- 
 servation. 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 conducted up a staircase to a suit of apartments of faded 
 magnificence, hung with storied tapestry, which formed his prison, 
 and the scene of that passionate and fanciful amour, which has 
 woven into the web of his story the magical hues of poetry and 
 fiction. 
 
 The whole history of this amiable but 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 
 
A ROYAL POET. 101 
 
 from the treachery aud danger that surrounded the royal house 
 of Scotland. It was his mishap in the course of his voyage to 
 fall into the hands of the English, and he was detained prisoner 
 by Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce 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 gi'ief, that he was almost ready to 
 give up the ghost into the hands of the servant that attended him. 
 But being carried to his bed-chamber, he abstained from all food, 
 and in three days died of hunger and grief, at Rothesay."* 
 
 James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; but 
 though depx'ived of personal liberty, he was treated with the 
 respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all the 
 branches of useful knowledge cultivated at that period, and to 
 give him. those mental and personal accomplishments deemed 
 proper for a prince. Perhaps, in this respect, his imprisonment 
 was an advantage, as it enabled him to apply himself the more 
 exclusively to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich 
 fund of knowledge, and to cherish those 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 ; ho was an expert mediciner, right crafty in playing both 
 
 • Buchanan. 
 
lOB THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 of lute and harp, and sundry otlier instruments of music, and 
 was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry."* 
 
 TTitli this combination of manly and delicate accomplishments, 
 fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and calculated 
 to give him an intense relish for joyous existence, it must have 
 been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, to pass the 
 spring-time of his years in monotonous captivity. It was the 
 good fortune of James, however, to be gifted with a powerful 
 poetic fancy, and to be visited in his prison by the choicest inspi- 
 rations of the muse. Some minds corrode and grow inactive, 
 imder the loss of personal hberty ; others grow morbid and irrita- 
 ble ; but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and ima- 
 ginative in the loneliness of confinement. He banquets upon the 
 honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours forth 
 his soul in melody. 
 
 Have you not seen the nightingale, 
 
 A pilgrim coop'd into a cage. 
 How doth she chant her wonted tale. 
 In that her lonely hermitage ! 
 Even there her charming melody doth prove 
 That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.t 
 
 Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it 13 
 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 populous, and irradiate the gloom of the dmigeon, 
 
 • Ballenden's Transla don of Hector Boyce. 
 t Roger L'Estrange. 
 
A ROYAL POET. 105 
 
 Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso 
 in his dismal cell at Ferrai'a, when he conceived the splendid 
 scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider the " King's 
 Quair," composed by James, during liis captivity at Windsor, as 
 Another of those beautiful breakings-forth of the soul from the 
 restraint and gloom of the prison house. 
 
 The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane Beau- 
 fort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of the blood 
 royal of England, of whom he became enamored in the course 
 of his captivity. What gives it 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 sove- 
 reigns 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 trap- 
 pings of factitious dignity, brings the candidate down to a level 
 with his fellow men,«and obliges him to depend on his own native 
 powers for distinction. It is curious, too, to get at the history of 
 a monarch's heart, and to find the simple affections of human 
 nature throbbing under the ermine. But James had learnt to be 
 a poet before he was a king : he was schooled in adversity, and 
 reared in the company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have 
 seldom time to parley with their hearts, or to meditate their minds 
 into poetry ; and had James been brought up amidst the adula- 
 tion and gayety of a court, we should never, in all probabihty, 
 have had such a poem as the Quair. 
 
 I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem 
 which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation, or 
 
110 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 which are connected with the apartment in the tower. They have 
 thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such circum- 
 stantial truth, as to make the reader present 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 " Cynthia 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 Philoso- 
 phy, 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 admira- 
 ble 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 s^nple reasoning, by 
 which it was enabled to bear up against the various His of life. 
 It is a talisman, which the unfortunate may treasure up in his 
 bosom, or, Hke the good King James, lay upon his nightly 
 pillow. 
 
 After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in hia 
 mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness of 
 fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that had 
 overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears the 
 beU ringing to matins ; but its sound, chiming in with his melan- 
 choly fancies, seems to him like a voice exhorting him to write 
 his story. In the spu-it of poetic errantry he determines to com- 
 
A ROYAL POET. Ill 
 
 ply with this intimation : he therefore takes pen in hand, makes 
 with it a sign of the cross to implore a benediction, and sallies 
 forth into the fairy land of poetry. There is something extremely 
 fanciful in all this, and it is interesting as furnishing a striking and 
 beautiful instance of the simple manner in which whole trains of 
 poetical thought are sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises 
 snggested to the mind. 
 
 In the course of his poem he more than once bewaUs the 
 peculiar hardness of his fate ; thus doomed to lonely and inactive 
 life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world, in 
 which the meanest animal indulges unrestrained. There is a 
 sweetness, however, in his very complaints ; they are the lamenta- 
 tions of an amiable and social spirit at being denied the indul- 
 gence 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 efi'usions of morbid minds sickening under miseries of their 
 own creating, and venting their bitterness upon an unoffending 
 world. James speaks of his privations with acute sensibihty, but 
 having mentioned them passes on, as if his manly mind disdained 
 to brood over unavoidable calamities. When such a spirit breaks 
 forth into complaint, however brief, we are aware how great must 
 be the suffering that extorts the murmur. . "We sympathize with 
 James, a romantic, active, and accomplished prince, cut off in the 
 lustihood of youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and 
 vigorous delights of life ; as we do with Milton, alive to all the 
 beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes forth brie^ 
 but deep-toned lamentations over his perpetual blindness. 
 
112 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 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 accompaniment of bird and song, and foHage 
 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 sleepless pillow. " Bewailing in his 
 chamber thus alone," despairing 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 
 the world from which he is excluded. The window looked forth 
 upon a small garden Avhich 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 forbye 
 
 That might within scarce any wight espye, 
 
 So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
 
 Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 
 And midst of every arbour might be sene 
 
 * Xs/, person. 
 
A ROYAL POET. 113 
 
 The sharpe, grene, swete juniper. 
 Growing so fair, with branches here and therer 
 That as it seemed to a lyf without. 
 The boughs did spread the arbour all about 
 
 And on the small grene twistis* 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 wa3 the month of May, when every thing was in 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 unde- 
 finable 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 
 dispensed to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone cut 
 oflT from its enjoyments ? 
 
 * Thoistis, small boughs or twigs. 
 
 Hoic, — The language of the quotations is generally modernized 
 
114 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be. 
 
 That love is of such noble myght and kynde ? 
 
 Loving his folke, 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 1 
 
 Or is all this but feynit fantasye 1 
 
 For giff he be of so grete excellence. 
 
 That he of every wight hath care and charge. 
 
 What have I gilt t to him, or done offense. 
 That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large ? 
 
 In the joaidst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, he 
 beholds " the fairest and the freshest young floure " that ever he 
 had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden to 
 enjoy the beauty of that " fresh May morrowe." Breaking thus 
 suddenly upon his sight, in the moment of loneliness and excited 
 susceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the romantic 
 prince, and becomes the object of his wandering wishes, the 
 sovereign of his ideal world. 
 
 There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance to 
 the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale ; where Palamon and 
 Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the 
 garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual fact 
 to the incident which he had read in Chaucer may have induced 
 James to dwell on it in his poem. His description of the Lady 
 Jane is given in the picturesque and minute manner of his 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, splen- 
 
 * Setten, incline. t Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. 
 
A ROYAL POET, 115 
 
 dent 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, ho 
 says, like a spark of fire burning ujjon her white bosom. Her 
 diess of white tissue was looped up to enable her to walk with 
 more freedom. She was accompanied by two female attendants, 
 and about her sported a little hound decorated with bells ; proba- 
 bly the small Italian hound of exquisite symmetry, which was a 
 parlor favorite and pet among the fashionable dames of ancient 
 times. James closes his description by a burst of general eu- 
 logium : 
 
 In her was youth, beauty, with humble port. 
 
 Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature ; 
 God better knows than my pen can report, 
 
 Wisdom, largesscjt estate,t and cunning § sure. 
 In every point so guided her measure. 
 
 In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance. 
 
 That nature might no more her child advance. 
 
 The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end 
 to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amorous 
 illusion that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his 
 captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold 
 more intolerable by this passing beam of unattainable beauty. 
 Through the long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, 
 and when evening approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully 
 expresses it, had " bade farewell to every leaf and flower," he 
 Btill lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon the cold 
 
 * Wrought gold. t Largesse, bounty. 
 
 X Estate, dignity. § Cunning, discretion. 
 
116 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until, 
 gradually lulled by tlie mute melancholy of the twilight hour, he 
 lapses, " half sleeping, half swoon," 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, ques- 
 tions his spirit whither it has been wandering ; whether, indeed, 
 all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has been conjured 
 np by preceding circumstances ; or whether it is a vision, intended 
 to comfort and assure him in his despondency. If the latter, he 
 prays that some token may be sent to confirm the promise of 
 happier days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, a turtle 
 dove, of the purest whiteness, comes flying in at the window, and 
 alights upon his hand, bearing in her bUl a branch of red giUi- 
 flower, on the leaves of which is written, in letters of gold, the 
 following sentence : 
 
 Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 
 
 The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 
 
 Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing. 
 For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 
 
 He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread ; reads 
 it with rapture : and this, he says, was the first token of his suc- 
 ceeding happiness. "VThether this is a mere poetic fiction, or 
 whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of Tier 
 favor in this romantic way, remains to be determined according 
 to the faith or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem, by 
 intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision and by the 
 
A ROYAL POET. Ill 
 
 flower is fulfilled, by his being restored to liberty, and mad© 
 happy in the possession of the sovereign of his heart. 
 
 Such is the poetical account given by James of his love 
 adventures in "Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute fact, 
 and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to con 
 jecture : 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 imme- 
 diately 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 wiU scarcely be per- 
 ceived at the present day ; but it is impossible not to be charmed 
 with the genuine sentiment, the delightful artlessness and urbanity, 
 which prevail throughout it. The descriptions of natui'e too, with 
 which it is embellished, are given with a truth, a discrimination, 
 and a freshness, worthy of the most cultivated 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 pei-vade it ; banishing every gross thought or immodest 
 expression, and presenting female loveliness, clothed in all its 
 chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace. 
 
 James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, 
 and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. 
 Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his mas- 
 ters ; and, in some parts of his poem, we find traces of similarity 
 to their productions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There 
 are always, however, general 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 
 
118 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 in the wide world ; they incorporate 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 participa- 
 tion in its primitive honors. Whilst a small cluster of English 
 writers are constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name 
 of their great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in silence ; 
 but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little constel- 
 lation of remote but never-failing luminaries, who shine in the 
 highest firmament of literature, and who, like morning stars, sang 
 together at the bright dawning of British poesy. 
 
 Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish his- 
 tory (though the manner in which it has of late been woven with 
 captivating fiction has made it a universal study) may be curious 
 to learn something of the subsequent history of James, and the 
 fortunes of his love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it was 
 the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release, it being 
 imagined by the court that a connexion with the blood royal of 
 England would attach him to its own interests. He was ultimately 
 restored to his liberty and crown, having previously espoused the 
 Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and made him a 
 most tender and devoted wife. 
 
 He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chieftains 
 having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities of a 
 long interregnum to strengthen themselves in their possessions, 
 and place themselves above the power of the laws. James sought 
 to found the basis of his power in the affections of his people 
 He attached the lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses. 
 
A ROYAL POET, ng 
 
 the temperate and equable administration of justice, the encour- 
 agement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of every thing 
 that could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent enjoyment 
 through the humblest ranks of society. He minged 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 ^nd improved; and was thus an all-pervading 
 spirit, watching with a benevolent eye over the meanest of his sub- 
 jects. Having in this generous manner made himself strong in 
 the hearts of the common people, he turned himself to curb the 
 power of the factious nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous 
 immunities which they had usurped ^ to punish such as had beeii 
 guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring the whole into proper 
 obedience to the crown. For some time they bore this with out- 
 ward submission, but with secret impatience and brooding resent- 
 ment. 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, instigated his grandson Sir Robert Stewart, together with 
 Sir Robert Graham, and others of less note,'to commit the deed. 
 They broke into his bedchamber at the Dominican Convent near 
 Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously murdered him by 
 oft-repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to throw her 
 tender body between him and the sword, was twice wounded in 
 the ineffectual attempt to shield him from the assassin ; and it wa. 
 not untU she had been forcibly torn from his person, that the mur 
 der was accomplished. 
 
 It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, 
 and of the golden little poem which had its birthplace in thii? 
 
laO THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 tower, that made me visit the old pile "with more than common 
 interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, riclily gilt and 
 embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the image of 
 the gallant and romantic prince vividly before my imagination. 
 I paced the deserted chambers where he had composed his poem; 
 I leaned upon the window, and endeavored to persuade myself 
 it was the very one where he had been visited by his vision ; 
 I looked out upon the spot where he had first seen the Lady 
 Jane. It was the same genial and joyous month ; the birds were 
 again vying with each other in strains of liquid melody ; every 
 thing was bursting into vegetation, and budding forth the tender 
 promise of the year. Time, which delights to obUterate 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 floui'ishes 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 hallow every place in which it moves ; to breathe around na- 
 ture 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 war- 
 rior and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him merely as 
 the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human 
 heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet flowers of 
 
A ROYAL POET, 12I 
 
 poetry and song in the paths of common life. He was the first to 
 cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which 
 has since become so prolific of the most wholesome and highly- 
 flavored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner regions of 
 the north all the fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He did 
 every thing in his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the 
 elegant, and gentle arts, which soften and refine the character of 
 a people, and wreathe a grace round the loftiness of a proud and 
 warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, which, unfortunately for 
 the fullness of his fame, are now lost to the world ; one, 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 contri- 
 buted greatly to improve the national music ; and traces of his 
 tender sentiment, and elegant taste, ai'e said to exist in those 
 witching airs, still piped among the wild mountains and lonely 
 glens of Scotland. He has thus connected his image with what- 
 ever is most gracious and endearing in the national character ; he 
 has embalmed his memory in song, and floated his name to after 
 ages in the rich streams of Scottish melody. The recollection of 
 these things was kindling at my heart as I paced the silent scene 
 of his imprisonment. I have visited Vaucluse with as much 
 enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at 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 Eoyal Poet of 
 Scotland. 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 A ^ntleman I 
 What, o' liie woolpack ? or the sujar-chest 1 
 Or lists of velvet ? which b't, pound, or yarf. 
 You vend 30ur gentry by t 
 
 Beggar's Dcsh 
 
 There 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-bom dames, 
 of gorgeous workmanship, with their effigies in colored marble. 
 On every side the eye was struck with some instance of aspiring 
 mortaHty ; some haughty memorial which human pride had 
 erected over its kindred dust, in this temple of the most humble 
 of eil religions. 
 
124 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 The congregation was composed of the neighboring people of 
 rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and cushioned, fur- 
 nished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with theif 
 arms upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, who 
 filled 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 neighborhood, 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 impossible to 
 get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place : so, 
 having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my 
 conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another 
 person's threshold, I occupied myself by making observations on 
 my neighbors. 
 
 I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice the 
 manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that there 
 was the least pretension where there was the most acknowledged 
 title to respect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with the 
 family of a nobleman of high rank, consisting of several sons 
 and daughters. Notliing 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 cot- 
 tagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, with 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. V2b 
 
 an expression of higli refinement, but, at the same time, a frank 
 cheerfulness, and an engaging affability. Their brothers were tall, 
 and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but sim- 
 ply ; with strict neatness and propriety, but without any manner- 
 ism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, 
 with that lofty grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak free- 
 born souls that have never been checked in their groAvth by 
 feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness about real 
 dignity, that never dreads contact and communion with others, 
 however humble. It is only spurious pride that is morbid and 
 sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see 
 the manner in which they would converse with the peasantry 
 about those rural concerns and field-sports, in which the gentle- 
 men of this country so much delight. In these conversations 
 there was neither haughtiness on the one part, nor servility on the 
 other ; and you were only reminded of the difference of rank by 
 the habitual respect of the peasant. 
 
 In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, who 
 had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having purchased 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 bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled behind. 
 The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with peculiar 
 
125 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 slateliness of motion. The very horses champed their bitSv 
 arched Iheir 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 splendid 
 pageant was brought up to the gate of the church-yard. There 
 was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the 
 wall ; — a great smacking of the whip, straining and scrambling 
 of horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through 
 gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vainglory to the 
 coachman. The horses were urged and checked until they were 
 fretted into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing 
 trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers 
 sauntering quietly to church, opened precipitately to the right 
 and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the gate, the 
 horses were pulled up with a suddenness that produced an imme- 
 diate stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. 
 
 There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to alight, 
 pull down tlie steps, and prepare every thing for the descent on 
 earth of this august family. The old citizen first emerged his 
 round red face from out the door^ looking about him with the 
 pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on 'Change, and shake 
 the Stock Market with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, com- 
 fortable 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 
 sbe 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. 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 127 
 
 Two daugliters succeeded to tliis goodly couple. They cer- 
 tainly 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 decorations, yet their appropriateness might be 
 questioned amidst the simplicity of a country church. They 
 descended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line of 
 peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. 
 They cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over 
 the burly faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the 
 nobleman's family, when their countenances immediately bright- 
 ened into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant 
 courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed they 
 were but slight acquaintances. 
 
 I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen,,who 
 came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They were 
 arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of 
 dress which marks the man of questionable pretensions ta style. 
 They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing every one askance that 
 came near them, as if measuring his claims to respectability ; yet 
 they Avere 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 disci- 
 plined 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 nameless grace. They were vulgarly shaped, 
 like men formed for the common purposes of life, and had that 
 air of supercilious assumption which is never seen in the true 
 gentleman. 
 
 I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these 
 
128 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 two families, because I considered tlaem specimens of wliat u 
 often to be met with in tliis country — tlie unpretending great, and 
 the arrogant little. I have no respect 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 aspi- 
 rings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by humiUating 
 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, ou 
 the contrary, Avere in a perpetual flutter and Avhisper ; they be- 
 ii'ayed a continual consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambition 
 of being the wonders of a rui-al congregation. 
 
 The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the 
 sei'vice. He took the whole burden of family devotion upon him- 
 self, 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 meiT, who con- 
 nect the idea of devotion and loyalty ; who consider the Deity, 
 Eomehow or other, of the government party, and religion " a very 
 excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced and kept up." 
 
 "When he joined so loudly in the sei'vice, it seemed more by 
 way of example to the lower orders, to show them that, though 
 60 great and wealthy, he was not above being religious ; as I have 
 ?een a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of chaintv 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 129 
 
 Boup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pronounciBg it 
 " excellent food for the poor." 
 
 "When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the 
 several exits of mj groups. The young noblemen and their sis- 
 ters, as the day was fine, prefcrx'ed 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 ecjlii- 
 pages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the smacking of 
 whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the glittering of harness. The 
 horses started off almost at a bound ; the villagers again hurried 
 to right and left; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust; and the 
 aspiring family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 Pittie olile age, within whose silver halres 
 UoQOur and reverence evermore have rain'd. 
 
 Marrlou'k's Tambuklaimb. 
 
 TiiOSE who are in the habit of remarking such matters must 
 have noticed the passive quiet of an English landscajie on Sunday. 
 The clacking of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the 
 flail, the din of the blacksmith's hammer, the -whisthng 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 travelers. At such times I have 
 almost fancied the winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny land- 
 scape, 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 rehgion of the soul gently springing up within 
 Es. For my part, there are feelings that visit me, in a country 
 
133 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience 
 no Avhere else ; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better 
 tnan 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 shadowy aisles ; its moul- 
 dering monuments ; its dark oaken panel'ng, all reverend with 
 the gloom of departed jeai-s, seemed to fit it for the haunt of 
 solemn meditation ; but being in a wealthy aristocratic neighbor- 
 hood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into the sanctuary; 
 and I felt myself continually thro%vn 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 time Christian was a poor 
 decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and infir- 
 mities. She bore the traces of something better than abject 
 poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her 
 appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scru- 
 pulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, 
 for she did not take her seat among tne village poor, but sat alone 
 on the steps of the altai*. She seemed to have survived all love, 
 all friendship, all society ; and to have nothing left her but the 
 hopes of heaven. "WTien I saw her feebly rising and bending 
 her aged form in prayer ; habitually conning her prayer-book, 
 which her palsied hind and failing eyes would not permit her to 
 read, but which she evidently knew by heart ; I felt persuaded 
 that the faltering voice of that poor Avoman arose to heaven far 
 before tlie responses of the clerk, the sw^ell of the organ, oi the 
 chanting of the choir. 
 
 I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this waa 
 80 delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. V3'6 
 
 on a knoll, round Avhich a small stream made a beautiful bend, 
 and tben wound its way tlirougli a long reach of soft meadow 
 scenery. The church was surrounded by yew-trees which seemed 
 almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly 
 from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about 
 it. I Avas seated there one still sunny morning, watching two 
 laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the 
 most remote and neglected corners of the church-yard ; where, from 
 the number of nameless gi'aves around, it would appear that the 
 indigent and friendless Avere huddled into the earth. I was told 
 that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. 
 Wliile I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which 
 extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced 
 the approach of the funeral. They^vere 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 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 ,Avhom 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 
 fiom the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book 
 in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, hoAvever, waa 
 a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the 
 
134 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 survivoi" was penniless. It was sliuffled 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 iato such a frigi 
 mummery of words. 
 
 I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. 
 On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased — " George 
 Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to 
 kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, 
 as if in prayer, but I could perceive by a feeble rocking of the 
 body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on 
 the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 
 
 Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. 
 There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feel- 
 ings of grief and affection ; directions given in the cold tones of 
 business : the striking of spades into sand and gi'avel ; which, at 
 the grave of those Ave love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. 
 The bustle around seemed to Avaken 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 
 fiomething like consolation — " Nay, now — nay, now— don't take 
 it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her head and wring 
 her hands, as one not to be comforted. 
 
 As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the 
 cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental ob- 
 struction, thei'e was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 135 
 
 the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who 
 was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 
 
 I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat^-my 
 eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part 
 in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. 
 I wandered to another part of the church-yard, 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 destitution, my heart ached 
 for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ! they 
 have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to divert 
 and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young ! 
 Their growing minds soon close above the wound — their elastic 
 spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green and ductile 
 affections soon tAvine round new objects. But the sorrows of the 
 poor, who have no outward apphances to soothe — the sorrows of 
 the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can 
 look for no after-growth of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, 
 solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of 
 her years ; these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the im- 
 potency 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 cottages, and 
 by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small garden, 
 
]36 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 liad supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and led a 
 happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who had grown 
 up io be the staff and pride of their age. — " Oh, sir !" said the 
 good Avoman, " 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, di-essed 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 goodman's ; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, 
 for a finer lad there Avas not in the country round." 
 
 Unfortunately, the son Avas tempted, during a year of scarcity 
 and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the 
 small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been 
 long in this employ Avhen he v/as entrapped by a press-gang, 
 and carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, 
 but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their 
 main prop. The father, Avho Avas already infirm, grew heai-tless 
 and melancholy, and sunk into liis grave. The A\idow, left lonely 
 in her age and feebleness, could no longer support herself, and 
 came upon the parish. StUl there was a kind feeling toward her 
 throughout the Adllage, and a certain respect as being one of the 
 oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage, in Avhich 
 she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to remain 
 in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few 
 Avants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions 
 of her little gai'den, which the neighbors would noAV and then 
 cultivate for her. It was but a fcAV days before the time at which 
 these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some 
 vegetables for her repast, Avhen she heard the cottage door Avhich 
 faced the garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 137 
 
 seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed 
 in seaman's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore tlie 
 air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and 
 hastened towards her, but his steps were faint and faltering ; he 
 sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor 
 woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye — "Oh 
 my dear, dear mother! don't you know your son? your poor boy 
 George ?" It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad, who, 
 shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had, 
 at length, dragged liis wasted limbs homcAvard, 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 ! Nature, however, was exhausted in him : 
 and if any thing had been wanting to finish the work of fate, the 
 desolation of his native cottage would have been sufficient. He 
 stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother had 
 passed many a sleepless night, and he never i-ose from it again. 
 
 The villagers, when they heard t^at George Somers had re- 
 turned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance 
 tliat 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 tlie feel- 
 ings of infancy. "Wlio that lias languished, even in advanced life, 
 in sickness and despondency ; who that has pined on a weary bed 
 in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land ; but has thought 
 
138 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 on the mother " that looked on his childhood," that smoothed hifl 
 pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? Oh ! there is an 
 enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to her son that trans- 
 cends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled 
 by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worth- 
 lessncss, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every com- 
 fort to his convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his 
 enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prospe- 
 rity : — and, if misfortune overtake him, he wiU be the dearer to 
 her from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, 
 she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and if 
 all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to liim. 
 
 Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sick- 
 ness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none to visit 
 liim. He could not endure liis mother from his sight ; if she 
 moved away, his eye would follow lier. She would sit for hours 
 by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would starr 
 from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her 
 bending over him ; wlien he would take her hand, lay it on his 
 bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this 
 v/ay he died. 
 
 My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction. was 
 to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary 
 assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on inqui- 
 ry, that the good feelings of the villagers had promptec] 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 Suhday I was at the village church ; when, to my 
 surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle ta 
 lier accustomed seat on the steps of the altar 
 
 I 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 139 
 
 Slie had made an effort to put on something like mournmg for 
 her son ; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle 
 between pious affection and utter poverty : a black riband or so — 
 a faded black handkerchief, and one or two more such humble 
 attempts to express by outward signs that grief which passes show 
 When I looked round upon the storied monuments, the stately 
 hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned 
 magnificently over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, 
 bowed down by age and sorroAV, at the altar of her God, and 
 offering up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a bi'oken 
 heart, I felt that this living monument of real giief was worth 
 them all. 
 
 I related her stoiy to some of the wealthy members of the 
 congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted them- 
 selves to render her situation moi'e comfortable, and to lighten 
 her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the 
 grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed 
 from her usual seat at church, and 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 
 ported. 
 
A SUNDAY IN LONDON.* 
 
 In a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in the 
 country, and its tranquilizing 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 sacred 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 manufactories are extinguished ; and the 
 sun, no longer obscured 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 counte- 
 nances, 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 toAvers 
 summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his 
 mansion the family of the decent tradesman, the small children 
 in the advance ; then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed 
 by the grown-up daughters, with small morocco-bound prayer- 
 books laid in the folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The house- 
 maid looks after them from the window, admiring the finery of 
 
 • Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions. 
 
142 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 tlie family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile from Let 
 young mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted. 
 
 Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city, 
 perad\'enture 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 car- 
 riage 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 
 vatch, like tiie shepherd's dog, round the threshold of the sanc- 
 tuary. 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 resoun-d Avith melody and praise. Never have I 
 been more sensible of the sanctifyuig 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 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 togethe:-, Avho are separated by the laborious oc- 
 cupations 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 Sunday seat at the board, tells over his well- 
 kiiowu stories, and rejoices young and old with his well-known jokes. 
 
A SUNDAY IN LONDON. '-[^3 
 
 On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to breathe 
 the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural envi- 
 rons. Satirists may say Avhat they please about the rural enjoy- 
 ments 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-gi'ounds which surround this huge 
 metropolis, have done at least as much for its health and morality, 
 as if they had expended the amount of cost in hospitals, prisons, 
 and penitentioriea 
 
THE BOARDS HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 
 
 A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH. 
 
 " A tavern is the rendezvous, tlie excliange, the staple of good fellows. I have heard ray 
 great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfatlier sliould 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 Bomdie. 
 
 It 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 pilgrim 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 en- 
 lighten, they are often apt to obscure ; and I have occasionally 
 seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of countenance by the 
 officiousness of his followers. 
 
 In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakspeare. 
 
 7 
 
liC) THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Every writer considers it liis bounden duty to liglit up some por- 
 tion of his cliaracter or works, and to rescue some merit from 
 oblivion. Tlie 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 oi 
 research, to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. 
 
 As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quiU, 
 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 Avhat 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 per- 
 plexed 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 ai'gued into a beauty. 
 
 In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his pages, 
 when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV, and 
 was, in a moment, completely lost in the madcap revelry of the 
 Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes 
 of humor depicted, and v/ith such force and consistency are the 
 character? sustained, that they become mingled up in the mind 
 with the facts and personages of real life. To few readers does 
 it occur, that these are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, and 
 that, in sober truth, no such knot of merry roysters ever enlivened 
 the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. 
 
 For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of po- 
 etry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to 
 
THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. Wt 
 
 me as a liex'o of history that existed a thousand yeai's since : and, 
 if I may be excused such an insensibility to the common ties of 
 human nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half the great 
 men of ancient chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done 
 for me, or men like me ? They have conquered countries of 
 which I do not enjoy an acre ; or they have gained laurels of 
 which I do not inherit a leaf; or they have furnished examples 
 of hair-brained prowess, which I have neither the opportunity 
 nor the inclination to follow. But, old Jack FaLstatf ! — kind Jack 
 Falstatf ! — 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 pilgrimage to 
 Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, " and see if the old Boar's 
 Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light upon some 
 legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests ; at any rate, 
 there will be a kindred pleasure, in treading the halls once vocal 
 with their niu'tli, to that the toper enjoys in smelling to the empty 
 cask once filled with generous wine." 
 
 The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. 
 I forbear to treat of the vai'ious adventures and wonders I 
 encountered in my travels ; of the haunted regions of Cock Lane ; 
 of the faded glories of Little Britain, and the parts adjacent; 
 what perils I ran in Cateaton-sti-eet and old Jewry ; of the re- 
 nowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the pride and won- 
 der of the city, and the terror of all unlucky urchins ; and how J 
 visited London Stone, and struck my staff upon it, in imitation 
 of that arch rebel, Jack Cade. 
 
I4y THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry East^ 
 cheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very 
 names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane beai*a 
 testimony even at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old 
 Stowe, " was always famous for its convivial doings. The cookea 
 cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well baked, and other 
 victuals : there M^as clattering of "pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and 
 sawtrie." Alas ! how sadly is the scene changed since the roar- 
 ings 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 saNA^rie," to the din of carts and the 
 accursed dinging of the dustman's bell ; and no song is heai'd, 
 save, haply, the strain of some siren from Billiugsgate, 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 neigtiborhood. 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 flowei"-gai"den ; while 
 a glass door opposite aiforded a distant peep of the street, through 
 a vista of soap and tallow candles : the two views, which com- 
 prised, 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. 
 
THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 14D 
 
 To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, from 
 London Stone even unto the IMonument, Avas, doubtless, in her 
 opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the universe. Yet, 
 with all this, she possessed the simpli:'ity of true wisdom, and 
 that liberal communicative disposition, which I have generally 
 remarked in intelligent old ladies, knowing in the concerns of 
 their neighborhood. 
 
 Her information, however, did not extend far back into anti. 
 quity. She could throw no light upon the history of the Boar's 
 Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused the vahant 
 Pistol, until the great fire of London, whai it was unfortunately 
 burnt down. It Avas soon rebuilt, and continued to flourish under 
 the old name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse 
 for double 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, Ci'ooked Lane, toward the supporting of a chaplain. 
 For some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there ; 
 ^t it was observed that the old Boar never held up his head 
 under church government. He gradually declined, and finally 
 gave his last gasp about thirty years since. The tavern was then 
 turned into shops ; but she informed me that a picture of it was 
 still preserved in St. Michael's Church, which stood just in the 
 rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my determination ; 
 so, having informed myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my 
 leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having 
 doubtless raised greatly her opinon 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 
 
150 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Crooked Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, and dark pas 
 sages, "^^•itll -which this old city is perforated, like aii ancient cheese, 
 or a -worm-eaten chest of dra-wers. 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 conunu- 
 nity of frogs at the bottom of a -well. The sexton -was a meek, ac- 
 quiescing little man, of a bowing, lowly habit : yet he had a pleas- 
 ant 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 company with 
 the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels, discours- 
 ing, 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 delibei'ate on any weighty matter ■without the 
 assistance of a cool tankard to clear their understandings. 1 
 arrived at the moment when they had finished their ale and their 
 ai'gument, and were about to repair to the chm*ch to put it in 
 order ; so, having made kno-wn my wishes, I received their gx"a- 
 cious permission to accompany them. 
 
 The church of St. Llichael's, Crooked Lane, standing a short 
 distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many 
 fishmongers of renown ; and as e-\ery profession has its galaxy of 
 glory, and its constellation of great men, I presume the monu- 
 ment of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regarded -with 
 as much reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as 
 poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Yirgil, or soldiers the 
 monument of a Maidborough or Turenne. 
 
 I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious 
 men, to observe that St. Llichael's, Crocked Lane, contains ak-o 
 
THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 151 
 
 the asbes of that doughty champion, William Walworth, knight^ 
 who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in 
 Smithfield; a hero worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the 
 only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of arms: — tlis 
 sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned as the most 
 pacific of all potentates.* 
 
 Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under 
 the back window of what was once the Boar's Head, stands the 
 tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It 
 
 * The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this wor- 
 thy ; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration. 
 
 Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
 William Walworth callyd by name ; 
 Fishmonger he was in lyfTiime 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 
 Tliirteen hundred fourscore and three odd. 
 
 An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the venerable 
 
 Stowe. " Whereas," stiith 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 JacI:, 
 
 Straw, etc., etc." 
 
 Stowe's London. 
 
,152 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 is now neai'lj a century since this trusty drawer of good liquo* 
 closed his bustling career, and was thus quietly deposited within 
 caU of his customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from 
 his epitaph, the httle sexton drew me on one side with a mysteri- 
 ous 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 weather- 
 cocks, so that the living were frightened out of their beds, and 
 even the dead could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost 
 of honest Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the 
 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 garlajid of Captain Death ;" to the dis- 
 comfiture 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 perturbed spirits ; and every one must have 
 heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the 
 regalia in the Tower, which has frightened so many bold sentinels 
 almost out of their wits. 
 
 Be aU this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been 
 a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, who attended 
 upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally prompt witt 
 his " anon, anon, sir ;" and to have transcended his predecessor in 
 honesty; for Falstafl^, the veracity of whose taste no man will 
 
THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN EASTCHEAP. 153 
 
 venture to impcacli, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his 
 sack ; whereas honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sohriety 
 of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of hig 
 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 
 come shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought 
 up among full hogsheads ; and the little sexton corroborated his 
 opinion by a significant wink, and a dubious shake of the head. 
 
 Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the 
 history of tapsters, ftshmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disap- 
 pointed 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. " ]Mai*ry and amen !" said I, " here end- 
 eth 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 
 
 * As tills 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 sen, 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 dependanco. 
 Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 
 7* 
 
154 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 show me the clioice vessels of tlie vestiy, which had been handed 
 down from remote times, when the parish meetings were held at 
 the Boar's Head. These were deposited in the pai'ish club-room, 
 which had been transferred, on the decline of the ancient estab- 
 lishment, to a tavern in the neighborhood. 
 
 A few steps brought us to the house, v.diich 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 establish- 
 ment. 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. "V\'e entered the bar-room,Which was narrow and 
 darkling ; for in these close lanes but few rays of reflected light 
 are enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose broad day 
 is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned into 
 boxes, each ccmtaining a table spread Avith a clean white eloth, 
 ready for dinner. This showed that the guests were of the good 
 >ld 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, be- 
 fore which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass 
 candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the inantle-piece, 
 and an old-fasliioned clock ticked in one corner. There was some- 
 thing 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 Eng- 
 Jish housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who 
 might be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in 
 one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher preten- 
 sions, I was ushered into a little misshapen back-room, having at 
 least nine coi-ners. It was lighted by a sky-hght, furnished with 
 
THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 155 
 
 antiquated leathern cliairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a 
 fat pig. It was evidently 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 porter. 
 
 The old sexton had taken the landlady asid^, and with an air 
 of profound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Ho- 
 ncyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad sub- 
 stitute for that paragon of 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 
 pai'ish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and courtesying, 
 with them in her hands. 
 
 The first she presented me was a japanned u-on tobacco-box, 
 of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked 
 at their stated meetings, since time immemorial ; ?md which was 
 never suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or used on com- 
 mon occasions. I received it Avith becoming reverence ; but what 
 was my delight, at beholding on its cover the identical painting 
 of which I was in quest ! Tliere was displayed the outside of the 
 Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was to be seen the 
 whole convivial group, at table, in full revel ; pictured with that 
 wonderful fidelity and force, with which the portraits of renowned 
 generals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the 
 benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, 
 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 oblit- 
 erated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, 
 for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, 
 and that it was " repaired and beautified by his successor, Mr. 
 
156 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful description of this au, 
 gust and venerable relic ; and I question whether the learned 
 Scriblerius contemplated his Romaii shield, or the Knights of the 
 Eoiiml Table the long-sought san-greal, Avilh more exultation. 
 
 While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame 
 Honeyball, who Avas highly gratified by the interest 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 
 considered 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 descendant from the 
 valiant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused from his meditation on the 
 pot of porter, and, casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, 
 " 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 re- 
 search ; for I immediately perceived that this could be no other 
 than the identical " parcel-gilt goblet " on Avhich Falstaif made his 
 loving, but faithless vow to Dame Quickly ; and which would, of 
 course, be treasured up with care among the regalia of her do- 
 mains, as a testimony of that solemn contract.* 
 
 * Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting m my Dolphin 
 chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday, in Whitsun- 
 week, when the prince broke thy head, for likening his father to a singing man 
 at Windsor ; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to 
 marry mo, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it ? — Henry IV, 
 Part 2. 
 
THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 151 
 
 Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history liow the goblet 
 had been handed down from generation to generation. She also 
 entertained me with many particulars concerning the worthy ves- 
 trymen who have seated themselves thus quietly on the stools of the 
 ancient roysters of Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators, 
 Utter clouds of smoke in 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 reveled there. Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes 
 concerning him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the 
 Mason's Arms, which they give as transmitted down from their 
 forefathers ; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, whose shop 
 stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, has several dry jokes 
 of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the books, with wliich 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 meditation. His head 
 had declined a little on one side ; a deep sigh heaved from the 
 very bottom of his stomach ; and, though I could not see a tear 
 trembhng in his eye, yet a moisture Avas 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 recondite 
 investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My 
 bowels yearned with sympathy, and, putting in his hand a small 
 token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed, with a hearty 
 benediction on him, Dame Honeyball, and the Parish Club of 
 
158 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Crooked Lane ; — not forgetting mj sliabbj, but sententious friend, 
 in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. 
 
 Thus have I given a " tedious brief" account of this inter. 
 esting research, for -n-hich, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, 
 I can onlj plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, so 
 deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware that a more 
 skillful Ulustrator of the immortal bard would have swelled the 
 materials I have touched upon, to a good merchantable bulk ; 
 comprising the biographies of William TTalworth, Jack Straw, 
 and Robert Preston ; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of 
 St. JNIichael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and little ; private 
 anecdotes of Dame HoneybaU, 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 riots of Wat Tvler, and illuminated by the great fire of 
 London. 
 
 All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future com- 
 mentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, and the 
 " parcel-gUt goblet," which I have thus brought to light, the sub- 
 jects of future engravings, and almost as fruitful of voluminous 
 dissertations and disputes as the shield of Achilles, or the far- 
 famed Portland vase. 
 
THE MUTABILITY OP LITERATURE. 
 
 A COLLOQUY IX -WESTjnNSTER ABBEY. 
 
 I know that all beneatli the moon deca)"s. 
 And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
 In time's great period shall return to noDght. 
 
 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. 
 
 Drummosd of Hawthorndkn. 
 
 There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which we 
 naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet 
 haunt, where we may indulge our reveries and buUd our air cas- 
 tles undisturbed. In such a mood I was loitering about the old 
 gray cloisters of "Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of 
 wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with the name of 
 reflection ; when suddenly an interruption of madcap boys from 
 Westminster School, playing 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 
 refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the soli- 
 tudes of the pUe, and applied to one of the vergers for admission 
 to the library. He conducted me through a portal rich with the 
 
160 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy 
 passage leading to the chapter-house and the chamber in wliich 
 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 nai*row staircase, and, passing through a 
 second door, entered the library. 
 
 I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by 
 massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly h'ghted by a 
 row of gothic windoAvs at a considerable height from the floor, 
 and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An 
 ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in his 
 robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small 
 gallery were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They 
 consisted principally of old polemical writers, and were much 
 more worn by time than use. In the 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 VvTiUs 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 a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly along the roofs of 
 the abbey. By degi'ees the shouts of merriment grew fainter and 
 fainter, and at length died away ; the bell ceased to toll, and a 
 profound silence reigned through the dusky hall. 
 
 I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in 
 parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in a 
 renerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, however, I was be- 
 guiled by the solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place 
 
THE MUTABILIIY OF LITERATURE. 16"' 
 
 into a train of musing. As I looked ai'ound upon the old volumes 
 in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves, and appa- 
 rently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but consider 
 the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like mum- 
 mies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in 
 dusty oblivion. 
 
 How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, noAV thrust 
 aside with such indifference, cost some aching head ! how many 
 weary days! how many sleepless nights ! How have their authors 
 buried themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut 
 themselves up from the face of man, and the still more blessed 
 face of nature ; and devoted themselves to 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 churchman or casual straggler like 
 myself; and in another age to be lost, even to remembrance. 
 Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere tempo- 
 rary rumor, a local sound ; like the tone of that bell which has 
 just tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment — lin- 
 gering transiently in echo — and then passing away like a thing 
 that was not ! 
 
 While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these unprofita- 
 ble speculations with my head resting on my hand, I was thrum- 
 ming with tlie other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally 
 loosened the clasps ; when, to my utter astonislunent, the little 
 book gave tv.'o 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 veiy hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb 
 nhich some studious spider had woven across it ; and having 
 probably contracted a cold from long exposure to the chills and 
 
163 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it became more 
 distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent conversable 
 little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather quaint and obso- 
 lete, 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 modern parlance. 
 
 It began with railings about the neglect of the world — about 
 merit being suffered to languish in obscujrity, and other such com- 
 monplace topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly that 
 it had not been opened for more than two centuries. That the 
 dean only looked now and then into the library, sometimes took 
 down a volume or two, trifled with them for a few moments, and 
 then returned them to their shelves. " What a plague do they 
 mean," said the little quarto, which I began to perceive was 
 somewhat choleric, " what a plague do they mean by keeping 
 several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and watched by a 
 set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, merely to 
 be looked at now and then by the dean ? Books were written to 
 give pleasure and to be enjoyed ; and I would have a rule passed 
 that the dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a year ; 
 or if he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn 
 loose the whole school of "Westminster among us, that at any rate 
 we may now and then have an airing." 
 
 " Softly, my worthy friend," rephed 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 en- 
 Bhrined in the adjoining chapels ; Avhile the remains of your con- 
 *emporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of nature, have 
 
 ' sijice returned to dust." 
 
THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 1G3 
 
 " Sir," said tlie little tome, ruffling liis leaves and looking big, 
 " 1 was written for all the Avorld, not for the bookworms of an 
 abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like other 
 great contemporary works ; but here have I been clasped up for 
 more than two centuries, and might hav^e silently fallen a prey to 
 these worms that are playing the very vengeance with my intes- 
 tines, if you had not by chance given me an opportunity of uttex'- 
 ing a i^ew last words before I go to pieces." 
 
 " My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been left to the cir- 
 culation of which you speak, you would long ere this have been 
 no more. To judge from your phj'-siognomy, 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, suifer me to add, 
 instead of likening to harems, you might more properly and grate- 
 fully 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 contem- 
 poraries as if in circulation — where do we meet with their works ? 
 what do we hear of Robert Groteste, of Lincoln ? No one could 
 have toiled harder than he for immortality. He is said to have 
 written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a 
 pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the pyramid 
 has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are scattered in 
 various libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed even by the 
 antiquarian. What do we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the his- 
 torian, antiquary, philosopher, theologian, and poet ? He declined 
 two bishoprics, that he might shut himself up and write for pos- 
 <^erity ;. but posterity never inquires after his labors. What of 
 
164 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Henry of Huntingdon, -who, besides a learned Liistorv of England, 
 wrote a treatise on the contempt of tlie world, "wliicli the world 
 has revenged by forgetting him? Wliat is quoted of Joseph 
 of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical composition ? 
 Of his three great heroic, poems one is lost for ever, excepting a 
 mere fragment ; the others are known only to a few of the curious 
 in literature ; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have 
 entirely disappeared. What is in current use of John Wallis, 
 the Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life ? Of 
 William of Malmsbury ; — of Simeon of Durham ; — of Benedict 
 of Peterborough ; — of John Hanvill of St. Albans ; — of " 
 
 " Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, " how old 
 do you think me ? You are talking of authors that lived long 
 before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that they 
 in a manner expatriated themselves, and deserved to be forgot- 
 ten ;* 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 Eng- 
 lish." 
 
 (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 
 
 * In Latin and French hath many soneraine wittes had great delyte to 
 cndite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes there ben some that 
 Bpeaken their poisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as good 
 a fantasyc as we Imve in hearying of Frenchmen's EngUshe. — Chaucer's Tes- 
 tament of Love. 
 
THE MUTABILITY OF IITERATURE. 165 
 
 passed into forgetfulness ; and De "Worde's publications are mere 
 literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stability 
 of language, too^ on which you found your claims to perpe- 
 tuity, have been the fallacious dependence of authors of every 
 age, even back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester 
 who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon.* Even now 
 many talk of Spenser's ' well of pure English undefiled, as if the 
 language ever sprang from a well or fountain-head, and was not 
 rather a mere confluence of various tongues, perpetually subject 
 to changes and intermixtures. It is this which has made English 
 literature so extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon 
 it so fleeting. Unless thought can be committed to something 
 more permanent and unchangeable than such a medium, even 
 thought must share the fate of every thing else, and fall into 
 decay. This should serve as a, check upon the vanity and 
 exxdtation of the most popular writer. He finds the language 
 in "wlrtch he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and sub- 
 ject to the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He 
 looks back and beholds the early authors of his country, once the 
 favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers. A few 
 short ages have covered therfci with obscurity, and their merits 
 can only be relished by the quaint taste of the bookworm. And 
 
 * Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, " afterwards, also, by deligent 
 travell of GefTry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of Richard the 
 Second, and -after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berne, 
 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 praiso 
 and immortal commendation." 
 
16G THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 such, he anticipates, will be the fate of his own work, which 
 however it may be adnxired in its day, and held up as a model of 
 purity, will in the course of years grow antiquated and obsolete ; 
 until it shall become almost as unintelligible in its native land as 
 an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic inscriptions said to 
 exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I, with some 
 emotion, " when I contemplate a modern library, filled with new 
 works, in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding, I feel 
 disposed to sit down and weep ; like the good Xerxes, when he 
 surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of miUtary 
 array, and reflected that in one hundred yeai's not one of them 
 would be in existence !" 
 
 " Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, " 1 see how it 
 is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old au- 
 thors. I suppose nothing js read now-a-days but Sir Philip 
 Sydney's Arvvadia, Sackville's stately plays, and Mirror for Ma- 
 gistrates, or the iine-spun euphuisms of the ' unparalleled John 
 Lyly.'" 
 
 " There you are again mistaken,'' said I ; " the writers whom 
 you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you 
 were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip 
 Sydney's Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly pre- 
 dicted by his admirers,* and which, in truth, is full of noble 
 
 * 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 secretarj' of eloquence, the breath of the miases, the honey bee 
 of the daintyest ilowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intellectua. 
 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 
 Tierce's Supererogation. 
 
THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE, 167 
 
 thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now 
 scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has stnitted into obscurity ; 
 and even Lyly, though his writings Avere 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 frag- 
 ments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification of 
 the curious. 
 
 " For my part," I continued, " I consider this mutability of 
 language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the 
 world at large, and of authorfl in particular. To reason from 
 analogy, we daily behold the vax'ied and beautiful tribes of vege- 
 tables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short 
 time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their successors. 
 Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature would be a griev- 
 ance instead of a blessing. The earth would groan with rank 
 and excessive vegetation, and its surface become a tangled wilder- 
 ness. In like manner the works of genius and learning decline, 
 and make way for subsequent productions. Language gradually 
 varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors who have 
 flourished their allotted time ; otherwise, the creative powers of 
 genius would overstock the world, and the mind would be com- 
 pletely bewildered in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly 
 ttiere were some restraints on this excessive multiplication. 
 Works had to be transcribed by hand, which was a sIoav and labo- 
 rious operation ; they were written either on parchment, which 
 was expensive, so that one work was often erased to make way 
 
168 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 for another ; or on papyrus, whicli was fragile and extremely per- 
 ishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, pur- 
 sued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. 
 The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and con- 
 fined almost entirely to monasteries. To these circumstances 
 it may, in some measure, be owing that we have not been mun- 
 dated by the intellect of antiquity ; that the fountains of thought 
 have not been broken up, and modern genius drowned in the 
 deluge. But the inventions of paper and the press have put an 
 end to all these restraints. They have made every one a writer, 
 and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself 
 over the whole intellectual world. The consequences are alarm- 
 ing. The stream of literature has swollen into a torrent — aug- 
 mented 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 Hbraries such as actually exist, con- 
 taining three or four hundi'ed thousand volumes ; legions of au- 
 thors at the same time busy ; and the press going on Avith fearfully 
 increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number ? Unless 
 some unforeseen mortsdity 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 Avill not be 
 sufiicient. Criticism may do much. It increases with the increase 
 of literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks on popu- 
 lation spoken of by economists. All possible encouragement, 
 therefore, should be given to the gi'owth of critics, good or bad. 
 But I fear all will be in vain ; let criticism do what it may, wri- 
 ters will write, printers will print, and the world will inevitably 
 be overstocked with good books. It will soon be the employment 
 of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of passa- 
 
THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE, 109 
 
 ble information, at the present day, reads scarcely any thing but 
 reviews ; and before long a man of erudition will be little better 
 than a mere walking catalogue." 
 
 "My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 
 di'earily 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 repu- 
 tation, 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 literature. There rise authors now and 
 then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, because 
 they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of hu- 
 man nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see 
 on the banks of a stream ; which, by their vast and deep roots, 
 penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very 
 foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them from 
 being swept away by the 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, retaining in modem use the language and 
 literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indiflferenl 
 author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity But even 
 he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, and liia 
 
 8 
 
170 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 whole foiin 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 weU ! and so you would persuade me that the literature 
 of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a 
 man without 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, nevertheless, not to give up my 
 point. 
 
 " Yes," resumed I, positively, " a poet ; for of all writers he 
 has the best chance for immortality. Others may write from the 
 head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart •will always 
 understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of nature, whose 
 features are always the same, and always interesting. Prose 
 writers are voluminous and unwieldy ; their pages are crowded 
 with commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. 
 But with the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or brilHant. 
 He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illus- 
 trates them by every thing that he sees most striking in nature 
 and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it 
 is passing before him. His writmgs, therefore, contain the spirit, 
 -the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. 
 They are caskets w^hich inclose within a small compass the wealth 
 
THE MUTABILITY" OP LITERATURE. 171 
 
 of the language — its family jewels, wliicli are thus transmitted in 
 a portable form to posterity. The setting may occasionally be 
 antiquated, and require now and then to be renewed, as in the 
 case of Chaucer ; but the brilliancy and intrmsic value of the 
 gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the long reach 
 of literary history. "WTiat vast valleys of dullness, filled with 
 monkish legends and academical controversies! what bogs of 
 theological speculations ! what dreary wastes of metaphysics ! 
 Here and there only do we behold the heaven-illumined bardS; 
 elevated like beacons on their widely-separate heights, to transmit 
 the pure light of poetical intelligence from age to ao^e."* 
 
 I w^as just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets 
 of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to 
 turn ray 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 claspa 
 were closed : and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had 
 
 • 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 
 
 01 every wight alj've ; 
 The honey comb that bee dolh make 
 
 Is not so sweet in hyve, 
 Afl are the golden leves 
 
 That drop from poet's head ! 
 Which doth surmount our common talka 
 
 Afl farre as dross doth lead. 
 
 Churchyard, 
 
ITJ THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 passed. I have been to the library two or three times since, and 
 have endeavored to draw it into further conversation, but in vain ; 
 and whether all this rambling colloquy actually took place, or 
 whether it was another of those odd day-dreams to which T am 
 subject, I have never to this moment been able to discover. 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 Heie's a few flowers t but abont midnight more : 
 The herbs that have on them cold dew o' tlie night ; 
 
 Are strewings fitt'st for graves 
 
 You were as flowers now wither'd ; even so 
 These Lerblets shall, which we upon you strow. 
 
 Cymdbline. 
 
 Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural life 
 which still linger in some parts of England, are those of strew- 
 ing 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 aU 
 the curious and interesting traces of the olden time. 
 
 In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse 
 lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the wild 
 and plaintive ditties of Cphelia : 
 
»74 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 White his shroud as the mountain snow 
 
 Larded all with sweet flowers ; 
 Which be-wept to the grave did gc, 
 
 With true love showers. 
 
 There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in 
 eome 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 Avhite gloves. They are 
 intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the crown 
 of glory which she has received in heaven. 
 
 In some parts of the country, also, the dead are cai-ried 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 conquerors." This, I am informed, is 
 observed in some of the northern counties, particularly in Nor- 
 thumberland, and it has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, to 
 hear, of a stiU evening, in some lonely coimtry scene, tli.3 mourn- 
 ful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and to see 
 the train slowly moving along the landscape. 
 
 Thus, thus, and thus, we compass roimd e> 
 
 Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground. 
 And as we sing thy dirge, we wiVL 
 
 The daffbdill 
 And other flowers lay upon 
 The altnr of our love, thy stone. 
 
 Heriuck. 
 
RURAL FUNERALS, 175 
 
 There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveler to the pass- 
 ing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such spectacles, 
 occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep into the 
 souL As the mourning train approaches, he pauses, uncovered, 
 to let it go by ; he then follows silently in the rear ; sometimes 
 quite to the grave, at other times for a few hundred yards, and, 
 having paid this ti'ibute of respect to the deceased, tui-ns and 
 resumes his journey. 
 
 The rich vein of melancholy which runs tlirough the English 
 character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling 
 graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the 
 solicitude shown by the common people for an honored and a 
 peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be his 
 lowly lot Avhile 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." The poets, too, who 
 always breathe the feeling of a nation, continually advert to this 
 fond solicitude about the grave. In " The Maid's Tragedy," by 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, 
 describing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted girl - 
 
 When she sees a bank 
 Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
 HeFfServants, 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 preva- 
 lent: osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the turf unin- 
 
176 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 jured, and about tliein were planted evergreens and flowers 
 *' "We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his Sylva, " with flow- 
 ers and redolent plants, just emblems of the life of man, which 
 has been compared in Holy Scriptures to those fading beauties, 
 whose roots being buried in 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 Euthen, which lies at the head of the beautiful 
 vale of Clewyd. I have been told also by a friend, who was 
 present at the funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that the 
 female attendants had their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon 
 as the body was interred, they stuck about the grave. 
 
 He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the 
 same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the 
 ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might be 
 seen in various states of decay ; some drooping, others quite per- 
 ished. They were afterwards to be supplanted by hoUy, rose- 
 mary, and other evergreens ; which on some graves had grown 
 to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tombstones. 
 
 There was formerly a melancholy fancifidness in the arrange- 
 ment of these rustic ofierings, that had something in it truly po- 
 etical. The rose was sometimes blended with the lUy, to form a 
 general emblem of frail mortality. " This sweet flower," said 
 Evelyn, " borne on a branch set with thorns, and accompanied 
 with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, 
 anxious, and transitory hfe, 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 ribands with which they were 
 tied, had often a particular reference to the qualities or story of 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 171 
 
 tbe deceased, or were expressive. of the feelings of Uie mourner. 
 In an old poem, entitled " Corydon's Doleful KneU," a lover spe- 
 cifies the decorations he intends to use 
 
 A garland shall be framed 
 
 By art and nature's skill. 
 Of sundry-colored flowers, 
 
 In token of good-will. 
 
 And sundry-color'd ribands 
 
 On it I will bestow ; 
 But cliiefly blacke and j'ellowe 
 
 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 ribands, in token of her 
 spotless innocence ; though sometimes black ribands were inter- 
 mingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose 
 was occasionally used in remembrance of such as had been 
 remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in general "were appro- 
 priated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn teUs us that the custom 
 was not altogether extinct in his time, near his dweUiug in the 
 county of Surrey, " where the maidens yearly planted and decked 
 the gi'aves of their defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes." And 
 Camden likewise remarks, in his Britannia : " Here is also a cer- 
 tain custom, observed time out of mind, of planting rose-trees 
 upon the graves, especially by the young men and maids who 
 
 8* 
 
178 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 liaTe lost their loves ; so tliat tliis cliurch-yai'd is uow full of 
 tliem." 
 
 When the deceased had been unhappy m their loves, emblems 
 of a more gloomy character Avere used, such as the yew and cy. 
 press ; luid if flo^vers Avere streAvn, they were of the most melan- 
 choly colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published 
 in IGol), is the following stanza • 
 
 Yet strew 
 Upon my disniall grave 
 Such offerings as you have. 
 
 Forsaken cpyresse and sad yewe ; 
 For kinder flowers can take no birth 
 Or growth from such unhappy eartlt. 
 
 In '' The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is introduced, 
 illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females who 
 had been disappointed in love : 
 
 Lay a garland on my hearse, 
 
 Of the dismall yew, 
 iMaidens, willow branches wear. 
 
 Say I died true. 
 
 I\Iy love was false, but I was firm. 
 
 From mv 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 
 
RURAL FUNERAL^. 179 
 
 the whole of these funeral observances. Thus, it wae an especial 
 precaution, that none but SAveet-scented evergreens and flowers 
 should be employed. The intention seems to have been to soften 
 the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding over 
 the disgraces of perishing mortality, and to associate the memory 
 of the deceased -with the most delicate and beautiful objects in 
 nature. There is a dismal process going on in the grave, ere 
 dust can return to its kindred dust, which the imagination shrinks 
 from contemplating ; 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 fra- 
 grant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner 
 embalms tlj e dead in the recollections of the living. 
 
 Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice. 
 
 And make this place all Paradise : 
 
 May streets grow here ! and smoke from hence 
 
 Fat franldncense. 
 Let balme and cassia send their scent 
 From cut 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 bum 
 Upon thine altar ! then retam 
 And leave thee sleeping in thiiie um. 
 
180 tHE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 I might croTvd my pages witli extracts from tlie older British 
 poets, who wrote Avhen these rites were more prevalent, and 
 delighted frequently to allude to them ; but I have already quoted 
 more than is necessary. I cannot however refrain from giving a 
 passage from Shalcspeare, even though it should appear ti-ite; 
 which illustrates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in 
 these floral tributes ; and at the same time possesses that magic of 
 language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands pre- 
 eminent 
 
 With fairest flowers. 
 Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
 I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 
 The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
 The azured harebell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
 The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, 
 Outsweeten'd not thy breath. 
 
 There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt 
 and soontaneous offerings of nature, than in the most costly 
 monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower while the heai't 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 elc gant 
 and touching has disappeared from general use, and exists only 
 in the most remote and insignificant villages. But it seems as if 
 poetical custom always shuns the walks of cultivated society. Li 
 proportion as people grow polite they cease to be poeticaL Th>^y 
 talk of poetry, but they have learnt to check its free impulses, to 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 181 
 
 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 mourners, Avho 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 per- 
 petuate the memory of the friend with whom Ave once enjoyed 
 them ; who was the companion of our most retired walks, and 
 gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea is associated 
 with every charm of nature ; we hear his voice in the echo which 
 he once delighted to awaken ; liis spirit haunts the grove which 
 he once frequented ; we think of him in the wild upland soUtude, 
 or amidst the pensive beauty of the valley. In the freshness of 
 joyous morning, we remember his beaming smiles and bounding 
 gayety ; and when sober evening returns with its gathering shad- 
 ows and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a twilight hour of 
 gentle talk and sweet-souled melancholy. 
 
ISa THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 Each lonely place shall him restorej 
 
 For him the tear be duly shed ; 
 Beloved, till life can charm no more ; 
 
 And mom-n'd till pity's self be dead. 
 
 Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the deceased 
 ill the couniry is that the grave is more immediately in sight of 
 the survivors. They pass it on their Avay 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 pi-esent pleasures and present loves, and to sit down among 
 the solemn mementos of the past. In North Wales the peasantry 
 kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friends for 
 several Sundays after the interment ; and where the tender rite 
 of strewing and planting flowers is still practised, it is always 
 renewed on Easter, "^Vhltsuntide, 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 lurelings are employed ; and if a 
 neighbor yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult to offer 
 compensation. 
 
 I have dwelt upon this beftutiful rural custom, because, as it 
 is one of the last, so is it one of the hoHest offices of love. The 
 gi'ave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine 
 passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive im- 
 pulse c f mere animal attachment. The latter must be continually 
 refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its object ; but the 
 love that is seated in the soul can live on long remembrance. 
 The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline with the 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 183 
 
 charms wliich excited tliem, and turn Avith shuddering disgust 
 from the dismal precincts of tlie tomb ; but it is thence that truly 
 spiritual affection rises, purified from every sensual desire, and 
 returns, hke 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 Avould willingly forget the 
 infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every 
 recollection is a pang ? Where is the child that would willingly 
 forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to 
 lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the 
 friend over whom, he mourns ? Who, even Avhen the tomb is 
 closing upon the remains of her he most loved ; when he feels 
 his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; would 
 accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness ? — No, 
 the love Avh5.ch survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes 
 of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and 
 when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle 
 tear of recollection ; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive 
 agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened 
 away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its 
 loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? 
 Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright 
 hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of 
 gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, 
 or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a voice from the tomb 
 sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which 
 
184 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 we turn even from the cliarms of tlie living. Oh the grave!— 
 the grave ! — It buries every error — covers every defect — extin- 
 guishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none 
 but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down 
 upon the grave even of an enem}^, and not feel a compunctious 
 throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of 
 earth that lies mouldering before Mm ! 
 
 But the grave of those we loved — Avhat a place for medita- 
 tion ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole his 
 tory of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments 
 lavislied ujDon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of inti- 
 macy — there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, 
 awful tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of death, with 
 all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance — its mute, watchful 
 assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! The feeble, 
 fluttei'ing, thrilling — oh! how thrilling! — pressure of the hand! 
 The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more 
 assurance of affection ! The last fond look of the glazing eye, 
 turning 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 unre- 
 quited — every past endearment unregarded, of that departed 
 being, who can never — never — never return to be soothed by thy 
 contrition ! 
 
 If thou art a chUd, 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 trutli — if thou art a friend, and hast evei 
 wronged, in thought, or Avord, or deed, the spirit that generously 
 
RURAL FUNERALS, i85 
 
 confided in thee — il' thou art a lover, and hast ever given one un- 
 merited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still 
 beneath thy feet ; — then be sure that every unkind look, every 
 ungracious word, every ungentle action, Avill come thronging back 
 upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul— then be 
 Bure that thou wilt lie down sorro^ving 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 Avas not intended to give a 
 full detail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but 
 merely to furnish a few hints and quotations illustrative of particu- 
 lar 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 bi-ief and casual 
 a notice of these usages, after they have been amply and learn- 
 edly 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 ob- 
 served even by the rich and fashionable ; but it is then apt to 
 lose its simplicity, and to degenerate into affectation. Bright, in 
 
186 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 liis travels in Lower Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, 
 and recesses formed for retirement, with seats placed among 
 bowers of greenliouse plants ; and that the graves generally are 
 covered with the gayest flowei's of the season. lie gives a casual 
 picture of filial piety, Avhich I cannot hut describe ; for I trust it 
 13 as useful as it is delightful, to illustrate the amiable virtues of 
 the sex. " "\Mien I was at Berlin," says he, " I followed the 
 celebrated Iffland to the grave. Mingled with some pomp, you 
 might trace much real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my 
 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 tliis affectionate daughter presented a 
 monument more striking than the most costly work of art." 
 
 I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I 
 once met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was at 
 the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the Lake 
 of Lucern, 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 fcAV miles of circumference, scooped out as it were from the 
 bosom of the mountains, comprised its territory. The village of 
 Gersau seemed separated from the rest of the world, and retained 
 the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a email church, 
 with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of the graves 
 were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some were affixed 
 miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at likenesses 
 of the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplcts of flowera, 
 some withering, others fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused 
 
RUIJAL FUNERALS, 187 
 
 with interest at this scene ; I felt that I was at the source of 
 poetical description, for these were the beautiful but unaffected 
 offerings of the heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer 
 and more populous place, I should have suspected them to have 
 been suggested by factitious sentiment, derived from books ; but 
 the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; there was not a 
 novel nor a love poem in the vUlage ; and I question whether any 
 peasant of the place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chap- 
 let 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. 
 
o 
 
THE INN KITCHEN. 
 
 Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? 
 
 Falstapf. 
 
 During a journey that I once made through the Netherlands, I 
 had arrived one evening at the Pomme d' Or, the principal inn 
 of a small Flemish village. It was after the hour of the talle 
 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 requested something to read ; he brought me the whole 
 literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an almanac 
 in the same language, and a number of old Paris newspapers. 
 As I sat dozing over one of the latter, reading old news and stale 
 criticisms, my ear was now and then struck with bursts of laughter 
 which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Every one that has 
 traveled on the continent must know how favorite a resort the 
 kitchen of a country inn is to the middle and inferior order of 
 travelers ; particularly in that equivocal kind of weather, when a 
 Ore becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw aside the news- 
 paoer, and explored my way to the kitchen, to take a peep at the 
 
190 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 group that appeared to be so merrj. It was composed partly of 
 travelers Tvho liad arrived some hours before iu a diligence, and 
 partly of the usual attendants and hangers-on of inns. They 
 were seated round a great burnished stove, that might have been 
 mistaken for an altar, at which they were worshiping. It was 
 covered with various kitchen vessels of resplendent 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 pai'tially 
 illumined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote 
 corners ; except ^^-liere they settled in melloAV 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 pre- 
 siding priestess of the temple. 
 
 Many of the company were furnished vdth. pipes, and most of 
 ihem with some kind of evening potation. I found their mii-th 
 was occasioned by anecdotes, which a little swarthy Frenchman, 
 with a dry weazen face and large wliiskers, was giving of his 
 love adventures ; at the end of each of which there was one of 
 those bursts of honest unceremonious laughter, in which a man 
 indulges in that temple of true liberty, an inn. 
 
 As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious blusler 
 ing evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened to a 
 variety of travelers' tales, some very extravagant, 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 cliief zest from the manner in which it 
 was told, and the peculiar rJr and appearance of the narrator. 
 
THE IKN KITCHEN. 191 
 
 He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran 
 traveler. He was dressed in a tarnished green traveling-jackot, 
 with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of overalJs, wiiii 
 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 traveling-cap stuck on one side of his head. He 
 was interrupted more than once by the an-ival of guests, or the 
 remarks of his auditors ; and paused now and then to replenish 
 his jiipe ; 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-nhair, 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 a whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he related tho 
 Ibllowing story 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 A traveler's tale.* 
 
 He tliat Eupper for is dight. 
 
 He lyes full cold, I trow, this night I 
 
 Yestreen to chamber I him Iei3, 
 
 This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. 
 
 Sir Eoer, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gbat Stebl. 
 
 On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and 
 romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies not far from the con- 
 fluence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood, many, many yearn 
 since, the Castle of the Baron Von 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 possessor 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 Katzenel- 
 lenbogen,t and inherited the relics of the property, and all the 
 
 * The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will perceive 
 that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little 
 French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place at Paris. 
 
 t t. e., Cat's-Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very powerful 
 in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compliment to o 
 peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her fine ann. 
 
 9 
 
194 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 pride of liis ancestors. Though the Avai-like disposition of his 
 predecessors had much impaired the family possessions, yet the 
 baron still endeavored to keep up some show of former state. 
 The times were peaceable, and the German nobles, in general, 
 had abandoned their mconvenient old castles, perched like eagles' 
 nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient resi- 
 dences in the valleys : still the baron remained proudly drawn up 
 in his little fortress, cherishing, with hereditary invetei'acy, all 
 the old family feuds ; so that he was on ill terms with some of his 
 nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had happened 
 between their great-great-grandfathers. 
 
 The baron had but one child, a daughter ; but nature, when 
 she grants but one child, always compensates by 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 bx'ought up 
 with great care under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, 
 who had spent some years of their early life at one of the little 
 German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of knowledge 
 necessary to the education of a fine lady. Under their instruc- 
 tions she became a miracle of accomplishments. By the time she 
 was eighteen, she could embroider to admiration, and had worked 
 whole histories of the saints in tapestiy, with such strength cf ex- 
 ■ pression in their countenances, that they looked like so many souls 
 in purgatory. She could read without great difl&culty, and had 
 spelled her way through several church legends, and almost all 
 tlic chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made 
 considerable proficiency in writing ; could sign her own name 
 without missing a letter, and so legibly that her aunts could read 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 195 
 
 it without spectacles. She excelled in making little elegant 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 Minnie- 
 lieders by heart. 
 
 Her aunts, too, having been gi'eat 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 super- 
 annuated 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 apparent. 
 The young lady was a pattern of docility and correcthess. While 
 others were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, and 
 liablB to be plucked and thrown aside by every hand; she was 
 coyly blooming mto 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 Yon Landshort might be 
 provided with children, his household was by no means a small 
 one ; for Providence had enriched him with abundance of poor 
 
196 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 relations. Thej, 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 
 enliven 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 stark old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down 
 from the walls around, and he found no listeners equal to those 
 who fed at his expense. He was much given to the marvelous, 
 and a firm believer in all those supernatural tales with which 
 every mountain and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of 
 his guests exceeded even his own : they listened to every tale of 
 wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be aston- 
 ished, 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 aU things, in the 
 persuasion that he Avas 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 con- 
 ducted with proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed 
 without seeing each other ; and the time was appointed for tJie 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. , 197 
 
 marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg Lad been 
 recalled from the army for the purpose, and was actually on hia 
 way to the baron's to receive his bride. Missives had even been 
 received from him, from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally 
 detained, mentioning the day and hour when he might be expected 
 to arrive. 
 
 The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitar 
 ble welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncom- 
 mon care. The two aunts had superintended her toilet, and quar- 
 reled the whole morning about every article of her dress. The 
 young lady had taken advantage 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 interest in affairs of this nature. They 
 *rere 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 passive when all the 
 world was in a hurry. He wori-ied 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 impor- 
 tunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day. 
 
 In the meantime the fatted calf had been killed ; the forests 
 
iOS . THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 had rung witli the clamor of the huntsmen ; the kitchen waA 
 crowded with good cheer ; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans 
 of Wiein-wein and Ferne-wein ; and even the great Heidelburg 
 tun had been laid under contribution. Every thing was ready to 
 receive the distmguished guest with Saus und Braus in the true 
 spu'it 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 of the mountains. The baron 
 mounted the highest tower, and strained his eyes in hopes of 
 catching a distant sight of the count and his attendants. Once 
 he thought he beheld them ; the sound of horns came floating 
 from the valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A number 
 of horsemen were seen far below, sloyly advancing along the 
 road ; but when they had nearly reached the foot of the moun- 
 tain, they suddenly struck oif 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 per- 
 plexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a different part 
 of the Odenwald. 
 
 The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his 
 route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a man travels toward 
 matrimony Avhen his friends have taken all the trouble and uncer- 
 tainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for him, 
 as certainly as a duiner at the end of his journey. He had encoun- 
 tered, at "Wurtzburg, a youthful companion in arms, with whom 
 he had seen some service on the frontiers ; Herman Von Starken- 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 199 
 
 fiiust, 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 Landshoit. 
 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 
 ho 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 an early 
 hour, the count having given directions for his retinue to follow 
 and overtake him. 
 
 They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their 
 mihtary 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 
 Qdenwald, 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 by robbers as its castles by 
 spectres ; and, at this time, the former were pai-ticularly nume- 
 rous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering about the 
 country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the 
 cavaliers 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 
 
200 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 cx)unt had received a mortal wound. He was slowly and care- 
 fully conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned 
 from a neighboring convent, who Avas famous for his skill in 
 administering to both soul and body ; but half of his skill wai 
 superfluous ; the moments of the unfortunate count were num- 
 bered. 
 
 "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 punctihous of 
 men, and appeared earnestly soUcitous that his mission should be 
 speedily and courteously executed. " Unless this is done," said 
 he, " I shall not sleep quietly in my grave !" He repeated these 
 last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so 
 impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to 
 soothe him to calmness ; promised faithfully to execute his wish, 
 and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed 
 it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium — craved about 
 his bride — his engagements — ^liis plighted word; ordered his 
 horse, that he might ride to the castle of Landshort ; and expired 
 in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. » 
 
 Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the 
 untimely fate of his comrade ; and then pondered on the awkward 
 mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head 
 perplexed; for he was to present himself an unbidden guest 
 among hostile people, and to damp their festivity with tidings fatal 
 to their hopes. Still there were certain whisperings of curiosity 
 in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of I^tzeneUenbogen, 
 BO cautiously shut up from the world ; for he was a passionate 
 admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 201 
 
 enlerprise in his character that made him fond of all singular 
 adventure. 
 
 Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with 
 the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of 
 his friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, 
 near some of his illustrious 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 wore 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. 
 
 Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron de- 
 scended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had 
 been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be postponed. 
 The meats Avere already overdone ; the cook in an agony ; and 
 the whole household had the look of a garrison that had been 
 reduced by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to give 
 orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were 
 seated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the 
 sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach 
 of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts of the 
 castle with its echoes, 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 
 Btyle. His dignity for a moment was rufiled, and he felt disposed 
 to consider it a want of proper respect for the important occasion, 
 
 9* 
 
'^2 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 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. 
 
 " I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon you thus 
 unseasonably " 
 
 Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compliments 
 and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his 
 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 
 stranger was again about to speak, when he was once more inter- 
 rupted 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 Avhispered 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 smUe 
 playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek that 
 showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossi- 
 ble 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 Avas peremptory, and deferred all particular 
 conversation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted 
 banquet. 
 
 It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. {203 
 
 walls Lung tlie hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house 
 of Katzencllenbogen, and the trophies Avhich they had gained in. 
 the field and in the chase. Hacked corslets, splintered jousting 
 spears, and tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of 
 tiylvan 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 conversed in a low tone 
 that could net be overheard — for the language of love is never 
 loud; but Avhere 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 Avent as she 
 listened with deep attention. Now and then she made some 
 blushing reply, and when his eye Avas turned away, she would 
 steal a sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a 
 gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident that the young 
 couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who were deeply 
 versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen 
 in loA'e Avith each other at first sight. . 
 
 The feast Avent on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests 
 were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light 
 purses and mountain air. The .baron told liis best and longest 
 stories, and never had he told them so well, or Avith such great 
 effect. If there Aras any thing marvelous, 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 
 
204 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 great men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one ; il 
 was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent Hock- 
 heimer ; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, served up with 
 jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were said by 
 poorer and keener wits, that would not bear repeating, except on 
 eimilar 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 
 Bingular and unseasonable gi'avity. His countenance assumed a 
 deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced ; and, strange 
 as it may appear, even the baron's jokes seemed only to render 
 him the more melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and 
 at times there was a perturbed and restless wandering of the eye 
 that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the 
 bride became more and more earnest and mysterious. Lowering 
 clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tre- 
 mors to run through her tender frame. 
 
 All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their 
 gayety was chilled by ' the unaccountable gloom of the bride- 
 groom ; 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 al 
 length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One 
 dismal story produced another still more dismal, and the baron 
 nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the his- 
 tory of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair Leonora ; 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 205 
 
 a dreadful story, which has since been put into excellent verse, 
 and is read and believed by all the world. 
 
 The bridegroona 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 com- 
 pany. 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 Avished to retire.'' 
 
 The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously ; 
 " I must lay my head in a different chamber to-night !" 
 
 There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it 
 was uttered, that made the baron's heart misgive him ; but he 
 rallied his forces, and repeated his hospitable enti-eaties. 
 
 The stranger shook his head silently, bui positively, at every 
 offer ; and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly 
 out of the heU. 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 cas- 
 tle, whei'e the black charger stood pawing the earth, and snorting 
 with impatience. — Wlien 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 ar? alone," said he, " I will impart to you the 
 
2oG THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable engage- 
 ment — " 
 
 " 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 untU to- 
 morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." 
 
 " No. ! no !" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, " my 
 engagement is with no bride — the worms ! the worms expect me ! 
 I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers— 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 drawbridge, 
 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 consternation, 
 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 suggest that 
 it might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that 
 the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so mel- 
 ancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him tho indigna- 
 tion of the whole company, and especially of the baron, who looked 
 npon him as little better than an infidel ; so that he was fain to 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 207 
 
 abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into the faith 
 of the true believers. 
 
 But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they 
 •jveie completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of regu- 
 lar missives, confirming the intelligence of the young count's mur- 
 der, and his interment in "Wurtzburg cathedral. 
 
 The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron 
 shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who had come to 
 rejoice with him, could not think of abandoning him in his dis- 
 tress. 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 Avay 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 em- 
 braced 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 witli her. The aunt, who was one of the best 
 tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had just been recounting 
 one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. 
 The chamber was remote, and overlooked a small garden. The 
 niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as 
 they trembled on the leaves of an aspen-tree before the lattice. 
 The castle clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft strain of 
 nmsic stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed, 
 and stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among 
 the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moon- 
 
206 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 light fell upon the countenance. Heaven and earth ! she heheld 
 the Spectre Bridegroom ! A loud shriek at that moment burst 
 upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the mu- 
 sic, 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, thex'e Avas 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 consequence was, that she had to sleep in 
 it alone : but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the 
 story of the 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 marvelous, and there 
 is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story ; it is, how- 
 ever, 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 intelli- 
 gence brought to the breakfast table one morning that the young 
 lady was not to be found. Her room was empty — ^the bed had not 
 been slept in — the window was open, and the bird had flown ! 
 
 The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 209 
 
 was received, can only be imagined by those who have witnessed 
 the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his 
 friends. Even the poor relations paused for a moment from the 
 indefatigable labors of the trencher ; when the aunt, who had at 
 flrst been struck speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, 
 " The goblin ! the goblin ! she's carried away by the goblin !" 
 
 In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, 
 and concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. 
 Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard 
 the clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about mid- 
 night, 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 baron! 
 Wliat a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a member 
 of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daughter 
 had either been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have some 
 wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, 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 appari- 
 tion. A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on a pal- 
 frey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to 
 iJie gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the baron's feet, 
 embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her companion 
 
210 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 — tLe Spectre Bi-idegroom ! The baron was astounded. He 
 looked at liis dauglitei", then at the spectre, and almost doubted 
 the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully im- 
 proved in his appearance since his visit to the world of spirits. 
 His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly sym 
 metry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine coun- 
 tenance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his 
 large dark eye. 
 
 The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in 
 truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no goblin) 
 announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related 
 his adventure with the young count. He told bow he had has- 
 tened 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. Hew the sight of the bride had completely capti- 
 vated him, and that to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly 
 suffered the mistake to continue. How he had been sorely per- 
 plexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the baron's gob- 
 lin stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the 
 feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his visita 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, 
 bad wedded the fair. 
 
 Under any other circumstances the baron would have been 
 inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and devoutly 
 obstinate in all family feuds ; but he loved his daughter ; he had 
 lamented lier 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 ackaow- 
 iedged, that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict vera 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 211 
 
 city, 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 trooper. 
 
 Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron par- 
 doned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle 
 were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this new mem- 
 ber 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 obe- 
 dience should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it all to their 
 negligence in not having the windows grated. One of them was 
 particularly mortified at having her marvelous story marred, and 
 that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a counter- 
 feit ; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having found hira 
 substantial flesh and blood — and so the story ends. 
 
WESTMINSTER AEBEY. 
 
 When I behoM, with deep astonishment. 
 To famous Westminster how there resorto 
 Living in brasse or stoney monument, 
 The princes and the wortliies of all sorte i 
 Doe not I see refurmde nobilitic, 
 Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation. 
 And loofco ni)on offenselesse majesty. 
 Naked of pomp or earthly domination 1 
 And how a play-game of a painted stone 
 Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
 Whome all the world which late they stood upon 
 Could not content nor quench their appetites. 
 
 Life is a frost of cold felicitie. 
 
 And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 
 
 CURISTOLERO'S EPIORAMS, BY T. B. 1598. 
 
 On one of tLose sober and rather melanclioly days, in the lattei 
 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. 
 
 I entered from the inner court of "Westminster School, through 
 a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look, 
 
214 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 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 Hke a 
 spectre from one of the neighboi-ing tombs. The approach to the 
 abbey through these gloomy m^astic remains prepares the mind 
 for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain something 
 of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are 
 discolored by damps, and crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary 
 moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, 
 and obscured the death's heads, and other 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 dilapi- 
 dations of time, which yet has something touching and pleasing 
 in its very decay. 
 
 The sun was poui-ing 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 be- 
 held the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure 
 heaven. 
 
 As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled 
 picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to decipher 
 the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the pavement 
 beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, rudely 
 carved in relief, but neai'ly Avorn 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 remaioed. 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. yio 
 
 havipg no doubt been renewed in later times, (^'ltalio Abbas. 
 108z, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. 
 Abuas. 1176. I remained some little while, musing over these 
 casujal relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant 
 'shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been and 
 had perished ; teaching no mor^ but the futility of that pi-ide 
 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 gi-avestones, I was 
 roused by the sound of the abbey clock, revei'berating from but- 
 tress to buttress, and eclioing 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 pursued my walk to 
 an arched door opening to the interior of the abbey. On entering 
 here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, 
 contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with 
 wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, Avith arches 
 springing from them to such an amazing height ; and man wan- 
 dering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison 
 with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this 
 vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step 
 cautiously and softly about, as if feai'ful of disturbing the hal- 
 lowed silence of the tomb ; while every footfall whispers along 
 the walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more 
 -sensible of the quiet Ave have interrupted. 
 
 It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses doAsTi 
 upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. 
 We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the 
 
216 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 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 portic^ 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 abbey. The monu- 
 ments are generally simple ; for the lives of literary men afford 
 no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakspeare and Addison 
 have statues erected to their memories ; but the greater part have 
 busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwith- 
 standing the simplicity of these memorials, I have always ob- 
 eerved 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 Avhich they gaze on the splendid monu- 
 ments of the great and the heroic. They linger about these as 
 about the tombs of friends and companions ; for indeed there is 
 something of companionship between the author and the reader. 
 Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of 
 history, which is continually growing faint and obscure : but the 
 intercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever new, 
 active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for 
 himself; he has sacrificed surroimding enjoyments, and shut him- 
 self up fi'O.m the delights of social life, that he might the more 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 'JH 
 
 intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well 
 may the world cherish his I'enown ; 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. 
 
 From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that part 
 of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I wan- 
 dered among what once were chapels, but which are now occu- 
 pied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn 
 I met with some illustrious name ; or the cognizance of some 
 powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these 
 dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies ; 
 some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others stretched upon 
 the tombs, Avitli hands piously pressed together : warriors in ar- 
 mor, as if reposing after battle ; prelates Avith 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 treading 
 a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been sud- 
 denly transmuted into stone. 
 
 I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a 
 itnight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm; 
 die hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast: 
 .he face was almost covered by the morion ; the legs were crossed, 
 'n token of the warrior's having been engaged in the holy war. 
 It was the tomb of a crusader ; of One of those mihtary enthusi- 
 asts, Avho so sti'angely mingled religion and romance, and whoso 
 exploits fonn the connecting link between fact and fiction ; be- 
 
 10 
 
218 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 tween tbe Listory and the fairy tale. There is something ex- 
 tremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, decorated 
 aa they are with rude armorial bearings and gothic sculpture. 
 They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are gen- 
 erally found ; and in considering them, the imagination is apt to 
 kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the 
 chivali'ous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the 
 wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They ai'e the relics of times 
 utterly gone by ; of beings passed from recollection ; of customs 
 and manners with which ours have no affinity. They are like 
 objects from some strange and distant land, of which we have no 
 certain knowledge, and about which all our conceptions are vague 
 and visionary. There is something extremely solemn and awful 
 in those effigies on gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of 
 death, or in the supplication of the dying hour. They have an 
 effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanciful 
 attitudes, the over-wrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which 
 abound on modem monuments. I have been struck, also, with 
 the superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. Tbere 
 was a noble way, in former times, of saying things simply, and 
 yet saying them proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph that 
 breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and honorable 
 lineage, than one which affirms, of a noble house, that " all the 
 brothera were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 
 
 In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument 
 which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art ; 
 but which to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the 
 tomb of lilrs. Xightingale, by RoubUlac. Tlie bottom of the 
 monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and 
 a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falhnoj from 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 219 
 
 his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is 
 siaking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain 
 and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with 
 terrible truth and spirit ; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering 
 yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the spectre. — 
 But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary 
 terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love ? 
 The grave should be surrounded 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 pleasure. The contrast is striking with the death, 
 like repose around : and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, 
 thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating 
 against the very walls of the sepulchre. 
 
 I continued m this vray to move from tomb to tomb, and from 
 chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away ; the 
 distant tread of loitei'crs about the abbey grew less and less fre- 
 quent ; the swect-tongued bell was summoning to evening pray- 
 ers ; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices 
 crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the en- 
 trance 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 admit the feet of common 
 mo]*tals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. 
 
aaO THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 On entering, tlie eve is astonislied by the pomp of arcliitecture, 
 and tlie elaborate beautv of sculptured detail. The very walls 
 are \vrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, and 
 scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and mar- 
 tyi's. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have 
 been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by 
 ma<^c, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minute- 
 ness and airy secirrity 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 deco- 
 rations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are 
 aflttxed the helmets and crests of the knights, vrith their scarfs and 
 swords ; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned 
 with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and 
 purple and crimson, with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the 
 midst cf 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 imagination conjured up the 
 scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the 
 land; glittering with the splendor of jeweled rank and military 
 array ; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 221 
 
 admiring multitude. All had passed away ; the silence of death 
 had settled again upon the place, interrupted only by the casual 
 chirping of birds, which had found their way into the chapel, and 
 built their nests among its friezes and 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 toss- 
 ing upon distant seas ; some under arms in distant lands ; some 
 mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets ; all seeking 
 to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy 
 honors : the melancholy reward of a monument. 
 
 Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touch- 
 ing instance of the equahty 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 others is that of her victim, the lovely 
 and unfortunate Mary. Xot an hour in the day but some ejacu- 
 lation 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 hght 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 thistle. 
 I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the 
 monument, revolving in my mind the chequered and disasti'oua 
 btory of poor Mary. 
 
aSQ THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Tlie sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. 1 
 could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest, 
 repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir; 
 these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the 
 desertion and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, 
 gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place: 
 
 For in the silent grave no conversation, 
 No joyfiil tread of friends, no voice of lovera. 
 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 Avith doubled and redoubled intensity, and roUmg, 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 har- 
 mony through these caves of death, and make the sUent sepulchre 
 vocal ! — And now they rise in triumphant acclamation, heaving 
 higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on 
 Bound. — And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir 
 break out into sweet gushes of melody ; they soar aloft, and war- 
 ble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like 
 the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its 
 thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth 
 upon the soul. T7hat long-drawn cadences ! What solemn sweep- 
 ing concords ! It grows more and more dense and powerful — it 
 fJls the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — ^the ear is 
 stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 323 
 
 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 pi-epared to leave the abbey. As I descended the • 
 flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye 
 was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended 
 the ^all staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a gene- 
 ral survey of tliis 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 dark- 
 ness." Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely 
 carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and gothic age. 
 The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, 
 to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the 
 beginning and the end of liuraan pomp and power ; here it was 
 literally but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. "Would not 
 one think that these incongruous mementos had been gathered to- 
 gether as a lesson to living greatness ? — to show it, even in the 
 moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to 
 which it must soon arrive ; how soon that crown which encircles 
 its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the dust and 
 disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the 
 
22i THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 meanest of tlie multitude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is 
 here no longer a sanctuarj. There is a shocking levity in some 
 natm'es, 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 groveling servility which they 
 pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been 
 broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funereal orna- 
 ments ; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the imperious 
 Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Isot 
 a royal monument but bears some proof how false and fugitive is 
 the homage of mankind. Some are plundered ; some mutilated ; 
 some covered with ribaldiy 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 gi-ew darker and darker. The effigies of 
 the kings faded into shadows ; the marble figures of the monu- 
 ments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light; the 
 evening breeze crept through tlie aisles like the cold breath of 
 the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing 
 the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. 
 I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the 
 portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise 
 behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. 
 
 I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the 
 objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already 
 fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Xames, inscriptions, 
 trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though I 
 had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, thought 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 225 
 
 Ij is tliis vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humilia- 
 tion ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of 
 renown, and the cei'tainty of oblivion ! It is, indeed, the empire 
 of death; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, 
 mocking at the relics of human glorj^, and spreading dust and 
 ibrgetfulness on the monuments of pi'inces. How idle a boast, 
 after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever sUently 
 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 yes- 
 terday out of our recollection ; and will, in turn, be supplanted 
 by his successor of to-morrow. " Our fathers," says Sir Thomas 
 Brown, " find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell 
 us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades into 
 fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the 
 inscription moulders from the tablet; the statue falls from the 
 pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps 
 of sand ; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust ? 
 What is the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalm- 
 ment ? 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 
 
 « Sir T. Brown. 
 10* 
 
226 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 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 
 garish sunbeam sliall break into these gloomy mansions of death, 
 and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the fox-glove 
 hang its blossoms about tbe nameless urn, as if in mockery of the 
 dea<^L Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from record 
 and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told, and hifi very 
 monument becomes a niin. 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 837 
 
 NOTES CONCERNING WEST.MINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Toward the end of the sixth ccntu'v, when Britain, under the dominion 
 of the Saxons, was in a etate of barbarism and idolatiy. Pope Gregory the 
 Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo-Saxon youths exposed for ssilo iu 
 the market-place at Rome, conceived a fancy fl^r the race, and detennineJ to 
 send missionarica tc preach the gosj^el among these comely but benighted 
 islanders, lie was encouraged to this by learning tliat 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 exercise of her religion. 
 
 The shrewd poniilT knew the influence of the sex in matters of religious 
 faith. He forthwith dispatched Augustine, a Roman monk, with forty associ- 
 ates, 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; 
 l)eing distrustful of foreign priestcraft, and fearful of sjh'IIs and magic. Thej 
 ultimately succeeded in making him as good a Christian as his wife ; the 
 conversion of the king o' course produced the conversion of his loyal subjects. 
 The zeal and success of Augustine were rewarded by his being made arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury, and being endowed with authority over all the British 
 churches. 
 
 One of the most prominent converts was Sogebert or Sebert, king of the 
 East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. lie reigned at London, of which Mellitus, 
 one of the Roman monks who had come over with Augustine was made bisliop. 
 
 Sebert, in G05, in his religious leal, founded a monastery by the river side 
 10 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 preparations wei« 
 made for the consecration of the church, which was to be dedicated to, St. 
 Peter. On the morning of the appoit\ted day, Mellitus, the bishop, proceeded 
 with great pomp and solemnity to perform the ceremony. On approaching the 
 fdifice he was met by a fisherman, who informed him that it was needless to 
 proceed, as the ceremony was over. The bishop stared with surjirise, when 
 the fisherman went on to relate, that the night betbie, as he was in his boat oo 
 
aaS THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 the ThanieSj St. Petev appeared to hira, 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 sc, 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 reUeved him from the necessity of 
 consecrating the church. 
 
 MelUtus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirmation of the 
 fiisherman's tale. He opened the church doors, and beheld wax candles, 
 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 com- 
 pletely removed on the fisherman's producmg the identical fish which he had 
 been ordered by the apostle to present to him. To resist 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 torn proceeding further in the business. 
 
 The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why Iving Edward the Con- 
 fessor chose this place as the site of a religious house which he meant to endow. 
 He pulled down the old church and built another in its place in 1045. In thia 
 his remains were deposited in a magnificent shrine. 
 
 The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a reconstruction, 
 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 ca- 
 thedral, who appears to have been the Paul P.y 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 fonn the crucifix and golden chain of the deceased monarch. Diu-ing 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 2ifi; 
 
 eighteen years that he had officiated in the choir, it had been a common tiadi- 
 tion, he says, among his brother choristers and the gi-ay-headed ser%'ants of the 
 abbey, that the body ot" King Edward was deposited in a kind of chest or coffin, 
 which was indistinctly 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 16S5, on taking down the scaffolding used in the corona- 
 tion 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, how- 
 ever, to meddle with the sacred depository of royal dust, until, several weeks 
 afterwards, the ciicumstance came to the knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. 
 He forthwith-repaired to the abbey in company with two friends, of congenial 
 tastes, who were desirous of inspecting 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 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, 
 / drew the head to the hole and viewed it, being very sound and firm, with the 
 upper and nether jaws whole and fiiU 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 flowered silk, that looked indifferent 
 fresh ; but the least stress put thereto showed it was well nigh perished. Thenj 
 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 
 skull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently palled 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 discov«ry. 
 
230 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 The dean notbeiiiEc accessible at the time, and fearing that the "holy treasure *" 
 migat be taken away by other hands, he got a brother chorister to accompany 
 him to the shrine about two or three hours afterwards, and in his presence 
 again drew forth the relics. These he aftervvards delivered on his linees 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 reposited.*"' 
 As the history of this shrine is fiill of moral, I subjoin a description of it in 
 modem 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 catches the rays of the sun, for ever set on 
 its splendor * * * * Only two of the spiral pillars remain. The wooden Tonic 
 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, Land, rediv. 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON A MONUIMENT ALLUDED TO IN THE 
 SKETCH. 
 
 Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Dutchess his second wife, 
 by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest sister 
 to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble famOy ; for all the brothers were vaJ 
 iant, and all the sisters virtuous. This Dutchess 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 wi-th her lord all the time of his banishment 
 and miseries, and when he came home, never parted from him in his solitary 
 retirements. 
 
 In tne vfdnter time, when the days are short, the service in the afternoon 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 transepts are in profound and 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 23« 
 
 ravemous darkness The white dresses of the choristers gleam amidst the 
 deep brown of the oaken slats and canopies ; the partial illumination makea 
 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 ihe 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 monu- 
 ments, and leaving all behind in darkness. 
 
 On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's Yard, 
 die 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 monument of one of the 
 Pultneys. 
 
 The cloisters are well worth vifiiting by moonlightj when the moon ie in 
 thofuU. 
 
CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Bsl ii oM, oil], good old Christmas gone ? Xo'.bin' but the hair cf his sbod, gray, dJ bead 
 and tnsd left ? Well, I will hare that, seein» I cannot have more of hio. 
 
 lire A>D Crt AfTBR Christvas 
 
 A man mi^ht then behold 
 
 At Christmas, in each hall 
 Good Cns to corb the cold. 
 
 And meat for jieat and small. 
 The neighbors were friendly bidden. 
 
 And all had wek-ome tme. 
 The poor from the fates we.t not chidden 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 Old Soso. 
 
 KoTHixG in England exercises a more delightful epell over my 
 imagination, than the lingerings 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 tlirough books, and believed it to be all that poets had 
 painted it ; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest 
 days of yore, in which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt to 
 think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous than at 
 present. I regret to say that they are daily growiHg more ?.nd 
 more foint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more 
 obliterated by modem fashion. They resemble those picturesque 
 morsels of gjothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various 
 
234 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 parts of the countiy, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and 
 partly lost in the additions and altei'ations of latter days. Poetry, 
 however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game 
 and holiday revel, from AA'liich 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 clasp- 
 ing together their totteiing remains, and, as it were, embalming 
 them in verdure. 
 
 Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens 
 the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of 
 solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and 
 lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. 
 The services of the church about this season are extremely tender 
 and inspiring. They dwell en the beautiful story of the origin 
 of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announce- 
 ment. They gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the 
 season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the 
 moi'ning 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 trium- 
 phant harmony. 
 
 It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, 
 that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the 
 religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gather- 
 ing together of family connections, and drawing closer again those 
 bands of kindred hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sor- 
 rows of the world are continually operating to cast loose ; of call- 
 ing back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, 
 iu)d wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the 
 
CHRISTMAS. 936 
 
 paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there to grow 
 young and loving again among the endearing mementos of child- 
 hood. 
 
 There is somelliing 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 tlie mere beauties of nature. 
 Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny 
 landscape, and we " live abroad and every where." The song 
 of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breatliing fragrance of 
 spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of 
 autumn ; earth with its mantle of refresliing green, and heaven 
 with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill U3 
 with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of 
 mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, Avhen nature lies 
 despoiled of every charm, and Avrapped 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 days and 
 darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in 
 our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly 
 disposed for the pleasure of the social circle. Our thoughts are 
 more concentrated ; 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-kindness, 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 
 tlie room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire 
 Tlie ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through 
 
 
23G THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 the room, and lights up each countenance in a kuidher welcome. 
 Where does the honest 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 Avintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant 
 door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, 
 what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and shel- 
 tered security, with which we look round upon the comfortable 
 chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity? 
 
 The Enghsh, from the great prevalence of rural habit through- 
 out every class of society, have always been fond of those festi- 
 vals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of coun- 
 try 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 abandon- 
 ment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this festival was 
 celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock 
 eveiy 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 Aveight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage wel- 
 comed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly 
 ■ — the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting 
 the passengers to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled 
 round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendaiy jokes 
 and oft-told Christmas tales. 
 
 One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is (he 
 iiavoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. If 
 
CHRISTMAS. 23: 
 
 has completely taken off the sharp toacliings and spirited reliela 
 of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into 
 a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic 
 Burface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have 
 entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are 
 become matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. 
 They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men 
 enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously ; times wild and 
 picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materi- 
 als, and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters 
 and manners. The world has become more Avorldly. There is 
 more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has ex- 
 panded into a broader, but a shallower stream ; and has forsaken 
 many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly 
 through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired 
 a more enlightened and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its 
 strong local peculiarities, its home-bred feelings, its honest fire- 
 side delights. The traditionary customs of golden-Learted anti- 
 quity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have passed 
 away with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses in which 
 they were celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, 
 the great oaken gallery, and the tapesti'ied 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 honors, 
 Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. 
 It is gratifying to sec that home feeling completely aroused which 
 holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The prepa- 
 rations making on every side for the social board that is again to 
 unite friends and kindred; the presents of good cheer passing 
 
238 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 and repassing, those tokens of regard, and quiokeners of kind 
 feelings ; the evei'greens 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 perfect 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, connecting 
 them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied 
 them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and good-will 
 to mankind. 
 
 How delightfully tlie imagination, when wrought upon by 
 these moral influences, turns every tiling to melody and bea'uty ! 
 The very crowing of the cock, lieard sometimes 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 arc 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 spirits, and 
 stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can 
 remain insensible ? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feel- 
 
CHRISTMAS. «» 
 
 ing — the season for kindling, 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, reanimates 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 hap- 
 piness is reflective, like the light of heaven ; and every counte- 
 nance, 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 sti'ong excitement and selfish gratifica- 
 tion, but he wants the genial and social sympathies which consti- 
 tute the charm of a merry Christmas. 
 
TEE STAGE COACH. 
 
 Omue bent- 
 Sine pCBDa 
 
 Tenipus est ludendi. 
 Venit hora 
 Absque mora 
 
 Libros depoDeudi. 
 
 Old Holiday Scncai Sono. 
 
 In the preceding paper I liave made some general observations 
 on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illus- 
 trate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the coun- 
 try ; 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 pas- 
 sengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the man- 
 sions of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was 
 loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of deli- 
 cacies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the coach- 
 man's box, presents from distant friends for the impending feast. 
 I had three fine rosy-cheeked school-boys for my fellow passen- 
 
 11 
 
242 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 gers inside, full of the buxom liealtli and manly spirit which I 
 have observed in the children of this country. They were return- 
 ing home for the holidays 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 ab- 
 horred 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 meeting to which they seemed to look forward 
 with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I found to 
 be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more virtues 
 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 country that he could not 
 clear 
 
 They were under the particular guardianship of the coach- 
 man, 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 ordi- 
 nary air of bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore his 
 hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas 
 greens stugk in the button-hole of his coat. He is always a per- 
 sonage full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so 
 during this season, having so many commissions to execute in conse- 
 quence of the great interchange of presents. And here, perhaps, 
 it may not be unacceptable to my untraveled readers, to have a 
 sketch that may serve as a general representation of this very nu- 
 merous and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 243 
 
 maimer, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent 
 throughout the ii-aternitj ; so that, Avherever 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 dimensions by frequent 
 potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further increased by 
 a multiphcity 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 handkerchief 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 probably, 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 ; he has a 
 pride in having his clothes of excellent materials ; and, notwith- 
 standing 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 
 consideration along the road ; has frequent conferences with the 
 village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great ti'ust 
 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 rein.9 
 with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of 
 the ostler; his duty being merely to drive from one stage to 
 another. When off the box, his hands ai-e thrust into the pockets 
 
244 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 of liis great coat, and he rolls about tlie inn yard witli an air of 
 the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded 
 by an admiring throng of ostlers, stable-boys, shoelblacks, and 
 those nameless hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run 
 errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of batten- 
 ing 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 car- 
 riage. Every ragamufl&n that has a coat to his back, thrusts his 
 hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an em- 
 bryo Coachey. 
 
 Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned 
 in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every coun- 
 tenance throughout the journey. A stage coach, however, carries 
 animation always with it, and -puts the world in motion as it 
 whirls alongs. 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 meantime, 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-blushing, half-laughing 
 housemaid an odd-shaped biUet-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 blooming giggling girls. At the corners are assembled jun« 
 to9 of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations there 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 24t 
 
 for tlie 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 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 thau 
 usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if every 
 body was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and 
 other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in the vil- 
 lages ; 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, besides 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. Gi'eat is the con- 
 tention of holly and ivy, whether master or dame wears the 
 breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler ; and if the cock do 
 not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 
 
346 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 1 was roused from tliis fit of luxurious meditatioiij by a shout 
 from my little traveling companions. They had been looking out 
 of the coach windows for the last few miles, recognizing every 
 tree and cottage as they approached 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 superan- 
 nuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of 
 a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing 
 quietly by the road-side, httle dreaming of the bustling times that 
 awaited him. 
 
 I was pleased to see the fondness Avith which the little fellows 
 leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer; 
 who wriggled his whole body for^oy. 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. 
 
 Oil 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 anecdotes. 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 neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the sum- 
 mit 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 distin- 
 guish the forms of a lady and two young girls in tlie portico, and 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 847 
 
 I saw my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, 
 trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach 
 window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a gro\e 
 of trees shut it from ray sight. 
 
 In the evening we reached a village where I had determined 
 to pass the night. As we di'ove into the great gateway of 
 tlie inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing kitchen fire 
 beaming through a window. I entered, and admired, for the 
 hundredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad 
 honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an Englisli inn. It was of spa- 
 cious dimensions, hung round with cojjper and tin vessels highly 
 polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green. 
 Haras, tongues, and flitches of bacon, w^ere suspended from the 
 ceiling ; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fire- 
 place, 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. Travelers of inferior 
 order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while others sat 
 smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken 
 settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying back- 
 wards and forwards under the directions of a fresh bustUng land- 
 lady ; but still seizing an occasional moraent to exchange a flip- 
 pant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group round the 
 fire. The scene completely realized Poor Eobin'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. 
 
Si8 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 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 td 
 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- 
 veltjd on the continent. Our meeting Avas extremely cordial, for 
 the countenance of an old fellow-traveler 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 making a tour of observation, he 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 solitary 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. 
 
 * Poor Robin's Almanac, 1G84. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Baint Francis and Saint Benedight 
 Blesse this lionse from wicked wight ; 
 From the night-mare and the goblin, 
 That is hight good fellow Robin ; 
 Keep it from all evil spirits, 
 Fairies, wcezels, rats, and ferrets : 
 
 From curfew time 
 
 To the next prime 
 
 Cartwrioht, 
 
 It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold ; our chaise 
 whirled rapidly over the frozen 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 companion, 
 laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for some of the merri- 
 ment 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 now-a-days 
 in its purity, the old English country gentleman ; for our men of 
 fortune spend so much of their time in town, and fashion is car- 
 ried so much into the country, that the strong rich peculiarities of 
 ancient rural life are almost polished away. My father, however, 
 (rem early years, took honest Peacham* for his text-book, instead 
 
 * Peacham's Complete Gentleman. 1622. 
 Jl* 
 
250 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 of Cliesterfield ; lie cletei-mined in his own mind, that there was 
 DO condition more truly honorable and enviable than that of s 
 country gentleman on his paternal lands, and therefore passes 
 the whole of his lime 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 regi'ets sometime^ that he 
 had not been born a few centuries earlier, Avhen 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 molestation. 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 time immemorial. I think it best to give you 
 these hints about my Avorthy old father, to prepare you for any 
 eccentricities that might otherwise appear absurd." 
 
 "VVe 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 mag- 
 nificent old style, of ii'on bars, fancifully wrought at top into 
 flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns that supported 
 the gate were surmounted oj the family crest. Close adjoining 
 was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir-trees, and almost 
 buried in shrubbery. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 261 
 
 The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resonnded 
 through the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant bark- 
 ing of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. 
 An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As the moon- 
 light fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a little primitive 
 dame, dressed very much in the antique taste, Avith a neat ker- 
 chief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under a 
 cap of snowy whiteness. She came curtseying forth, with many 
 expressions of simple joy at seeing her young master. Her hus- 
 band, it seemed, was up at the house keeping Christmas eve in 
 the servants' hall ; they could not do Avithout him, as he was the 
 best hand at a song and story in the household. 
 
 My friend proposed that Ave should alight and walk through 
 the park to the hall, Avhich AA^as at no great distance, Avhile the 
 chaise should follow on. Our road Avound through a noble ave- 
 nue of trees, among the naked branches of Avhich the moon glit- 
 tered as she rolled through the deep A^ault of a cloudless sky. 
 The lawn beyond AA'as sheeted Avith a slight coA-^ering of snow, 
 Avhich here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty 
 crystal ; and at a distance might be seen a thin transparent A'apor, 
 stealing up from the Ioav grounds and threatening gradually to 
 shroud the landscape. 
 
 My companion looked around him Avith transport : — " Hoav 
 often," said he, " have I scampered up this avenue, on returning 
 home on school vacations ! Hoav often liaA^e I played under these 
 trees when a boy ! I feel a degree "f filial reverence for them, 
 as we look up to those who have cherished us in childhood. My 
 father Avas alAvays scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and having 
 us around him on family festivals. He used to direct and super- 
 intend our games with the strictness that some parents do the 
 
253 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 studies of their children. He was very particular that we should 
 play the old English games according to their original form ; and 
 consulted old books for precedent and authority for every ' merrie 
 disport ;' 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 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 !" 
 
 cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the bark 
 was changed into a yelp of dehght, and in a moment he was sur- 
 rounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful 
 animals. 
 
 We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, 
 partly thrown in deep shadow, and j^firtly 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, 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 353 
 
 as my friend told me, by one of his ancestors, 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 shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, 
 ornamented 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 original 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 imi- 
 tation of nature in modern gardening had sprung up with modem 
 republican notions, but did not suit a monarchical government ; it 
 smacked of the leveling system. — I could not help smiling at this 
 introduction of politics into gardening, though I expressed some 
 apprehension that I should find the old gentleman rather intol- 
 erant in his creed. — Frank assured me, however, that it was 
 almost the only instance in which he had ever heard his father 
 meddle Avith politics ; and he believed that he had got this notion 
 from a member of parliament who once passed a few weeks with 
 him. The squire was glad of any argument to defend his clipped 
 yeAV-trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally 
 attacked by modern landscape 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 build- 
 ing. This, Bracebi'idge said, must proceed from the servants' 
 hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, and even 
 encouraged, by the squire, throughout the twelve days of Christ- 
 mas, 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 
 
£S4 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 burnt, and the mistletoe, with its white berries, hung up, to ihi, 
 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 absence ; 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 
 countenance ; in which the physiognomist, with the advantage, 
 like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular 
 mixture of w^him and benevolence. 
 
 The family meeting was warm and affectionate : as the even- 
 ing was far advanced, the squire would not permit us to change 
 our traveling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, 
 which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. It Avas com- 
 posed 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 
 country 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 fireplace ; at one 
 end of the hall was a group of the young folks, some nearly 
 grown up, others of a more tender and budding age, fuUy en- 
 grossed by a merry game ; and a profusion of wooden horses, 
 penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces 
 
 * The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at Christmas; 
 and the young men hcve the privilege of kissi;ig the girls under it, plucking 
 each lime a berry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the privi- 
 lege ceases. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 255 
 
 of a troop of little fairy beings, ■who, having frolicked through a 
 happy day, had been carried off to slumber thi'ough a peaceful 
 uight. 
 
 Wliile the mutual greetings were going on between young 
 Bracebridge and his relatives, I lad time to scan the apartment. 
 I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, 
 and the squire had evidently endeavored to restore it to some- 
 thing of its primitive state. Over the heavy projecting fireplace 
 was suspended a picture of a Avarrior 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 inserted 
 in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend 
 hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the corners of the apartment were 
 fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other spoiling implements. The 
 furniture Avas of the cumbrous workmanship of former days, 
 though some articles of modern convenience had been added, and 
 the oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole presented 
 an odd mixture of parlor and halL 
 
 The grate had been removed from the Avide overAvhelming 
 fireplace, to make Avay for a fire of Avood, in the midst of which 
 Avas an enormous log glowing and blazing, and sending forth a 
 vast A'olume of light and heat : this I understood was the Yule 
 clog, which the squire was particular in having brought in and 
 illumined on a Christmas eve, according to ancient custom.* 
 
 * The Yule clog is a great log of Avood, sometimes the root of a tree, 
 brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in the 
 fireplace, and lighted Avith the brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, there 
 was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it was accom- 
 panied by Christmas candles ; but in the cottages the only light was from the 
 
256 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 It was really deliglitful to see the old' squire seated in liia 
 hereditary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireside of his ances- 
 tors, 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 
 vawned, would look fondly up in his master's face, wag his tail 
 against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, confident of 
 kindness and protection. There is an emanation from the heart 
 in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but is immedi- 
 ately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had not 
 been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the wor- 
 thy old cavalier, before I found myself as much at home as if 1 
 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 wliicb 
 
 raddy 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 all be free. 
 And drink to your hearts desiring. 
 
 The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in England, 
 particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions connected with it 
 among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it is 
 burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand 
 remaining from the Yule clog is carefully put away to light the next year's 
 Christmas fire. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 257 
 
 shone with wax, and around which were several family portraita 
 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 
 predilection, 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. Bracebridge 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 like the bill of a parrot ; his face slightly 
 pitted with the small-pox, with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like 
 a frostbitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great quickness 
 and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery of expression 
 that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, 
 dealing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies^ 
 and making infinite merriment by harping upon old themes ; 
 which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the family chronicles did 
 not permit me to enjoy. 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 
 
258 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 wonder at it; for lie must liave been a miracle of accomplish- 
 ments in their eyes. He could imitate Puncli and Judy ; make 
 an old woman of his hand, "with the assistance 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 Bracebridge. He 
 was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, which, by 
 careful management, was sufficient for all his Avants. He re- 
 volved 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 and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping 
 buoyant disposition, always enjoying the present moment; and 
 his frequent change of scene and company prevented his acquir- 
 ing those rusty unaccommodating habits, with which old bachelors 
 are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete family chroni- 
 cle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and intermarriages of 
 the Vvdiole 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 Avhom he was habitually con- 
 sidered 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 INIr. Simon Bracebridge. 
 Of lats years, he had resided almost entirely with the squire, to 
 whom he had become a factotum, and Avhom 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 pecu- 
 liar to the season introduced, than Master Simon was called on 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 269 
 
 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 occasionaHy into a 
 falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint 
 old ditty. 
 
 Now Christmas is come. 
 Let us beat up the drum, 
 ' And call all our neighbors togetlier. 
 
 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 appearance comforting him- 
 self 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 ; 
 Bome of the older folks joined in it, and the squire himself figured 
 down several couple with a partner, Avith 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 Avithal 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 romping girl 
 
^0 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 from boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him con- 
 tinually on the stretch, and defeated all his sober attempts at 
 elegance : — such are the ill-assorted matches to which antique 
 gcntlomen are unfortunately prone ! 
 
 The young Oxonian, on the contraiy, had led out one of his 
 maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little knave- 
 ries with impunity : he was full of practical jokes, and his delight 
 was to tease his aunts and cousins ; yet, like all madcap young- 
 stei'S, be was a universal favorite among the women. The most 
 interesting couple in the dance vras the young officer and a Avard 
 of the squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From 
 several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of the even- 
 ing, I suspected there was a little kindness growing up between 
 them; and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero to capti- 
 vate a romantic ^'irl. He was tall, slender, and handsome, and, 
 hke most young British officers of late years, had picked up 
 various small accomplishments on the continent — he could talk 
 French and Italian — draw landscapes, sing very tolerably — ■ 
 dance divinely ; but, above all, he had been wounded at "Water- 
 loo : — what girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, 
 could resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection ! 
 
 The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, 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 tbe Troubadour. The squire, however, exclaimed against 
 having any thing on 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 "Night-Piece to 
 JuUa-" 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 2U] 
 
 Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
 The shooting stars attend thee. 
 
 And the gives also. 
 
 Whose little eyes glow 
 Like the sparks of fire, 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 compli- 
 ment 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, but kept Jier eyes cast upon 
 the floor. Her face was suffused, 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 Avith 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. 
 
263 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Tlie pavtj now broke up for the night with the kind-hearted 
 okl custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall, on 
 my way to my chamber, the djdng embers of the Yule clog still 
 sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not been the season when "no 
 spirit dares stir abroad," I should have been half tempted to steal 
 fi'om my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies might 
 not be at their revels about the hearth. 
 
 My chamber Avas in the old part of the mansion, the ponder- 
 ous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days of 
 the giants. The room Avas panneled, with cornices of heavy 
 carved woi'k, in which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely 
 intermingled ; and a row of black-looking portraits stared mourn- 
 fully at me from the walls. The bed Avas of rich though faded 
 damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow 
 window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music 
 seemed to break forth in the air just beloAv the window. I lis- 
 tened, and found it proceeded from a band, which I concluded to 
 be the waits from some neighboring village. 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 casemert, partially lighting up the antiquated 
 apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and 
 aerial, and seemed to accord with the quiet and moonlight. I lis^ 
 tened and listened— jthey became more and more tender and remotei, 
 and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, 
 and I fell asleep. 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 Dark and dull night, file Iienco away, 
 And give the honor to this day 
 That sees December turn'd to May. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Why does tlie chilling winter's morne 
 Smile Hke a field beset with corn ? 
 Or smell like to a nieade new-shorne, 
 Thus on tlie sudden 1 — Come and see 
 The cause why tilings thus fragrant be. 
 
 IIkrrick. 
 
 When T woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events 
 of the preceding evening had been a dream, and nothing but the 
 identity of the ancient 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 bom 
 On Christmas day in the morning. 
 
 I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, 
 and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a 
 painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, the 
 eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 tlie rounds of the house, and suiging at exerj chamber door ; but ^ 
 my sudden appearance frightened them into mute bashfuLaess. 
 They remained for a moment playing on their lips with their fin- 
 gers, 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 gallery, I heard them laughing in 
 triumph at their escape. 
 
 Every thing conspired to produce kind and happy feelings 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 tract of park beyond, with noble 
 clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat 
 hamlet, 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, ac- 
 cording 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 crystalizations. The rays of a bright morning sun had a 
 dazzling efiect among the glittering foliage. A robin, perched 
 upon the top of a mountain ash that hung its clusters of red ber- 
 ries just before my window, was basking himself in the sunshine, 
 and piping a few querulous 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 appeared 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 pxnncipa] 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 365 
 
 part of thu family already assembled in a kind cf gallery, flir* 
 nished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer-books ; the ser- 
 vants were seated on benches below. The old gentleman read 
 prayers 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 li'om a poem of his favorite 
 author, Ilerrick ; 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 feeling, 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 guihlesse mirth. 
 And givest me Wassaile bowles to drink 
 
 Spiced to the brink : 
 Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping band 
 
 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 saint's 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 ig 
 
 12 
 
2G6 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 falling into neglect ; 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 temper for the day, and 
 attunes every spirit to harmony. 
 
 Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denominated tru^ 
 old English fare. lie indulged in some bitter lamentations over 
 modem breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among 
 the causes of modern cfreminacy and weak nerves, and the de- 
 cline of old English heartiness ; and though he admitted them to 
 his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave 
 display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. 
 
 After breakfast I walked about tlie grounds with Frank Brace- 
 bridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he wa.j ,A«lled by every 
 body but tlie squire. We were escorted by a number of gentle- 
 manlike dogs, tliat 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 wnich hung to Master 
 Simon's button-hole, and in the midst of their gambols would 
 glance an eye occasionally upon a sraaii switch he carried in 
 his hand. 
 
 The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yel- 
 low 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, earned with them an 
 air of proud aristocracy. There appc«ired to be an unusual num- 
 ber of peacocks about tlie place, and I was making some remarks 
 upon what I termed a flock of Ihtm, that were basking under a 
 Bunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phraseology by 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 961 
 
 Muster Simon, who told mc that, according to the most ancient and 
 npprovetl treatise on hunting, I must say a vitistcr of peacocks. 
 '' In the same way," added he, with a shght air of pedantry, " we 
 sav a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a heiil 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 Fitz 
 hcrbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird "both understanding and 
 glory ; for, being praised, he will presently set up his tail, chiefly 
 ng-Jiinst the sun, to the intent you may the better behold the beauty 
 thereof. But at 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 erudition on so 
 whimsical a subject; but I found that the peacocks were birds of 
 some consequence at the hall ; for Frank Bracebridge informed me 
 that they were groat favoiitcs with his fatlicr, who was extrcmely 
 careful to keep iq> the breed ; partly because they belonged to 
 chivalry, and were in great request at the stately banquets of the 
 olden lime ; and partly because Ihey had a pouqi and magnili- 
 cence about them, highly becoming an old family mansion. 
 Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of greater stato 
 and dignity than a peacock perched upon an antique stone balus- 
 trade. 
 
 INIaster Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment 
 at the parish church with the village choristers, who were to per- 
 form some music of his selection. There was something ex- 
 tremely 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 authors who certainly were not in the 
 range of every-day reading. I mentioned this last circumstance 
 
268 THE SKETCH BOOZ. 
 
 to Frank Bracebridge, ayIio told me with a smile that Mastei 
 Simon's M'hole stock of erudition was confined to 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 rainj day, or a long winter evening. Sir 
 Afiithony Fitzherbert's Book of Husbandry ; Markham's Country 
 Contentments ; the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cock- 
 ayne, Knight; Isaac 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 hbrary, 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 
 apon as a prodigy of book knowledge by all the grooms, hunts- 
 caen; and small sportsmen of the neighborhood. 
 
 While we were talking we heard the distant toll of the village 
 bell, and I was told that the squire was a little particular in having 
 his household at church on a Christmas morning ; considering it a 
 diiy 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 Brace- 
 bridge, " I can promise jaxk 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 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 26S 
 
 a musical club for their improvement ; he has also sorted a choir, 
 as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to the direc- 
 tions of Jervaise Markham, in his C'ountrj Contentments : for 
 the bass he has sought out all the * deep, solemn mouths,' and for 
 the tenor the ' loud-ringing mouths,' among the country bumpkins j 
 and for ' sweet mouths,' he has culled with curious taste among 
 the prettiest lasses in the neighborhood ; though these last, he 
 affirms, 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 per- 
 fectly 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 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 smaU legs seemed still 
 smaller, from being planted in' largfe shoes, decorated with enor 
 mous buckles. 
 
 I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson had 
 
270 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 been a clium of his father's at Oxford, and had received this 
 liying 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 Roman character. The editions of Caxton and 
 Wynkin de Worde were his delight ; and he was indefatigable in 
 his researches after such old English writers as have fallen into 
 obUvion from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the 
 notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations 
 into the festive rites and hohday customs of former times ; and 
 had been as zealous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon com- 
 panion ; but it was merely with that plodding spirit with which 
 men of adust temperament foUow 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 into 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 parson rebuking 
 the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the 
 greens with which the church was decorated. It was, he observed, 
 an 'unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the Druids in 
 their mystic ceremonies ; 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 en 
 this point, that the poor sexton Avas 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. 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 271 
 
 The interior of the church was venerable but simple ; on the 
 walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and 
 just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on 
 which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor, 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 cere- 
 monious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of the 
 old school, and a man of old family connections. I observed too 
 that he turned over the leaves of a folio prayer-book with some- 
 thing 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 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 
 clarinet, 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 bad given a bright ro§y tint ; but the gentlemen choris- 
 ters had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more 
 for tone than looks ; and as several had to sing from the same 
 
are THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 book, tliere were clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike 
 tliose groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country tombstones. 
 
 The usual services of the choir were managed tolerabl}' welL 
 the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, 
 and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time 
 by traveling 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 
 arninged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great 
 expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset ; 
 the musicians became flurried ; Master Simon was in a fever ; 
 every thing went on lamely and irregulai-ly imtil they came to a 
 chorus beginning '' Xow let us sing with one accord," which 
 seemed to be a signal for parthig company : all became discord 
 and confusion ; each shiitotl for himself, and got to the end as 
 well, or, rather, as soon as he could, excepting one old chorister 
 hi a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long sono- 
 rous nose ; who happened to stand a little apart, and, being wrap- 
 ped 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 le:ist three bars duration. 
 
 The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and 
 ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it not 
 merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing ; supporting the 
 correctness of his opinions by the earhest usages of the church, 
 and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea 
 St. Cj-prian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of 
 saints and fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. 1 
 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 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 273 
 
 inclined to dispute ; but I soon found that the good man had a 
 legion of ideal adversaries to contend with ; having, in the courso 
 of his researches on the subject of Christmas, got completely 
 embroiled in the sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when 
 the Puritans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies 
 of the church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the land 
 by proclamation of Parliament.* The worthy parson lived but 
 with times past, and knew but little of the present. 
 
 Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his 
 antifiuated little study, the pages of old times were to him as the 
 gazettes of the day ; Avhile the era of the Revolution was mere 
 modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed 
 since the fiery persecution 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 of King Charles at the 
 Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardor of his con- 
 test, and the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to combat ; 
 lie had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three; other 
 
 * From the " Flying Eagle " a Email Gazette, published December 24tb, 
 1G52 — " The House spent much time this day about the business of the Navy, 
 for settUng the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented with a terri- 
 ble remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 
 Cor. V. 16. 1 Cor. xv. 14. 17 ; and in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded upon 
 these Scriptures, John xx. 1. Rev. i. 10. Psalms cxviii. 24. Lev. xxiii. 7. 11. 
 Mark xv. 8. Psalms Ixxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is called Anti-christ's 
 masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists who observe it, etc. In conse- 
 quence of which parliament spent some time in consultation about the abolition 
 of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the follow- 
 ing day, which was commonly called Christmas day." 
 
 12* 
 
1574 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 forgotten champions of the Round Heads, on tlie subject of Christ- 
 mas festivity ; and concluded by urging his hearers, in the most 
 eolemn and affecting manner, to stand to the traditional customs 
 of their fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful anniver- 
 sary 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 shalcing 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 ; ancT 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 Christmas 
 virtue of charity. 
 
 On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed with 
 generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising ground 
 v/hich commanded something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic 
 meri-iment novr and then reached our ears : the squu-e 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 mom- 
 
 « " Ule ! Ule ! 
 
 Three puddings in a pule ; 
 Crack nuts and cry ule !" 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 27c 
 
 ing, the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient power 
 to melt aAvay the thin covering of snow from every southern 
 declivity, and to bring out the living green which adorns an Eng- 
 lish landscape even in mid-winter. Large tracts of smiling ver- 
 dure 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 
 thi-ough the dripping grass ; and sent up slight exhalations 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, break- 
 ing through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing 
 every heart into a flow. lie pointed with pleasure to the indica- 
 tions 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 fo 
 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 
 all thrown open to you ; and I am almost disposed to join with 
 Poor Robin, in his malediction on every churlish enemy to this 
 honest festival : 
 
 " Those who at Christmas do repine 
 
 And would fain hence dispatch him. 
 May ihey 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 
 
376 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 the old halls of castles and manor-houses were thrown open al 
 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 : 
 
 " I like them well — the curious preciseness 
 And all-pretended gravity of those 
 That seek to banish hence these harmless sports. 
 Have thrust away much ancient honesty." 
 
 "The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have almost 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 pohticians, 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 coimtry people, and set the 
 merry old English games going again." 
 
 * "An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, i. e. on Christ- 
 mas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors enter his hall by 
 daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and ihe black-jacks went plenti- 
 fully about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The 
 ffackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, 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." — liound about our Sea-Coal 
 Fire. 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 277 
 
 Such was the good squire's project for mitigating public dis- 
 content : 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 circumstances 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 himself 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. 
 
 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 ribands, their hats decorated 
 with gi-eens, 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 - 
 peculiar air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate dance, 
 advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs together, 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 interest 
 and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he 
 ti-aced to the times when the Romans held possession of the 
 island ; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the , 
 sword dance of the ancients. " It was now," he Baid, " nearly 
 
278 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 extinct, but he had accidentallj met with traces of it in the neigh- 
 borhood, 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 en- 
 tertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The 
 squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received with 
 awkward demonstrations of deference and 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 
 v/as 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 Simon, 
 however, they all seemed more at their ease. His varied occu- 
 pations and amusements had made him well known throughout 
 the neighboi'hood. He was a visitor at every farmhouse and 
 cottage ; gossiped Avith 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 affection- 
 ate 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 mora than oil and wine. "When the squire had retired, 
 the merriment increased, and there was much joking and laugh- 
 ter, particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, 
 white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village j 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY, 279 
 
 for I observed all his companions to wait with open mouths for 
 his retorts, and burst into a gratuitous laugh before they could 
 well understand them. 
 
 The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment : as 
 I passed to my I'oom to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of 
 music in a small court, and looking through a window that com- 
 manded it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians, with 
 pandean pipes and tambourine ; 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 tho 
 girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and,, coloring up, 
 ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion. 
 
THE CnmSTMAS DL\i\£R. 
 
 Lo, now is come our joyful'st fea»t I 
 
 Let every man be jolly, 
 Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest. 
 
 And every post with holly. 
 Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, 
 
 And Christmas blocks are burning ; 
 Their ovens they with bak't meats choke 
 And all tlicir spits are tnmin^. 
 
 Without the door let sorrow lie. 
 And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
 Wee'le bury 't in a Christmas pye, 
 A ad evermore be merry. 
 
 Withers' Juvenilia. 
 
 I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Brace- 
 bridge in the library, when we heard a distant thwacking sound, 
 which he informed me Avas a signal for the serving up of the din- 
 ner. The squire kept up old customs in kitchen as well as hall i 
 and the rolUng-pin, struck upon the dresser by the cook, sum- 
 moned the servants to carry in the meats. 
 
 Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice. 
 And all the waiters in a trice 
 
 His summons did obey ; 
 Each serving man, with dish in hand, 
 
283 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Maich'd boldly up, like our train band, 
 Presented and away.* 
 
 The dinner was served up in tlie gi-eat 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 Avreathing 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 helmet and 
 weapons on the opposite wall, which I understood were the arms 
 of the same warrior.J I must own, by the by, I had strong doubts 
 about the authenticity of the painting and armor as having be- 
 longed to the crusader, they certainly having the stamp of more 
 recent days ; but I Avas told that the painting had been so con- 
 sidered time out of mind ; and that, as to the armor^ it had been 
 found in a lumbei'-room, and elevated to its present situation by 
 the squire, who at once determined it to be the armor of the 
 family hero ; and as he was absolute authority on all such sub- 
 jects in his own household, the mutter had passed into cuiTent 
 acceptation. [ A sideboard was set out just under this chivalric 
 trophy, on which was a display of plate that might have vied (at 
 least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade of the vessels of the 
 temple : " flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers ;" 
 the gorgeous utensils of good companionship that had gradually 
 accumulated through many generations of jovial housekeepers. 
 B(;fore these stf od the two Yule candles, beaming like two stars 
 of the first magnitude ; other lights were distributed in branches, 
 aad the whole array glittered like a firmament of silver. 
 
 * Sir John Suckling. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 283 
 
 "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 handsome were, at least, happy ; and happiness is a rare 
 improver of your hard-favored visage. I always consider an old 
 English family as well worth studying as a collection 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. Perhaps it may be from having continually before 
 their eyes those rows of old family portraits, v/itli which the 
 mansions of this country are stocked ; certain it is, that the quaint 
 features of antiquity are often most faithfully perpetuated 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 Conquesi. Something 
 of the kind was to be observed in the Avorthy company around 
 me. Many 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 Roman 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 unceremoni- 
 ous days ; but a long, courtly, Avell-worded one of the ancient 
 school. There was now a pause, as if something was expected ; 
 when suddenly the butler entered the hall with some degree of 
 
284 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 bustle : he was attended by a servant on eacli side with a largu 
 wax -light, and bore a silver dish, on which was an enormous pig's 
 head, decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, whicb 
 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 conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on 
 receiving a hint from the squire, gave, with an air of the most 
 comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which was af 
 follows : 
 
 Caput apri defero 
 
 RedJens laudes Domino. 
 The boar's head in haiKl bring I, 
 With garlands gay and rosemary. 
 I pray j'ou all synge merily 
 
 Qui estis in convivio. 
 
 Though prepared to witness many of these htlle eccentricities, 
 from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host ; yet, 1 
 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 parson, that it was meant to represent the 
 bnnging in of the boar's head ; a dish foi*merly served up with 
 much ceremony and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great 
 tables, on Christmas day. " I like the old custom," said the 
 squire, " not merely 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 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 285 
 
 black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are now in their 
 graves !" 
 
 The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such 
 associations, and wlio was always more taken up with the text 
 than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version of the 
 carol ; which he affirmed was different from that sung at colleger 
 He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commentatoi', 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 voice, to a fat-headed old 
 gentleman next him, who was silently engaged in the discussion 
 of a huge plateful of turkey.* 
 
 * The old ceremony of serving up tlie boar's head on Christmas day is stil] 
 observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson 
 with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable to such of 
 my readers as are curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it entire 
 
 The boar's head in hand bear I, 
 Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; 
 And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
 Quot estis in convivio 
 
 Caput apri defero. 
 
 Reddens laudes domino. 
 
 The boar's head, as 1 understand. 
 Is the rarest dish in all this land. 
 Which thus bedeck'd with a gay g'arland 
 Let us servire cantico. 
 Caput apri defero, etc. 
 
286 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented 
 an epitome of country abundance, in this season of overflowing 
 larders. A distinguished post was allotted to " ancient sirloin," 
 as mine host termed it ; being, as he added, " the standard of old 
 English hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of 
 expectation." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and 
 which had evidently something traditional in their embellish- 
 ments ; 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, iu 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.* 
 
 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 peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertainments. 
 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 periloiifl 
 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 Mae- 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 281 
 
 It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may 
 Dot have th&t foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to which 
 I am a little given, Avere I to mention the other make-shifts of 
 this wortliy old humorist, by Avhich he was endeavoring to follow 
 up, though at humble distance, the quaint customs of antiquity 
 I was pleased, however, to see tlie respect shown to his whims by 
 his children and relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily into 
 the full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in their parts -, 
 having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, 
 too, at the air of profound gravity with which the butler and other 
 servants executed the duties assigned them, however eccentric. 
 They had an old-fashioned look ; having, for the most pavt,.been 
 brought up in the household, and grown into keeping with the 
 antiquated mansion, and the humors of its lord ; and most proba- 
 bly looked upon all his Avhimsical regulations as the established 
 laws of honorable housekeeping. 
 
 "When the cloth Avas removed, the butler brought in a huge 
 silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed 
 before the squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation ; 
 being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas festivity. 
 The contents had been prepared by the squire himself; for it was 
 a beverage in the skillful mixture of which he particularly prided 
 himself: alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for the 
 
 singer, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with which 
 ihis, 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 cai-po' tongues • 
 Their pheasants drench'd with ambergri-s ; the carcases of three fat 
 icethrrs hruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock ' 
 
288 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 comprehension of an brdinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, 
 that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him ; be- 
 ing composed of the richest and- raciest -^-ines, highly spiced and 
 sweetened, with roasted apples bohhing about the surface.* 
 
 The old gentleman's whole coimtenance beamed with a serene 
 look of indwelling dehght, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Hav 
 ing raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas 
 to all present, he sent it brimming round the board, for every one 
 to follow his example, according to the primitive style ; pro- 
 nouncing it " tlie ancient fountain of good feehng, where all hearts 
 met together."t 
 
 There was much laughing and rallying as the honest emblem 
 of Chiistmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by 
 the ladies. When it reached Master Simon, he raised it in both 
 
 * 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 hearths of sub- 
 stantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated 
 by Herrick in his Tweli'th Xight ; 
 
 Next crowne the bowle Ml 
 
 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. 
 
 t " 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, Wcsscl. Jl'assel, and then the chappell (chaplein) was to 
 ans^\-er with a song." — Arch^ologia. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 289 
 
 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 roond-abont-a, 
 
 FiU 
 
 Still, 
 Let the world say what it will, 
 And drink your fill all ont-a. 
 
 The deep canne. 
 
 The merry deep canne. 
 
 As thou dost freely qoaff-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 
 persevering assiduity of a slow hound ; being one of those lont^- 
 ^Toded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, are un- 
 rivpJed 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 
 
 * From Poor Robin's Almanac. 
 13 
 
890 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 he gave Master Simon what he considered a borne thrust. The 
 latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the subject, as old 
 bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform me, in an 
 under tone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously fine wo- 
 man, and drove her own curricle. 
 
 The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, 
 and, though the old hall may have resounded in its time with 
 many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it 
 ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy 
 it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him ; and 
 how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making every 
 thing in its vicinity to freshen into smiles ! the joyous dispo- 
 sition of the worthy squire was perfectly contagious ; he wag 
 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, be- 
 came 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 companionship 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 been a sharer ; 
 though in looking at the latter, it required some effort of imagi- 
 nation to figure such a little dark anatomy of a man into the per- 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER, 291 
 
 petrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two college chums 
 presented pictures of what men may be made by their different 
 lots in life. The squix'e had left the university to live lustily on 
 Jiis paternal domains, in the vigox'ous enjoyment of prosperity 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 hhited at 
 a sly story of the parson and a pretty milk-maid, whom they once 
 met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentleman made an " alpha- 
 bet of faces," which, as far as I could decipher his physiognomy, 
 I verily believe was indicative of laughter; — indeed, I have 
 rarely met with an old gentleman that took absolute 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- 
 letter work, entitled " Cupid's Solicitor for Love," containing 
 store of good advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend 
 me: the first verse was to this effect 
 
 He that will woo a widow must not dally. 
 He must make hay while the sun doth shine ; 
 
 He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
 But boldly say, "Widow, thou must be mine. 
 
S93 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who mada 
 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 gradu* 
 ally settled down into a dose, 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, Avho, 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 bliudman's-buff. Master Simon, 
 who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occa- 
 sions to fulfill the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord of 
 Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of the hall. The little beings 
 were as busy about him as the mock fairies about Falstaff ; pinch- 
 ing him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and ticlding 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 
 
 * At Christmasse there was in the Kinge's house, wheresoever hee waa 
 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 he epirituall 
 or temporall. — Stowe. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER, 293 
 
 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 chaii's, 
 I suspected the rogue of being not a wlxit 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 en- 
 sconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of some cunning 
 artificer of yore, which had been brought from the library for his 
 particular accommodation. From this venerable piece of furni- 
 ture, 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 course of his anti- 
 quarian researches. I am half inclined to think Ihat 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 Avith the marvelous and supernatural. He gave us 
 several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, 
 concerning the effigy of the crusader, 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 feel- 
 ings of superstition by the good ■waves 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 
 
89.1 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 Bome wrong had been left unredressed by tlie 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 endeavored 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 e&gj, which stretched him senseless 
 on the pavement. These tales Avere often laughed at by some of 
 the sturdier among the rustics, yet when night came on, there 
 were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of venturing 
 alone in the footpath that led across the church-yard. 
 
 From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader 
 appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories throughout the 
 vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, Avas thought by 
 the servants to have something supernatural about it ; for they 
 remarked that, in whatever 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 occa- 
 sion the church door most civilly swung open of itself; 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 counte' 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 295 
 
 Dauced by the squire, who, though not superstitious himself, was 
 very foud of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin tale 
 of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, and held the por- 
 ter's wife in high favor on account of her talent for the marvel- 
 ous. He Avas himself a great reader of old legends and romances, 
 tiud often lamented that he could not believe in them ; for a super- 
 stitious 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 suddenly flew open, and a train came troop- 
 ing into the room, that might almost have been mistaken for the 
 breaking up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit, 
 Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as lord of 
 misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas mummery or mask- 
 ing ; 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 merriment, 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 genera- 
 tions ; the younger part of the company had been privately con- 
 vened from the parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened 
 out, into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask.* 
 
 Master Simon led the van, as " Ancient Christmas," quaintly 
 
 * Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas in old times; 
 and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under contribu- 
 tion to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly suspect Mastei 
 Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's Masque of Christmas 
 
2^ THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 appareled in a ruff, a short cloak, whicli had verj much the 
 aspect of one of the old housekeepers petticoats, and a hat that 
 might have served for a village steeple, and must indubitably have 
 figured in the days of the Covenanters, ifrom under this his nose 
 curved boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom, that seemed 
 the very trophy of a December blast. H.^ was accompanied by 
 the blue-eyed romp, dished up as " Dame Mince Pie," in the 
 venerable magnificence of a faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked 
 hat, and high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as Robin 
 Hood, in a sporting 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 picturesque, 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 metamoi'phosed 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-bot- 
 tomed wigs, to represent the character of Roast Beef, Plum Pud- 
 ding, and other worthies celebrated in ancient maskings. The 
 whole was under the control of the Oxonian, "in the appropriate 
 character of IMisrule ; and I observed that he exercised rather a 
 mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller personages of 
 the pageant. 
 
 The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, accord- 
 ing to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar and mer- 
 riment. Master Simon covered himself with glory by the stateli- 
 ness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet with 
 the peerless, though giggling. Dame Mince Pie. It was followed 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 297 
 
 by a dance of all the characters, which, from its medley of cos- 
 tumes, 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 jiggling merrily down the middle, through a line of succeed- 
 ing generations. 
 
 The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and 
 this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of 
 childish delight. lie stood chuckling and rubbing his hands, and 
 scarcely hearing a word the parson 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 minuet to be derived.* For my part I was in a continual 
 excitement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent gayety 
 passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and 
 warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from among the chills and 
 glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and catch- 
 ing once more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also 
 an interest in the scene, from the consideration that these fleetins 
 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 
 
 * Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pa von, from pavo, a 
 peacock, says, " It is a grave and majestic dance ; the method of dancing it 
 anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the long 
 robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns 
 with long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock." 
 — History' of Music. 
 
 13* 
 
^8 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 the time and place ; and as the old manor-house almost reeled 
 with mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of 
 long departed years.* 
 
 But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time for me 
 to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions asked 
 by my graver readers, " To -what purpose is all this — ^how is the 
 world to be made wiser by this talk ?" Alas ! is there not wis- 
 dom 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 instruct — to 
 play the companion rather than the preceptor. 
 
 What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw 
 into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my sagest 
 deductions may be safe guides for the ophiions of others ? But 
 in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my own disap- 
 pointment 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 Avritten entirely in vain. 
 
 * At the time of the first publication of this paper, the picture of an old- 
 fashioned Christmas in the country was pronounced by some as out of date. 
 The author had aftersvards 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 Abbe^C 
 
LONDON ANTiaUES. 
 
 1 do walk 
 
 Metliinks like Guido Vaux, with ray dark lantliom, 
 Stealing to set the town o' fire ; i' tli' country 
 I should be taken for William o' tlie Wisp, 
 Or Robin Goodfellow. 
 
 Fletcher. 
 
 , A3I somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am fond of ex- 
 ploring 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 
 poetical 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 
 fi-ee 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 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, 
 
300 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 and kept perpetually fresh and green by a fountain with its spark 
 ling jet of water. A student Avitli book in hand was seated on & 
 stone bench, partly reading, partly meditating on the movements 
 of two or three trim nursery maids with their infant charges. 
 
 I was like an Ai-ab Avho had suddenly come upon an oasis 
 amid the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees the quiet 
 and coolness of the place soothed my nerves and refreshed my 
 spii-it. 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, strange- 
 ly situated in the very centre of sordid traffic ; and I do not know 
 a more impressive lesson for the man of the Avorld than thus sud- 
 denly to turn aside from the highway of busy money-seeking life, 
 and sit down ajjiong these shadowy sepulchres, where all is twi- 
 light, 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 gate- 
 way of mouldering antiquity. It opened into a spacious quadran- 
 gle forming the court-yard of a stately gothic pile, the portal of 
 which stood invitingly open. 
 
LONDON ANTIQUES. 301 
 
 It was apparently a public edifice, and as I -was antiquity 
 hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps Bleeting 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 architecture. At one end of the hall was 
 an enormous fireplace, with wooden settles on each side ; at tlie 
 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 Avindow, Avhich admitted a broad flood of yellow sun- 
 shine, checkered here and there by tints from panes of colored 
 glass ; while an open casement let in the soft summer air. Here, 
 leaning my head on my hand, and my arm on an old oaken table, 
 I indulged 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 establishments 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, emulating in the productions of his brain the magni- 
 tude of the.pile he inhabited. 
 
 As I was seated in this musing mood, a small panneled 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 manner through the hall, without 
 uttering a word, each turning a pale face on me as he passed, and 
 disappearing through a door at the lower end. 
 
S02 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their blacli 
 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 passmg in 
 review before me. Pleasing myself 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 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 be- 
 longed to the establishment, were at their sports ; but every where 
 I observed those mysterious old gray men in black mantles, some- 
 times sauntering alone, sometimes conversing in groups : they ap- 
 peared to be the pervading genii of the place. I now called to 
 mind Avhat I had read of certain colleges in old times, where 
 judicial astrology, geomancy, necromancy, and other forbidden 
 and magical sciences were taught. Was this an establishment 
 of the kind, and were these black-cloaked old men really pro- 
 fessors of the black art ? 
 
 These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye 
 glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of strange and 
 uncouth objects ; implements of savage warfare ; strange idols 
 and stuffed alligators; bottled serpents 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 seomed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer, when I was 
 
LONDON ANTIQUES. 303 
 
 startled at beholding a human countenance staring at me from a 
 dusky corner. It Avas that of a small, shriveled 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 these black-cloaked old men, and, as I regarded his quaint 
 physiognomy, his obsolete garb, and the hideous and sinister ob- 
 jects by Avhich 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 tc 
 enter. I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for how did I know 
 whether a wave of his wand might not metamorphose 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 witli which I had enveloped this antiquated pile and its 
 no less antiquated inhabitants. 
 
 It appeai-ed that I had made my way into the centre of an 
 ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and decayed house- 
 holders, 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 con- 
 ventual air and character. The shadowy line of old men in black 
 mantles who had passed before me in the hall, and whom I had 
 elevated into magi, turned out to be the pensioners returning 
 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 nestling place of his old age with 
 
S0# THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 relics and rarities picked up in the course of his life. According 
 to his own account, he had been somewhat of a traveler ; 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 evidently a trav- 
 eler of the simple kind. 
 
 He Avas 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 Gi'eek, of both which 
 languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant ; and a broken-down 
 gentleman who had run through a foi'tune of forty thousand 
 pounds left him by his father, aiid ten thousand pounds, the mar- 
 riage portion of his wiCe, Little Hallum semed to consider it an 
 indubitable sign of gentle blood as Avell as of lofty spirit to be able 
 to squander such enoi-mous 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 w^as founded in 1011, on 
 the remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, being 
 one of those noble charities set on foot by individual munificence, 
 and kept up with the quaintness and sanctity of ancient times 
 amidst the modei*n changes and innovations of London. Here 
 eighty broken-down men, who have seen better days, are pro- 
 vided, in their old age, with food, clothing, fuel, and a yearly 
 allowance for private expenses. They 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 
 
LONDON ANTIQUES. 302 
 
 of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says, "They 
 are not to intermeddle with any business 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, mur- 
 muring, 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 becomes 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 observation, and who 
 may wish to know a little more about the mysteries of London, I 
 subjoin a modicum of local history, put into my hands by an odd- 
 looking old gentleman in a small brown Avig 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 upon 
 inquiring travelers like myself; and which have brought our 
 general character for veracity into such unmerited reproach. 
 On making proper inquiries, however, I have received the most 
 satisfactory assurances of the author's probity ; and, 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 
 wliich the following may be considered merely as a foretaste. 
 
LITTLE BlllTAIN. 
 
 "What I write is niosl true * * * * I i,ave a whole booke of cases lyitg by me, whica 
 If I shoulil sette fooith, some grave aiintients (within the hearing of Bow bell) wotild be 
 l>ut of charity with nie. 
 
 Nashe. 
 
 In the centre of the great city of London lies a small neighbor" 
 hood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very 
 venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of 
 Little Britain. Christ Church School and St. Bartholomew'g 
 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 separates 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 
 intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave- 
 Maria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly protection. 
 
 This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in 
 ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As Lon- 
 don increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, 
 and trade creeping on at their heels, took possession of their 
 deserted abodes. For some time Little Britain became the great 
 mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolLGc race 
 
SOB THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 of booksellers .- these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating 
 bcyoud the great strait of Newgate Street, settled dovni in Patei> 
 noster Row and St. Paul's Church- Yard, where they continue to 
 increase and multiply even at the present day. 
 
 But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still beara 
 traces of its former splendor. There are sevei'al houses ready to 
 tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with 
 old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and 
 fishes : and fruits and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist 
 to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains 
 of what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but 
 which have in latter days been subdivided into several tenements. 
 Here may often be found the family of a petty tradesman, with 
 its trumpery furniture, burrowing among the relics of antiquated 
 finery, in great rambling time-stained 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 main- 
 taining 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.* 
 
 In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed 
 several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the second 
 floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices. My sitting-room 
 is an old wainscoted chamber, with small panels, and set off with 
 a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular respect 
 for three or four high-backed claw-footed chairs, covered with tar- 
 
 • It !« evident that the author of this interesting communication has in- 
 cluded, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and 
 courts thai belong immediately to Cloth Fair. 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN, 303 
 
 nished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen better day^, 
 find have doubtless figured in some of the old palaces of Little 
 Britain. Thej seem to me to keep together, and to look down 
 with sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors; 
 fts I have seen decayed^^entry carry a high head among the ple- 
 beian society with which they were reduced to associate. The 
 whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow window ; 
 on the panes of which are recorded the names of previous occu- 
 pants for many generations, mingled with scraps of very indiffer- 
 ent gentleman-like poetrj-, written in characters which I can 
 scarcely decipher, and which extol the charms of many a beauty 
 of Little Britain, who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and 
 passed away. As I am an idle personage, with no apparent occu- 
 pation, and pay my bill regularly every week, I am looked upon 
 as the only independent gentleman of the neighborhood ; and, 
 being curious to learn the internal state of a community so appa- 
 rently shut up within itself, I have managed to work my way into 
 all the concerns and secrets of the place. 
 
 Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the city; 
 the strong-hold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of 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 pan- 
 cakes 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. Eoast beef and plum- 
 pudding are also held in superstitious veneration, and port and 
 sherry maintain their grounds as the only true English wines; all 
 others being considered vile outlandish beverages. 
 
310 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which 
 its inhabitants consider the vronders 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 Monu- 
 ment ; the lions iu the Tower : and the .wooden giants in Guild- 
 hall. They still believe in dreams and fortune-telling, and an old 
 woman that lives in BuU-and-Alouth Street makes a tolerable sub- 
 sistence by detecting stolen goods, and promising the girls good 
 husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncomfortable by comets 
 and eclipses ; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked 
 npon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There are even 
 many ghost stories current, particularly concerning the old man- 
 sion-houses ; in several of which it is said strange sights are 
 sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full-bottomed 
 wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, 
 hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up and down the 
 great waste chambers, on moonlight nights ; and are supposed to 
 be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses. 
 
 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 roimd each eye, Hke a pair of horn spectacles. 
 He is much thought of by the old women, who consider him as a 
 kind of conjurer, because he has two or three stuffed alb gators 
 hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a 
 great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much given to 
 pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earth- 
 quakes, and volcanic eruptions ; which last phenomena he considers 
 as signs of the times. He has always some dismal tale of the 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 31] 
 
 kiud 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 predictions ; and has the prophecies 
 of Robert NLson and Mother Shipton by heart No man can 
 make so much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day 
 and he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his cus- 
 tomers and disciples until they were nearly frightened out of their 
 wits. He has lately got hold of popular legend or prophecy, on 
 which he has been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying 
 current among the ancient sibyls, wlio treasure up these things, 
 that when the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange shook 
 hands with the dragon on the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful 
 events would take place. This strange conjunction, it seems, has 
 as strangely come to pass. The same architect has been engaged 
 lately on the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the 
 steeple of Bow Church ; and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the 
 grasshopper actually lie, cheek by 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, wonderful events had already occurred. The good old 
 king, notwithstanding that he had lived eighty-two years, had all 
 at once given up the ghost ; another king had mounted the throne ; 
 a royal duke had died suddenly — another, 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 
 
313 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 these sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme with a myste- 
 rious look, and a dismal shake of the head ; and being taken with 
 his drugs, and associated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed 
 S3a-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 
 whenever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they never 
 expected any good to come of taking down that steeple, which in 
 old times told notliing but glad tidings, as the history of "Whitting- 
 ton and his Cat bears witness. 
 
 The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheesemon- 
 ger, 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 Cheshires. Indeed he is a man of no little 
 standing and importance ; and his renown extends through Hug- 
 gin Lane, and Lad Lane, and even unto Aldermanbury. His 
 opinion is very much taken in affairs of state, having read the 
 Sunday papers for the last half century, together with the Gen- 
 tleman's Magazine, Eapin's History of -England, and the Naval 
 Chronicle. His head is stored with invaluable maxims wliich 
 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, 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 Hamp- 
 etead, Highgate, and other neighboring towns, where he has 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 313 
 
 passed whole atternoons in looking back upon the metropolis 
 through a telescope, and endeavoring to descry the steeple 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 
 fiatron at the coach-ofRce 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 ad- 
 vanced in life to undertake sea-voyages. 
 
 Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and 
 party spirit ran very high at one time in consequence of two rival 
 " Burial Societies " being set up in the place. One held its meet- 
 ing 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 a* 
 each, and have acquired much valuable information, as to the 
 best mode of being buried, tlie comparative merits of church- 
 yards, together with divers hints on the subject of patent-iron 
 coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its bearings as 
 to the legality of prohibiting the latter on account of their dura- 
 bility. 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 thu-d 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 
 
 14 
 
S14 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 a most seductive buncli of grapes. The whole edifice is covered 
 with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer ; such 
 a.s " Truman, Hanbury, and Co.'s Eiitire," " Wine, Rum, and 
 Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom, Rum and Compounds, etc." This 
 indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus from time 
 immemorial. It has always been in the family of the Wagstaffs, 
 so that its history is tolerably preserved by the present landlord. 
 It was much frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the 
 reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the wits 
 of Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff principally 
 prides himself upon is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his noc- 
 turnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his 
 famous walking-staff. This however is considered as rather a 
 dubious and vainglorious boast of the landlord. 
 
 The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes' by 
 the name of " the Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They abound 
 in old catches, glees, and choice stories, that are 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 Little Britain, 
 is bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors were all wags before 
 him, and he has inherited with the inn. a large stock of songs and 
 jokes, which go with it from generation to generation as 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 Needle. He sings it, to be sure, 
 ■U'ith many variations, as he received it from his father's lips ; for 
 it has been a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 315 
 
 Grapes ever since it was written : nay, he affirms tliat his prede- 
 cessors have often had the honor of singing it before the nobility 
 and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Little Britain was in 
 all its glory.* 
 
 * As mine host of the Half- Moon's Confession of Faith may not be familiar 
 to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current songs of Lit- 
 tle Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would observe, that the 
 whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and 
 clattering of pewter pots. 
 
 I cannot eate but lytle meate, 
 
 My stomacke is not good. 
 But sure I thinke that I can drinke 
 
 With him that weares a hood. 
 Though I go bare, take ye no care, 
 
 I nothing am a colde, 
 I stuff my skyn so full within, 
 
 Of joly good ale and olde. 
 Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare. 
 
 Booth foote and hand go colde. 
 But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe 
 
 Whether it be new or olde. 
 
 I have no rost, but a nut brawne teste. 
 
 And a crab laid in the fyre ; 
 A little breade shall do me steade. 
 
 Much breade I not desyre. 
 No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe. 
 
 Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 
 I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 
 
 Of joly good ale and olde. 
 Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 
 
316 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 It would do one's heart good to liear, on a club niglit, the 
 shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the 
 choral bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue from 
 this jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined with lis- 
 teners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into a confec- 
 tioner's window, or snuffing up the steams of a cook-shop. 
 
 There are two annual events which produce great stir and 
 sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholomew's iair, 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 
 
 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 shee trowle to me the bowie. 
 
 Even as a mault-worme sholde, 
 And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte 
 
 Of this joly good ale and olde. 
 Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 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 bowlea, 
 
 Or have them lustily trolde, 
 God save the lyves of them and their wives, 
 
 "Whether they be yonge or olde. 
 Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 317 
 
 Little Britain are overrun with an irruption of strange figures 
 and faces ; every tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The fiddle 
 and the song are heard from the tap-room, morning, noon, and 
 night ; and at each window may be seen some group of boon 
 companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth, 
 and tankard in hand, fondling, and prosing, and 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 withm doors. Their brains 
 are absolutely set madding with Punch and the Puppet Show ; 
 the Flying Horses ; Signior Polito ; the Fire-Eater ; the cele- 
 brated Mr. Paap ; and the Irish Giant. The children too lavish 
 all their holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the 
 house with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny- 
 whistles. 
 
 But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The 
 Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain 
 as the greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach with six horses 
 as the summit of human splendor ; and his procession, with all 
 the Sherifis and Aldermen in his train, as the grandest of earthly 
 pageants. How they exult in the idea, that the King himself 
 dare no: 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 Avhat 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 little man with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at 
 the window of the state coach, and holds the city sword, as long 
 
318 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 as a pike-staff — OdJ's blood ! If he once draws that sword 
 Majesty itself is not safe ! 
 
 Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the 
 good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an 
 effectual barrier against all interior foes ; and as to foreign inva- 
 sion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into the Tower, 
 call in the train bands, and put the standing army of Beef-eaters 
 under arms, and he may bid defiance to the world ! 
 
 Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its 
 own opinions. Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart 
 to this great fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself with 
 considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy 
 John Bullism were gaVnered up, like seed corn, to renew the 
 national character, when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I 
 have rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony that prevailed 
 throughout it ; for though there might now and then be a few 
 clashes of opinion between the adherents of the cheesemonger 
 and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial 
 societies, yet these were but transient clouds, and soon passed 
 away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted with a shake 
 of the hanck, and never abused each other except behind their 
 backs. 
 
 I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at 
 which I have been present ; where we played at All-Fours, 
 Pope-Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games; 
 and where we sometimes had a good old English country dance 
 to the tune of Sir Roger de 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 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 319 
 
 grass undei* the trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts 
 of laughter at the songs of little "WagstafF and the mei'ry under- 
 taker ! After dinner, too, the young folks would play at blind- 
 man s-buff and hide-and-seek ; and it was amusing to see thevi 
 tangled among the briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now 
 and then squeak from among the bushes. The elder follis would 
 gather round the cheesemonger and the apothecary, to hear them 
 talk politics ; for they generally brought out a newspaper in their 
 pockets, to pass away time in the country. They would now and 
 then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument ; but their disputes 
 were always adjusted by reference to a Avorthy old umbrella 
 maker in a double chin, who, never exactly comprehending the 
 subject, managed somehow or other to ^ecide in favor of both 
 parties. 
 
 All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, 
 are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innovation 
 creep in ; factions arise ; and families now and then spring up, 
 whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into confu- 
 sion. Thus in latter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain 
 been grievously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners 
 threatened with total subversion, by the aspiring family of a 
 retired butcher. 
 
 The family of the Lambs had long .been among the most 
 thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs were 
 the belles of Little Britain, and every body was pleased when Old 
 Lamb had made money enough to.shut up shop, and put his name 
 on a brass plate on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of 
 the Miss Lambs had the honor of 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 
 
320 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 family never got over it ; tliey were immediately smitten with a 
 passion for liigh life ; set np a one-horse carriage, put a bit of 
 gold lace round the errand boy's hat, and have been the talk and 
 detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since. They could 
 no longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or blindman's-buff ; 
 they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had 
 ever heard of in Little Britain ; and they took to reading novels, 
 talking bad French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother 
 too, who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and 
 a critic, characters hitherto unknoAvn in these parts ; and he con- 
 founded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, the 
 opera, and the Edinburgh Review. 
 
 "Wliat was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which 
 they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ; but they had 
 a great deal of genteel company from Theobald's Eoad, Red-lion 
 Square, and other parts towards the west. There were several 
 beaux of their brother'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 forgiven. All 
 Little Britain was in an uproar with the smacking of whips, the 
 lashing of miserable horses, and the rattling and jingling of hack- 
 ney coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen 
 popping their night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy 
 vehicles rumble by ; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, 
 that kept a look-out from a house just opposite the retired butch- 
 er'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 engage- 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 331 
 
 ments with her quality acquaintance, would give little humdrum 
 tea junketings to some of her old cronies, " quite," as she would 
 say, " in a friendly way ;" and it is equally true that her invita- 
 tions were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows tc the 
 contrary. Xay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted with 
 the music of the ]\Iiss Lambs, who would condescend to strum an 
 Irish melody for them on the piano ; and they would listen with 
 wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plun- 
 ket's family, of Portsoken-ward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the 
 rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved their 
 consciences, and averted the reproaches of their confederates, 
 by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation every thing that 
 had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout all to pieces. 
 
 The only one of the family that could not be made fashiona- 
 ble was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite of 
 the meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, with 
 the voice of a lion, a head of black hair hke 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 endeavored to 
 coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly 
 habits. Do what they might, there was no keeping down the 
 butcher. His sturdy nature would break through all their glozings. 
 He had a hearty vulgar good humor that was irrepressible. His 
 very jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder ; and he persisted 
 in wearing liis blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at two o'clock 
 and having a " bit of sausage with his tea." 
 
 He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his 
 family. He found his old comrades gradually growing cold and 
 civil to him ; no longer laughing at his jokes ; and now and then 
 
 14* 
 
K3 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 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 
 WagstaflF's ; to sit after dinner by himself, and take his pint of 
 port — a liquor he detested — and to nod in his chair in solitary and 
 dismal gentility. 
 
 The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the streets 
 in French bonnets, with unknown beaux ; and talking and laugh- 
 ing 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 neigh- 
 borhood ; but the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and 
 did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack up fiddle 
 and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such precipitation, that he 
 absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. 
 
 I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this fiery 
 indignation on the part of the community was merely the over- 
 flowing of their zeal for good old English manners, and their hor- 
 ror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent contempt they were 
 so vociferous in expressing, for upstart pride, French fashions, and 
 the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say tliat I soon perceived the 
 infection had taken hold ; and that my neighbors, after condemn- 
 ing, 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 les- 
 sons 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. 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 32a 
 
 I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die 
 away; that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood; 
 might die, or might run away with attorneys' apprentices ; and 
 that quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the commu- 
 nity. But unluckily a rival power arose. An opulent oilman 
 diod; 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 j^rudent father, Avhicli kept down all their 
 elegant aspiring.5. 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 natiu'ally 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 Averc not to be distanced. ^\'Tien the Lambs appeared 
 with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, 
 and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the 
 Ti'otters were sure not to be behindhand : and though they might 
 not boast ot as good company, yet they had double the number, 
 and were twice as merry. 
 
 The whole community has at length divided itself into fashiona- 
 ble factions, under the banners of these two families. The old 
 games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely dis- 
 carded ; there is no such thing as getting up an honest country 
 dance ; and on my attempting to kiss a young lady under the mis- 
 tletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed ; the Miss Lambs 
 having pronounced it " shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also 
 broken out as to the most fashionable part of little Britain ; the 
 Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the 
 Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. 
 
331 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal dis- 
 Bensions, hke 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 ai-e extremely unpleasant to me. Be-* 
 ing a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle good- 
 for-notliing 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 counsels and 
 mutual backbltings. As I am too civil not to agree with the 
 ladies on all occasions, I have committed myself most horribly 
 with both parties, by abusing their opponents. I might manage 
 to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly accommodating 
 one, but I cannot to my apprehension — if the Lambs and Trot- 
 ters 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 spoken ; and where there are no 
 fashionable families of retired tradesmen. This found, I will, 
 like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old house about 
 my ears ; bid a long, though a sorrowful adieu to my present 
 abode, and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trotter 
 to divide the distracted empire of Little Britain. 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AYON. 
 
 Thon soft-flowing Avon, by <Iiy silver stream 
 
 Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare vrould dream j 
 
 The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bod, 
 
 For hallow'd the turf is which i>illow'd his head. 
 
 Garrick. 
 
 To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide work! which 
 he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of some- 
 thing like independence and teri'itorial consequence, when, after a 
 weary day's travel, he kicks off his hoots, 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 squ.T,re, 
 his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched 
 from the midst of the uncertainties of life ; it is a sunny moment 
 gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day : and he who has advanced 
 some way on the pilgrimage of existence knows the importance 
 cf husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment. " Shall 
 I not take mine ease in mine inn ?" thought I, as I gave the lire 
 stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look 
 about the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 
 
336 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing- fhrough aiy 
 mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the church 
 in which he lies huried. There ^vas a gentle tap at the door, and 
 a pretty chamhermaid, 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 Shaksj^eare, the jubilee, and David Garrick. 
 
 The next morning was one of those quickening mornings 
 which we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was about the 
 middle of March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly 
 given way ; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; and a mild 
 air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life into 
 nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst forth into fra- 
 grance and beauty. 
 
 I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgi-image. 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 of genius, which seems to delight 
 in hatching its offspring 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 tc the great 
 poet of nature. 
 
 The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red 
 face, hghted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 337 
 
 artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly 
 dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics 
 with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There 
 was the shattered stock of the very matchlock with which 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 lantern with Avhich Friar Laurence discovered 
 Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! There was an ample supply also 
 of Sbakspeare's mulberry-tree, which seems to have as extraor- 
 dinary powers of self-multiplication as the Avood of the true cross ; 
 of which there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. 
 
 The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Sbak- 
 speare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small gloomy 
 chamber, just behind what Avas his father's shop. Here he may 
 many a time have sat Avhen a boy, watching the slowly revolv- 
 ing spit with all the longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, 
 listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford, deahng forth 
 church-yard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome 
 times of England. In this chair it is the custom of every one 
 that visits the house to sit : whether this be done with the hope of 
 imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say, 
 I merely mention the fact ; and mine hostess privately assured 
 me, that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of 
 devotees, that the chair had to be new bottomed at least once in 
 three years. It is Avorthy of notice also, in the history of this 
 extraordinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile 
 nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the 
 Arabian enchanter ; for though sold some few years since to a 
 
828 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way bacR 
 again to the old chimney comer. 
 
 I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing 
 to be deceived, w here the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I 
 am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anec- 
 dotes of goblins and great men ; and would advise all travelers 
 who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to 
 us, whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can per- 
 suade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm 
 of the reality? There is nothing like resolute good-humored 
 credulity in these matters ; and on this occasion I went even so 
 far as willingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal 
 descent from the poet, when, unluckily for my faith, she put into 
 my hands a play of her own composition, which set all belief in 
 her consanguinity at defiance. 
 
 From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought me 
 to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, 
 a large and veuei'able pile, mouldering with age, but richly orna- 
 mented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered 
 point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the 
 town. Its situation is quiet and retired : the river runs 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 earthy are half covered with moss, Avhich has likewise tinted 
 the reverend old building. Small birds have built their nests 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON, 
 
 329 
 
 among tlie cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a con- 
 tinual fluttex' and chirping; and rooks are sailing and cawing 
 about its lofty gray spire. 
 
 In the course of my rambles I met Avith the gray-headed 
 
 !y Crai^n.lie). 
 
 eexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key of- 
 the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty 
 years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, with 
 the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use of his legs 
 for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, looking out 
 upon the Avon and its bordering meadows ; and was a picture of 
 that neatness, order, and comfort, which pervade the humblest 
 dwellings in this country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone 
 floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. 
 Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. 
 
330 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 On an old oaken table, "n^ell rubbed and polished, lay the family 
 Bible and prayer-book, and the draAver contained the family 
 library, composed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. 
 An ancient clock, that important article of cottage furniture, 
 ticked on the opposite side of tlie room ; with a bright warming- 
 pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled 
 Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide 
 and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In 
 one corner sat the old man's grand-daughter 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 together in man- 
 hood ; 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 church-yard. 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 Avith. 
 
 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 his- 
 tory ; and it is his good or evil lot that sciircely any thing remains 
 to his biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures. 
 
 The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpen- 
 ters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and 
 they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who 
 Euperintended the arrangements, and who, according to the sex- 
 ton, was " a short punch man, very lively and bustling." John 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. S3I 
 
 Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakspeare's mulberr}) 
 tree, of which he hud 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 vei"y 
 dubiously of the eloquent dame Avho shows the Shakspeare house 
 John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her valuable and 
 inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly her remains of the 
 mulberry tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to 
 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 peb- 
 bles make the stream of truth diverge into dilferent channels even 
 at the fountain head. 
 
 We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and 
 entered by a gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved doors 
 of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture 
 and embellishments superior to those of most country churches. 
 There are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, 
 over some cf which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners drop- 
 ping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakspeare is ia 
 the chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms 
 wave before the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a 
 short distance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. 
 A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. There 
 are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by him- 
 self, and which have in them something extremely awful. If 
 they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the 
 quiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities and 
 thoughtful minds. 
 
332 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 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 ovei' the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shflij 
 speare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resem- 
 blance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, "vvith a finely-arched 
 forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear indications of 
 that cheerful, social disposition, by which he Avas as much charac- 
 terized among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his genius. 
 The mscription mentions his age at the time of his decease — fifty- 
 three years ; an untimely death for the world : for what fruit 
 might not have been expected from the golden autumn of such a 
 mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and 
 flourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favor. 
 
 The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its 
 effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the 
 bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at 
 one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some laborers 
 were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so 
 as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, through which one 
 might have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed 
 to meddle with his remains so awfully guarded by a malediction ; 
 and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, 
 should be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton kept 
 watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished 
 and the aperture closed, again. He told me that he had made 
 bold to look in at the hole, but could see neither coflSn nor bones ; 
 nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the 
 dust of Shakspeai-e. 
 
STRATFORD-ON-A-S ON. 333 
 
 Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daughter, 
 Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, is 
 a full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe, of usurious 
 memory ; on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. 
 There are other monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell 
 on any thing that is not connected with Shakspeare. His idea 
 pervades the place ; the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. 
 The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here in- 
 dulge in pex'fect confidence : other traces of him may be false or 
 dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As 
 I trod the sounding pavement, there was something intense and 
 thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakspeare 
 were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I 
 could prevail upon myself to leave the place ; and as I passed 
 through the churchyard, I plucked a branch from one of the yew 
 trees, the only relic that I have brought from Stratford. 
 
 I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, but 
 I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys, at Charle- 
 cot, and to ramble through the park where Shakspeare, in com- 
 pany with some of the roysters of Stratford, committed his youth- 
 ful 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 treatment must have 
 been galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his spirit as 
 to produce a rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the park gato 
 at Charlecot.* 
 
 • The following is the oiJy stanza extant of this lampoon: — 
 A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
 At home a poor scarecrow, at London an osse. 
 
334 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 Tliis flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so in. 
 censed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the 
 Beverity of the laAVS 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 ahandoned 
 the pleasant banks of the Avon and his paternal trade ; wandered 
 away to London ; became a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an 
 actor; and, finally, wrote for the stage; and tuns, through the 
 persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent 
 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 revenged himself in his writings ;- 
 but in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is 
 Baid to be the original of Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly 
 fixed upon him by the justice's armorial bearings, which, like 
 those of the knight, had white luces* in the quarterings. 
 
 Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften 
 and explain away this early transgression of the poet ; but I look 
 upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his situa- 
 tion and turn of mind. Shakspeare, when young, had doubtless 
 all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and 
 undirected genius. The poetic temperament has naturally somo 
 
 If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
 Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 
 
 He thinks himself great ; 
 
 Yet an asse in his state. 
 We allow by his ears but with asses to mate. 
 If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it. 
 Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 
 
 * The lace is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecc 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVOK 335 
 
 thing in it of the vagabond. When left to itself it runs loosely 
 and wildly, and delights in every thing eccentric and licentious. 
 It is often a turn-up of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, whe- 
 ther a natural genius shall turn out a great rogue or a great 
 poet ; and had not Shakspeare's mind fortui>fttely taken a literary 
 bias, he might have as daringly transcended all civil, as he has all 
 dramatic laws. 
 
 I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, hke an 
 unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, 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 gal- 
 lows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was 
 doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck his eager, 
 and, as yet untamed, imagination, as something delightfully ad- 
 venturous.* 
 
 * A proof of Sliakspeare'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 Bed- 
 ford, 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 Strattbrd were called out to prove the strength of their heads; and 
 in the number of the champions was Shakspeare, who, in spite of the proverb 
 that " they who drink beer will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstafl" 
 to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and 
 soiuided 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 he 
 
S86 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 event- 
 ful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house 
 stood at little more than three miles' distance from Stratford, I 
 resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely 
 through some of those scenes from which 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 quickening effects upon the 
 landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this first 
 awakening of spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing over the 
 senses ; to see the moist mellow earth beginning to put forth tlie 
 green spout and the tender blade : and the trees and shrubs, in 
 their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of re- 
 
 down Tinder 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 psoposed returning to 
 Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drank with 
 
 Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
 Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
 Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
 Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 
 
 " Tlie villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the epithets thus 
 piven them : the people of Pebwoith, are still famed for their skill on the pipe 
 and tabor ; Hilborough is now called Haunted Hilborough ; and Grafton is 
 famous for the poverty of its soil." 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON 337 
 
 turning foliage and flower. The cold snow-drop, that little bor- 
 derer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste white 
 blossoms in the small gardens before the cottages. The bleat- 
 ing of the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard from the fields. 
 The spaiTOW twittered about the thatched eaves and budding 
 hedges; the robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous 
 wintry strain ; and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom 
 of the meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pour- 
 ing forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little 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 shiga. 
 
 And PhcEbus 'gins arise, 
 His steeds to water at those springs, 
 
 On chaliced flowers that lies. 
 
 And winkuig mary-buds begin 
 
 To ope tlieir 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 cot- 
 tage that I saw, I fancied into some rescrt of his boyhood, where 
 he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and man- 
 ners, 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 evenings "to 
 
 15 
 
338 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Bit round the fire, and tell merrj tales of errant kniglits, que ons. ^ 
 lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fai- 
 ries, gobluis, 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 ; sometimes glittering from 
 among willows, which frmged its borders ; sometimes disappear- 
 ing among groves, or beneath green banks ; and sometimes ram- 
 bling out into full view, and making an azure sweep round a 
 slope of meadow-land. This beautiful bosom of country is called 
 the Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue 
 hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening, 
 landscape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the 
 Avon. 
 
 After pursuing the road for about tlu-ee 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, how- 
 ever, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; there being a public right 
 of way through the grounds. I dehght 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 his lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus 
 
 * Scot, in his " Discoverie of Witc-licraft," enumerates a host of these fire- 
 side fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, 
 urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs', pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can stickc 
 tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes change- 
 lings, incubus. "Robin-goodfellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, 
 the hell-waine, the fier drake, tho puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom 
 Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own 
 shadowos." 
 
 I 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 339 
 
 to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recrea- 
 tion. 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 keejiing it in order. 
 
 I now found myself among nol le 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, Avith nothing to interrupt the view 
 but a distant statue ; and a vagrant deer stalking like a shadow 
 across the opening. 
 
 Thei'e 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 pi'oudly-concentrated independ- 
 ence of an ancient fomily ; and I have heard a worthy but 
 aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the sumptiious 
 palaces of modern gentry, that " money could do much with stone 
 and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there Avas no such thing as sud- 
 denly building up an avenue of oaks." 
 
 It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, 
 and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining jiark of Full- 
 broke, 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 pic- 
 tures in " As you like it." It is in lonsly wanderings through 
 such scenes, that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of 
 
340 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of tlie beauty and 
 majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into reverie and 
 rapture ; Tague 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 quivermg 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 lai'ge building 
 of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the gothic style of Queen 
 Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of her reign. 
 The exterior remains veiy nearly in its original state, and may 
 be considered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy coun- 
 try gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from the 
 park into a kind of court-yard in front of the house, ornamented 
 with a grassplot, 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 comjjletely in the old 
 stylo ; with stone-shafted casements, a great bow-window of 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 341 
 
 heavy stone-work, and a poiial with armorial hearings over it. 
 carved in stone. At each corner of the huilding is an octagon 
 tower, surmounted 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 Falstalf '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." 
 
 Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion in 
 the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of stillness and soli- 
 tude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court-yard 
 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 nefa- 
 rious expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass of a 
 scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the barn wall, as 
 it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of 
 poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial powei 
 which was so strenuously manifested in the case of the bard. 
 
 After prowhng about for some time, I at length found my 
 way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to the 
 
342 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old house- 
 keeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness of her 
 order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater part 
 has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modem tastes 
 and modes of living : there is a fine old oaken staircase ; and the 
 great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still 
 retains much of the appearance it must have had in the days of 
 ShaJcspeare. 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 gen- 
 tleman, have made way for family portraits. There is a wide 
 hospitable fireplace, calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood 
 fire, formerly the rallying-place of winter festivity. On the 
 opposite side of the hall is the huge gothic bow-window, with 
 stone shafts, which looks out upon the court-yard. Here are 
 emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy 
 family for many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was 
 delighted to observe in the quarterings the three white luces, by 
 which the character of Sir Thomas was first 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 Hugli, persuade me not : I will make a Star-Chamber mat- 
 ter of it ; if he were twenty John Falstafls, he shall not abuse Sir Robert 
 Bhallow Esq. 
 
STRATFORD. ON-AVON. 343 
 
 iSender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. 
 
 Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 
 
 Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, master parson ; 
 wlio writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, 
 Armigero. 
 
 Shallow. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these three hundred 
 years. 
 
 Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and all his ances- 
 tors that come after him may ; they may give the dozen white luces in their 
 
 COclt ^^^^'^^ 
 
 . 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 vizamenta in that. 
 
 Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it!" 
 
 Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir Peter 
 Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of 
 Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook her head as she 
 pointed to the picture, and informed me that this lady had been 
 sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of 
 the. family estate, among which was that part of the park where 
 Shakspeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands 
 thus lost had not been entirely regained by the family even at the 
 present day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to confess 
 that she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm. 
 
 The picture which most attracted my attention was a great 
 painting over the fireplace, containing hkenesses 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 vindic- 
 tive knight himself but the housekeeper assured me that it was 
 
344 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Ms SOU ; the only likeness extant of the former beuig an effigy 
 upon his tomb in the church of the neighboring hamlet of Charle- 
 cot.* The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and man- 
 ners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet; 
 white shoes with roses in them ; and has a peaked yellow, or, aa 
 IMaster 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 hold-s a bow ; — all intimating the knight's 
 
 * This effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in complete 
 armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb is the following 
 inscription ; which, if really composed by her husband, places him quite above 
 the intellectual level of Master Shallow : 
 
 Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sr Thomas Lucy of Charlecot in 
 ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton 
 in ye county of Worcester Esquire who departed outof this wretched worfd to 
 her heavenly kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye. yeare of our Lord God 
 1595 and of her age GO 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. La wis- 
 dom 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 
 moat virtuously so slice died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowe 
 ■vhat hath byn wriUen to be true. 
 
 Thomas Lucye. 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. ^45 
 
 skill in hunting, hawking, and archery — so indispensable to an 
 accomplished gentleman in those days.* 
 
 I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had 
 disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow-chair 
 of carved oak, in which the country squire of former days was 
 wont to sw^ay the sceptre of empire over his rural domains ; and 
 in which it might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat en- 
 throned in awful state when the recreant Shakspeare was brought 
 before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own entertain- 
 ment, I jileased myself with the idea that this very hall had been 
 the scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the morning after 
 his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural poten- 
 tate, 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 game- 
 keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout 
 of countiy 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 
 
 * Bishop Eaile, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes, " hia 
 housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs, and serving-men 
 attendant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of 
 his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true harden of nobility, and is exceed- 
 ingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with 
 his jesses." And Gilpin, in hia 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 
 Btrewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and 
 terriers. On a broad hearth, p;ived with brick, Is y some of the choicest terrien^ 
 hounds, and spaniels. 
 
 15* 
 
846 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 youthful 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 immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon! 
 I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and 
 I felt inclined to visit the orchard and harbor 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 rambhngs 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 house- 
 keeper and butler, that I would take some refreshment : an 
 instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to say, we castle- 
 hunters seldom meet v/ith in modern days. I make no doubt it 
 is a virtue which the present representative of the Lucys inherits 
 from his ancestors ; for Shakspeare, even in his caricature, makes 
 Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as witness his press- 
 ing instances to Falstaff. 
 
 " By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night * * * 1 will not ex- 
 cuse, you ; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted ; there is 
 no excuse shall serve ; you Bhall not be excused * * *. Some pigeons, Davy ; 
 a couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and any pretty little tiny 
 kickshaws, tell William Cook." 
 
 I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind 
 had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and 
 characters connected Avith it, that I seemed to be actually living 
 among them. Every thing brought them as it were before my 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON, 317 
 
 eyes ; and as the door of the dining-room opened, I almost expected 
 to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth hig 
 favorite ditty : 
 
 "'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all. 
 And welcome meny 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. lie is indeed the true en- 
 chanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the 
 imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shak- 
 gpeare I had been walking all day in a complete delusion. I had 
 surveyed the landscape through the prism of poeti-y, which tmged 
 every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been sur- 
 rounded 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 Rosalind and her companion adventuring through 
 the woodlands ; and, above all, had been once more present in 
 spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his contemporaries, from the 
 august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle Master Slender and 
 the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and blessings on 
 the bard Avho has thus gilded the dull realities of life with inno« 
 cent illusions ; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures 
 in my chequered path ; and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely 
 Iiour, 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, 
 
S48 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 and could not but exult in the malediction, wliich has kept his 
 ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor 
 could his name have derived from being mingled in dustj com- 
 panionship Avith the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogi- 
 ums of a titled multitude ? What Avould a crowded corner in' 
 Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this reverend pile, 
 which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mauso- 
 leum ! The solicitude about the gi'ave 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 re- 
 nown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly 
 favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no 
 applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his na- 
 tive place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and 
 honor among his kindred and his early friends. And when the 
 weary heai't and failing head begin to v/arn him that. the evening 
 of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the 
 mother's ai-ms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his 
 childhood. 
 
 Plow 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 re- 
 nown ; that his name should become the boast and gloiy of his 
 native place ; that his ashes should be religiously guarded as its 
 most precious treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on which hia 
 eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day become 
 the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the 
 literary pilgrim of everji nation to his tomb ! 
 
TKAITS OE INDIAN CHARACTER. 
 
 *I ai);>eal to any white man if ever he entereil Logan's cabin hangr)', and he gave him 
 not to eat; if ever he come cold and naked, and he olotlied iiim not." 
 
 Speecu of an Indian- Cuief. 
 
 There is something in the character and habits of the North 
 American savage, taken in connection with the scenery over 
 which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless forests, 
 majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, wonder- 
 fully striking and sublime. He is formed for the wilderness, as 
 the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, simple, and 
 enduring; fitted to grapple with difficulties, and to support pri- 
 vations. There seems but little soil in his heart for the sup- 
 port of the kindly virtues ; and yet, if we Avould 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-rcan 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 pei'iods of colonization, to be doubly wronged by the 
 white men. They have been dispossessed of their hereditary 
 possessions by mercenary and frequently wanton warfare : and 
 their characters have been traduced by bigoted and interested 
 writers. The colonist often treated them like beasts of the forest ; 
 
350 THE SKETCH BOOK 
 
 and tlie author has endeavored to justify him in his outrageSi 
 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 sufficient to sanction the hostilities of 
 both ; and thus the poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted 
 and defamed, not because they were guilty, but because they 
 were ignorant. 
 
 The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appre- 
 ciated 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 convenience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life 
 when his own safety is endangered, and he is sheltered by impu- 
 nity ; 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 eaxly, 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 government, too, has wisely and 
 humanely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and forbearing 
 spirit towards them, and to protect them from fraud and injus- 
 tice.* The current opinion of the Indian character, however, is 
 
 * 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 etrictly 
 eniorced. 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 351 
 
 too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes which infest the 
 frontiers, and hang on the skirts of the settlements. These are 
 too commonly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted and 
 enfeebled by the vices of society, without being benefited by its 
 civilization. That proud independence, which formed the main 
 pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken down, and the whole 
 moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spix-its are humiliated and 
 debased by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed 
 and daunted by the superior knowledge and power of their 
 enhghtened neighbors. Society has advanced upon them like 
 one of those Avithering airs that will sometimes breed desolation 
 over a whole region of fertility. It has enervated their strength, 
 multiplied their diseases, and superinduced 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 existence. It has driven before it the animals of the 
 chase, who fly from the sound of the axe and the smoke of the 
 settlement, and seek refuge in the depths of remoter forests and 
 yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find the Indians on 
 our frontiers to be the mere wrecks and remnants of once powerful 
 tribes, Avho have lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, and 
 sunk into precarious and vagabond existence. Poverty, repining 
 and hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in savage 
 life, corrodes their spirits, and blights every free and noble 
 quality of their natures. They become drunken, indolent, feeble, 
 thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like vagrants about the 
 settlements, among spacious dwellings replete with elaborate 
 comforts, which only render them sensible of the comparative 
 wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury spreads its ample 
 board before their eyes ; but they are excluded from the banquet 
 
353 THE SKETCH BOOK- 
 
 Plenty revels over the fields ; but ihej are starving in the midat 
 of its abundance: the whole wilderness has blossomed into a 
 garden ; but they feel as reptiles that infest it. 
 
 How different was their state while yet the undisputed lords 
 of the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means of gratification 
 within their reach. They saw every one round them sharing the 
 same lot, enduring the same hardships, feeding on the same ali- 
 ments, arrayed in the same rude garments. No roof then rose, 
 but was open to the homeless stranger; no smoke curled among 
 the trees, but he was welcome to sit down by its fire and join the 
 hunter in his repast. " For," says an old historian of New Eng- 
 land, " their life is so void of care, and they are so loving also, 
 that they make use of those things they enjoy as common goods, 
 and are therein so compassionate, that rather than one should 
 starve through want, they would starve all ; thus they pass their 
 time merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content with 
 their own, which some men esteem so meanly of" Such were 
 the Indians whilst in the pride and energy of their primitive 
 natures : they resembled those wild plants, which thrive best in 
 the shades of the forest, but shrink from the hand of cultivation, 
 and perish beneath the influence of the sun. 
 
 In discussing the savage character, writers have been too 
 prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggeration, 
 instead of the candid temper of true philosophy. They have not 
 sufficiently considered the peculiar circumstances in which the 
 Indians have been placed, and the peculiar principles under which 
 they have been educated. No being acts more rigidly from rule 
 than the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated according to 
 Home general maxims early implanted in his mind. The moral 
 laws that govern him are, to be sure, but few ; but then he con- 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 358 
 
 fomis to tliem ail ; — the wliite man abounds in laws of religion- 
 morals, and manners, but how many does he violate ? 
 
 A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their 
 disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness with 
 which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to hos- 
 tilities. The intercourse of the white men with the Indians, 
 however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, and insult- 
 ing. They seldom treat them with that confidence and frankness 
 which are indis2:)ensable to real friendship ; nor is sufficient cau- 
 tion observed not to offend against those feelings of pride or su- 
 perstition, which often prompt the Indian to hostility quicker than 
 mere considerations of interest. The solitary savage feels silently, 
 but acutely. His sensibilities are not diffused over so wide a sur- 
 face as those of the white man ; but they run in steadi'er and 
 deeper channels. His pride, his affections, his superstitions, are 
 all directed towards fewer objects ; but the wounds inflicted on 
 them are proportionably severe, and furnish motives of hostility 
 which we cannot sufiiciently appreciate. Where a community is 
 also limited in number, and forms one great patriarchal family, 
 as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of 
 the Avhole ; and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instantane- 
 ously diffused. One council fire is sufficient for the discussion 
 and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the fighting 
 men and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition combine to 
 inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator awakens their 
 martial ardor, and they are Avrought up to a kind of religious des- 
 peration, by the visions of the prophet and the dreamer. 
 
 An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising 
 ^rom a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in an 
 old record of the early settlement of M.issachusetts. The plan- 
 
3M THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ters of Plymouth had defaced the monument3 of the dead at 
 Passonagessit, and had phmdered the grave of the Sachem's 
 mother of some skins with which it had been decorated. The 
 Indians are remarkable for the reverence which they entertain 
 for the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed 
 generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when by 
 chance they have been traveling in the vicinity; have been known 
 to turn aside from the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accu- 
 rate tradition, have crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, 
 buried perhaps in woods, where the bones of their tribe were 
 anciently deposited ; and there have passed hours in silent medi- 
 tation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, 
 whose mother's tomb had been violated, gathered his men together- 
 and adSressed them in the following beautifully simple and pa- 
 thetic harangue ; a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an 
 affecting instance of filial piety in a savage. 
 
 " When last the glorious light of all the sky was underneath 
 this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom 
 is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, methought 
 I saw a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled ; and 
 trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, ' Behold, my 
 son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, 
 the hands that lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou 
 forget to take revenge of those wild people who have defaced my 
 monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and 
 honorable customs ? See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the 
 common people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth 
 complain, and implores thy aid against this thievish people, who 
 have newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, I shall not 
 vest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHAllACTER. 355 
 
 vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to 
 get some strength, and recollect my spirits that were fled, and de- 
 termined to demand your counsel and assistance." 
 
 I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to 
 show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been attribu- 
 ted to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and gener- 
 ous motives, which our inattention to Indian character and customs 
 prevents our properly appreciating. 
 
 Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their 
 barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in policy 
 and partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes called 
 nations, were never so formidable in their numbers, but that the 
 loss of several warriors was sensibly felt ; this was particularly 
 the case Avhen they had been frequently engaged in warfare ; and 
 many an instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, that 
 had long been formidable to its neighbors, has been broken up 
 and driven away, by the capture and massacre of its principal 
 fighting men. There was a strong temptation, therefore, to the 
 victor to be merciless ; not so much to gratify any cruel revenge, 
 as to provide for future security. The Indians had also the 
 superstitious belief, frequent among barbarous nations, and preva- 
 lent also among the ancients, that the manes of their friends who 
 had fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of the captives. 
 The prisoners, however, who are not thus sacrificed, are adopted 
 into their families in the place of the slain, and are treated with 
 the confidence and affection of relatives an^ friends ; nay, so hos- 
 pitable and tender is their entertainment, that when the alterna- 
 tive is offered them, they will often prefer to remain Avith their 
 adopted brethren, rather than return to the home and the friends 
 of their youth. 
 
356 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 The cruelty of the Indians towards tteir prisoners has been 
 heighteived since the colonization of the whites. What was for- 
 merly a compliance with policy and superstition, has been exas- 
 perated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot but be 
 sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient 
 dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the gradual destroy- 
 ers of their race. They go forth to battle, smarting with injuries 
 and indignities which they have individually suifered, and they 
 are driven to madness and despair by the wide-spreading desola- 
 tion, and the overwhelming ruin of European v/arfare. The 
 M'hites have too frequently set them an example of violence, by 
 burning their villages, and laying waste their slender means of 
 subsistence : and yet they wonder that savages do not show mod- 
 eration and magnanimity towards those who have left them 
 nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. 
 
 We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacherous, 
 because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to open 
 force ; but in this they are fully justified by their rude code of 
 honor. They are early taught that stratagem is praiseworthy ; the 
 bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take 
 every advantage of his foe : he triumphs in the superior craft and 
 sagacity by which he has been enabled to surprise and destroy an 
 enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone to subtilty than open 
 valor, owing to his physical weakness in comparison with other 
 animals. They are endowed with natural weapons of defence : 
 with horns, with tusksy with hoofs, and talons ; but man has tc 
 depend on his superior sagacity. In all his encounters with these, 
 his proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; and when he per- 
 versely turns his hostility against his fellow-man, he at first conti- 
 nues the same subtle mode of warfare. 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 357 
 
 The natural principle of war is to do the most haiTa to our 
 enemy with the least harm to om-selves ; and this of course is to 
 be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous courage which induces 
 us to despise the suggestions of prudence, and to rush in the face 
 of certain danger, is the offspring of society, and produced by 
 education. It is honorable, because it is in fact the triumph of 
 lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over 
 those yearnings after personal ease and security, which society 
 has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the fear 
 of shame ; and thus the dread of real evil is overcome by the 
 superior dread of an evil which exists but in the imagination. It 
 lias been cherished and stimulated also by various means. It 
 has been the theme of spirit-stiri-ing song and chivakous story. 
 The poet and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splen- 
 dors of fiction ; and even the historian has forgotten the sober 
 gravity of narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhap- 
 sody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been 
 its reward : monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and 
 opulence its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation's 
 gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially excited, courage hag 
 risen to an extraordinary and factitious degree of heroism : and, 
 arrjvj'ed in all the glorious "pomp and circums'tance of war," 
 this turbulent quality has even been able to eclipse many of those 
 quiet, but invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble the humau 
 character, and swell the tide of human happiness. 
 
 But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of danger 
 and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibition of it. 
 He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. • Peril and 
 adventure are congenial- to his nature ; or rather seem necessary 
 to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to his existence, 
 
358 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of warfare is by am 
 bush and surprisal, lie is always prepared for figlit, and lives with 
 his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in fearful single- 
 ness throrgh the solitudes of ocean ; — as the bird mingles among 
 clouds and storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, across the 
 pathless fields of air ; — so the Indian holds his course, silent, 
 solitary, but undaunted, through the boundless bosom of the wilder- 
 ness. His expeditions may vie in distance and danger with the 
 pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade of the knight-errant. 
 He traverses vast forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely sick- 
 ness, of lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy lakes, those 
 great inland seas, are no obstacles to his wanderings : in his light 
 canoe of bark he sports, like a feather, on their waves, and darts, 
 with the swiftness of an arrow, down the roaring rapids of the 
 rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil 
 and peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers 
 of the chase : he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the 
 panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps among the thunders of the 
 cataract. 
 
 No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian in 
 his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which he sus- 
 tains its crudest affliction. Indeed we here behold him rising 
 superior to the white man, in consequence of his peculiar educa- 
 tion. The latter rushes to glorious death at the cannon's mouth ; 
 the former calmly contemplates its approach, and triumphantly 
 endures it, amidst the varied toi'ments of surrounding fbes and 
 the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in taunting 
 his persecutors, and provoking their ingenuity of torture ; and as 
 the devouring fiames prey on his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks 
 from the sinews, he I'aises his last song of triumph, breathing the 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 359 
 
 defiance of an unconquered heart, and invoking tlie spirits of Ms 
 fathers to witness that he dies without a groan. 
 
 Notwithstanding the obloquy with wliicli the early historians 
 have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate natives, 
 some bright gleams occasionally break through, which throw a 
 degree of melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are occa- 
 sionally to be met with in the rude annals of the eastern provinces, 
 which, though recorded with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, 
 yet speak for themselves ; and will be dwelt on with applause and 
 sympathy, when prejudice shall have passed away. 
 
 In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New 
 England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried into 
 the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the 
 cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In one place we 
 read of the surprisal of an Indian fort in the night, when the 
 wigwams were wrapped in flames, and the miserable inhabitants 
 shot down and slain in attempting to escape, " all being dispatched 
 and ended in the course of an hour." After a series of similar 
 transactions, "our soldiers," as the historian piously observes, 
 " being resolved by God's assistance to make a final destruction 
 of them," the unhappy savages being hunted from their homes 
 and fortresses, and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty, but gal- 
 lant band, the sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, with their 
 wives and children, took refuge in a swamp. 
 
 Bui-ning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair ; 
 with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe, 
 and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominjf of their defeat, 
 they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, 
 and preferred death to submission. 
 
 As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dismal 
 
360 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, 
 their enemy " plied them with shot all the time, by -which means 
 many Avere killed and buried in the mire." In the darkness and 
 fog that preceded the dawn of day some few broke through the 
 besiegers and escaped into the woods : " the rest were left to the 
 conquerors, of wliich many were killed in the swamp, like sullen 
 dogs Avho would rather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit 
 still and be shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore for 
 mercy. When the day broke upon this handful of forlorn but 
 dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, 
 " saw several heaps of them sitting close together, upon whom 
 they discharged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol bul- 
 lets at a time, putting the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs^ 
 within a few yards of them ; so as, besides those that were found 
 dead, many more Avere killed and sunk into the mire, and never 
 were minded more by friend or foe." 
 
 Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, without admir- 
 ing the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness of 
 spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught heroes, 
 and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of human nature? 
 When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, they found the 
 senators clothe.d in their robes, and seated with stern tranquillity 
 in their curule chairs ; in this manner they suffered death without 
 resistance or even supplication. Such conduct was, in them, 
 applauded as noble and magnanimous ; in the hapless Indian it 
 was reviled as obstinate and sullen. How truly are we the 
 dupes of sho-vt and circumstance ! How diff'erent is virtue, 
 clothed in purple and enthroned in state, from virtue, naked and 
 destitute, and perishing obscurely in a wilderness ! 
 
 But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The east- 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER, 3G1 
 
 ern tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests that sheltered 
 them have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of them 
 in the thickly-settled states of New England, excepting here and 
 there the Indian name of a village or a stream. And such must, 
 sooner or later, be the fate of those other tribes Avhich skirt the 
 frontiers, and have occasionally been inveigled from their forests 
 to mingle in the wars of white men. In a little while, and they 
 will go the way that their brethren have gone before. The fcAV 
 hordes which still linger about the shores of Huron and Superior, 
 and the tributary streams of the Mississippi, will share the fate 
 of those tribes that once spread over Massachusetts and Connec- 
 ticut, and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that 
 gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the Susque- 
 lianna; and of those various nations that flourished about the 
 Potomac and the Rappahannock, and that peopled the forests of 
 the vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like a vapor 
 from the face of the earth ; their very history will be lost in for- 
 getfulness ; and " the places that now know them will know them 
 no more for ever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of 
 them should survive, it may be in the roaiantic dreams of the 
 poet, to people in imagination his glades and groves, like the 
 fauns and satyi-s and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he 
 venture upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness ; 
 should he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled, driven 
 from their native abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers, 
 hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and sent down with vio- 
 lence and butchery to the grave, posterity will eitner turn with 
 horror and incredulity from the tale, or blush with indignation at 
 the inhumanity of their forefathers; — " We are driven back," said 
 
 16 
 
362 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 an old warrior, " until we can retreat no farther — our liatcheta 
 are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are nearly extin- 
 guisbed — a little longer and tbe white man will cease to persecute 
 us — for we shall cease to exist \" 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 
 
 AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 
 
 As monumental bronze unchanged his look : 
 A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook; 
 Train'd from bis tree-rock'd cradle to his bict 
 The fierce extremes of good and HI to brook 
 Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
 A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 Ii is to be regretted tliat those early writers, who treated of tbo 
 diicovery and settlement of America, have not given us more 
 particular and candid accounts of the remarkable characters that 
 flourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have 
 reached us are full of peculiarity and interest ; they furnish us 
 with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in 
 a comparatively primitive state, and what he owes to civilization. 
 There is something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon 
 these wild and unexplored tracts of human nature ; in witnessing, 
 as it Avere, the native growth of moral sentiment, and perceiving 
 those generous and romantic qualities which have been artifi- 
 cially cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hai'dihood 
 and ruds magnificence. 
 
 In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost the 
 
'd(yi THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 existence, of man depends so much upon tlie opinion of liis fel 
 low-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and 
 peculiar traits of native character are refined away, or soft- 
 ened down by the leveling influence of what is termed good- 
 breeding ; and he practises so many petty deceptions, and affects 
 60 many generous sentiments, for the purposes of popularity, that 
 it is difiicult to distinguish his real from his artificial character. 
 The Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints and refine- 
 ments of polished life, and, in a great degree, a solitary and inde- 
 pendent being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dictates 
 of his judgment ; and thus the attributes of his nature, being freely 
 indulged, grow singly great and striking. Society is like a lawn, 
 where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, 
 and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet 
 surface; he, however, who would study natui'e in its wildness 
 and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, 
 must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. 
 
 These reflections arose on casually looking through a volume 
 of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great bitter- 
 ness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the settlers 
 of New England. It is painful to perceive, even from these par- 
 tial narratives, how the footsteps of civilization may be traced in 
 the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the colonists were moved 
 to hostility by the lust of conquest ; how merciless and extermi- 
 nating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, 
 how many intellectual beings were hunted from the earth, how 
 many brave and noble hearts, of nature's sterling coinage, were 
 broken down and trampled in the dust ! 
 
 Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian 
 warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 365 
 
 and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a number 
 of contemporary Sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the 
 Narragansets, the Wampauoags, and the other eastern tribes, 
 at the time of the first settlement of New England ; a band of 
 native untaught heroes, Avho made the most generous struggle of 
 which human natui'e is capable ; lighting to the last gasp in the 
 cause of their country, without a hope of victory or a thought of 
 renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, and fit subjects for local 
 story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic 
 traces on the page of history, but stalk, like gigantic shadows, in 
 the dim twilight of tradition.* 
 
 When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by 
 their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New 
 World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation 
 was to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in num- 
 ber, and that number rapidly perishing away thi'ougli sickness 
 and hardships ; surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage 
 tribes ; exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter, and the 
 vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate ; their minds were filled 
 with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved them from sink- 
 ing into despondency but the strong excitement of religious 
 enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by Mas- 
 sasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful chief, who 
 reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of taking advan- 
 tage of the scanty number of the strangers, and expelling them 
 from his territories, into which they had intruded, he seemed at 
 
 * While correcting the proof sheets of this article, the autlnr is informed 
 that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished an heroic poem on tho 
 9tory of Philip of Pokanoket. 
 
360 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 once to conceive for tlaem a generous friendsliip, and. extended 
 towards them the rites of primitive hospitality. He came early 
 in the spring to their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by 
 a mere handful of followers , entered into a solemn league of 
 peace and amity ; sold them a portion of the soil, and promised to 
 secure for them the good-will of his savage allies. Wliatever may 
 be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good 
 faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. He continued a 
 firm and magnanimous friend of the white men ; suffering them 
 to extend their possessions, and to strengthen themselves in tho 
 land ; and betraying no jealousy of their increasing power and 
 prospei'ity. Shortly before his death he came once more to New 
 Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the purpose of renewing 
 the covenant of peace, and of securing it to his posterity. 
 
 At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion of his 
 forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries ; and 
 stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw off his 
 people from their ancient faith ; but, finding the English obsti- 
 nately opposed to any such condition, he mildly relinquished the 
 demand. Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two 
 sons, Alexander and Philip (as they had been named by the 
 English), to the residence of a principal settler, recommending 
 mutual kindness and confidence ; and entreating that the same 
 love and amity which had existed between the white men and 
 himself might be continued afterwards with his children. The 
 good old Sachem died in peace, and was happily gathered to his 
 fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe ; his children remained 
 behind to experience the ingratitude of white men. 
 
 His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a 
 quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his heredi- 
 
 « 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 367 
 
 ttuy rights and dignity. The inti-usive policy and dictatorial cod- 
 duct of tiie strangers excited his indignation ; and he beheld with 
 uneasiness tlieir extemiinating wars with the neighboring tribes. 
 He was doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of 
 plotting with the Nari-agansets to rise against the English and 
 drive them from the land. It is impossible to say whether this 
 accusation was warranted by facts, or was grounded on mere sus- 
 picions. It is evident, however, by the violent and overbearing 
 measures of the settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel 
 conscious of the rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsh 
 and inconsiderate in their treatment of the natives. They dis- 
 patched an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring 
 Lini before their courts. He was traced to his woodland haunts, 
 and surprised at a hunting house, where he was reposing with a 
 band of his followers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The 
 suddenness of his arrest, and the outi-age offered to his sovereign 
 dignity, so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud savage, 
 as to throw him into a raging fever. He was permitted to return 
 home, on condition of sending his son as a pledge for his re-ap- 
 pearance ; but the blow he had received was fatal, and before he 
 reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded 
 spirit. 
 
 The successor of Alexander was Metamocet, or King Philip, 
 as he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty spirit and 
 ambitious temper. These, together with his well known energy 
 and enterprise, had rendered him an object of great jealousy and 
 apprehension, and he was accused of having always cherished a 
 secret and implacable hostility towards the whites. Such may 
 very probably, and very naturally, have been the case. lie con- 
 sidered them as originally but mere intruders into the country, 
 
dm THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 wlio had presumed upon indulgence, and were extending aninflu 
 encc baneful to savage life. He saw the Avhole race of his 
 countrymen melting before them from the face of the earth ; their 
 territories slipping from their hands, and their tribes becoming 
 feeble, scattered, and dependent. It may be said that the soil 
 was originally purchased by the settlers ; but who does not know 
 the nature of Indian purchases, in the early periods of coloniza- 
 tion? The Europeans always made thrifty bargains through 
 theu' superior adroitness in traffic ; and they gained vast acces- 
 sions of territory by easily provoked hostilities. An uncultivated 
 savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements of law, by 
 winch an injury may be gradually and legally inflicted. Leading 
 facts are all by which he judges ; and it was enough for PhUip 
 to know that before the intrusion of the Europeans his country- 
 men were lords of the soil, and that now they were becoming 
 vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 
 
 But whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility, 
 and his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, he 
 suppressed them for the present, renewed the contract with the 
 settlers, and resided peaceably for many many years at Poka- 
 noket, or, as it was called by the English, Mount Hope,* the 
 ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which 
 were at first but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and 
 substance ; and he was at length charged with attempting to insti- 
 gate the various Eastern tribes to rise at once, and, by a simul- 
 taneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is 
 difficult at this distant period to assign the proper credit due to 
 these early accusations against the Indians. There was a prone- 
 ness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence, on the pari 
 
 • Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOXET. 300 
 
 of tlie whites, that gave weight and importance to every idle tale. 
 Informers uhounded where talebearing met with countenance 
 and reward ; and the sword was readily unsheathed when its suc- 
 cess was certain, and it carved out empire. 
 
 The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the 
 accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose natural 
 cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he 
 had received among the settlers. He changed his faith and his 
 allegiance two or three times, with a facility that evinced the 
 looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as 
 Philip's confidential secretary and counselor, and had enjoyed 
 his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the clouds of 
 adversity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his ser- 
 vice and went over to the whites ; and, in order to gain their 
 favor, charged his former benefactor with plotting against their 
 safety. A rigorous investigation took place. Philip and several 
 of his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing Avas proved 
 against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too far to 
 retract ; they had previously determined that Philip was a dan- 
 gerous neighbor ; they had publicly evinced their distrust ; and 
 had done enough to insure his hostility ; according, therefore, to 
 the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruction had 
 become necessary to their security. Sausaman, the treacherous 
 infoi'mer, was shortly afterwards found dead, in a pond, having 
 fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one 
 of whom was a friend and counselor of Philip, were appre- 
 hended and tried, and, on the testimony of one very questionable 
 witness, were condemned and executed as murderers. 
 
 This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious punishment 
 
 of his friend, outraged tlie pride and exasperated the passions of 
 
 16* 
 
370 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet awa- 
 kened him to the gathering storm, and he determined to trust 
 himself no longer in the power of the white men. The fate of 
 his insulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled in his mind ; 
 and he had a further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, 
 a great Sachem of the Narragansets, who, after manfully facing 
 his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself 
 from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, 
 had been perfidiously dispatched at their instigation. Philip, 
 therefore, gathered his fighting men about him; persuaded all 
 strangers that he could, to join his cause ; sent the women and 
 children to the ISFaiTagansets for safety ; and wherever he ap- 
 peared, was continually surrounded by armed warriors. 
 
 TVHien the tAvo parties were thus in a state of distrust and irri- 
 tation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. The 
 Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous, and 
 committed various petty depredations. In one of their maraud- 
 ings a warrior Avas fired on and killed by a settler. This was the 
 signal for open hostilities ; the Indians pressed to revenge the 
 death of their comrade, and the alarm of war resounded through 
 the Plymouth colony. 
 
 In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times 
 we meet with many indications of the diseased state of the public 
 mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, and the wildness of 
 their situation, among trackless forests and savage tribes, had dis- 
 posed the colonists to superstitious fencies, and had filled their 
 imaginations Avith the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spec- 
 ti'ology. They were much given also to a belief in omens. The 
 troubles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, 
 by a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great and 
 
PHILIP OF POKAXOKET. 371 
 
 public calamities. The perfect form of an Indian bow appeared 
 ill the air at New Piymouth, which Avas looked upon by the 
 inhabitants as a " prodigious apparition." At Hadley, i>forthamp- 
 ton, and other towns in their neigliborhood, " was heard the re- 
 port of a great piece of ordnance, Avith a shaking of the earth 
 and a considerable echo."* Others were alarmed on a still sun- 
 shiny morning by the discharge of guns and muskets ; bullets 
 seemed to Avhistle past them, and the noise of drums resounded in 
 the air, seeming to pass away to the westward ; others fancied 
 that they heard the galloping of horses over their heads ; and cer- 
 tain monstrous bii'ths, which took place about the time, filled the 
 superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. Many of 
 these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to natural phe- 
 nomena : to the northern lights which occur vividly in those lati- 
 tudes ; the meteors which explode in the air ; the casual rushing 
 of a blast through the top branches of the forest ; the crash of 
 fallen trees or disrupted rocks ; and to those other uncouth sounds 
 and echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely 
 amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These may 
 have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have been ex- 
 aggerated by the love for the marvelous, and listened to with that 
 avidity with which we' devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. 
 The universal currency of these superstitious- fancies, and the 
 grave record made of them by one of the learned men of the day, 
 are strongly characteristic of the times. 
 
 The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often 
 distinguishes the warfare betwaen civilized men and savages. On 
 the part of the whites it was conducted with superior skill ani 
 
 * The Rev. Increase Mather's HistoiT. - 
 
3T3 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 success ; but witli a wastefulness of the blood, and a disregard of 
 the natural rights of their antagonists : on the part of the Indians 
 it was waged with the desperation of men fearless of death, and 
 who had nothing to expect from peace, but humiliation, depend- 
 ence, and decay. 
 
 The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy 
 clergyman of the time ; who dwells with horror and uidignation on 
 every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, whilst he 
 mentions with applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the 
 whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a traitor ; without 
 considering that he was a true born prince, gallantly fighting at 
 the head of his subjects to avenge the wrongs of his family; to 
 retrieve the tottering power of his line ; and to deliver his native 
 land from the oppression of usurping strangers. 
 
 Tlie project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had 
 really been formed, was Avorthy of a capacious mind, and, had it 
 not been prematurely discovered, might have been overwhelming 
 in its consequences. The war that actually broke out was but a 
 war of detail, a mere succession of casual exploits and uncon- 
 nected enterprises. Still it sets forth the military genius and 
 daring prowess of Philip ; and wherever, in the prejudiced and 
 passionate narrations that have been given of it, we can arrive at 
 simple fiicts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind, a fertility 
 of expedients, a contempt of suffering and hardship, and an uncon- 
 querable resolution, that command our sympathy and applause. 
 
 Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw 
 himself into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that 
 skirted the settlements, and were almost impervious to any thing 
 but a wild beast, or an Indian. Here he gathered together his 
 forces, like the storm accumulating its stores of mischief in the 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 373 
 
 bosom of the thunder cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a 
 time and place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the 
 villages. There were now and then indications of these impend- 
 ing ravages, that filled the minds of the colonists with awe and 
 apprehension. The report of a distant gun would perhaps be 
 heard from the solitary woodland, where there was known to be 
 no Avhite man ; the cattle which had been wandering in the woods 
 would sometimes return home wounded ; or an Indian or two 
 would be seen lurking about the skirts of the forests, and sud- 
 denly disappearing ; as the lightning will sometimes be seen 
 playing silently about the edge of the cloud that is brewing up 
 the tempest. 
 
 Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by ihe set- 
 tlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from their 
 toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would be lost to all search 
 or inquiry, until he again emerged at some far distant quarter, 
 laying the country desolate. Among his strong-holds, were the 
 great swamps or morasses, which extend in some parts of New 
 England ; composed of loose bogs of deep black mud ; perplexed 
 with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and mouldering 
 trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The 
 uncertain footing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds, 
 rendered them almost impracticable to the white man, though the 
 Indian could thrid their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. 
 Into one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip 
 once driven with a band of his followers. The English did not 
 dare to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark and fright- 
 ful recesses, where they might perish in fens and miry pits, or be 
 shot down by lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance 
 to tltc Neck, and began to build a fort, with the thought of starv- 
 
374 - THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ing out the foe ; but Philip and his Tvarrioi-s wafted themselves 
 on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of night, leaving the 
 women and children behind; and escaped away to the westwai-d, 
 kindling the flames of war among the tribes of Massachusetts 
 and the Nipmuck country, and threatening the colony of Connec- 
 ticut. 
 
 In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehension. 
 The mystery m which he was enveloped exaggerated his real 
 terrors. He -svas an evil that walked in darkness ; whose coming 
 none could foresee, and against which none laiew when to be on 
 the alert. The whole country abounded with rumors and alarms. 
 Philip seemed almost possessed of ubicpiity ; for, m whatever part 
 of the widely-extended frontier an irruption from the forest took 
 place, Philip was said to be its leader. Many superstitious notions 
 also were circulated concerning him. He Avas said to deal in ne- 
 cromancy, and to be attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, 
 whom he consulted, and who assisted him by her charms and incan 
 tations. This indeed was frequently the case with Indian chiefs , 
 either through their own credulity, or to act upon that of theii 
 followers : and the influence of the prophet and the dreamer over 
 Indian superstition has been fully evidenced in recent instances 
 of savage warfare. 
 
 At the time that Philip eliected his escape from Pocasset, his 
 fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had been 
 thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the whole of 
 his resources. In this time of adversity he found a faithful friend 
 in Canonchet, chief Sachem of all the Narragansets. He was 
 the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great Sachem, who, as 
 already mentioned, after an honorable acquittal of the charge of 
 conspiracy, had been privately put to death at the perfidious Jnsti- 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 375 
 
 gallons of the settlers. " Pie -svas tlie heir," says the old chroni- 
 cler, "of all his father's pride and insolence, as well as of his 
 malice towards the English ;" — he certainly was the heir of his 
 insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his murder. 
 Though he had forborne to talce an active part in this hopeless 
 war, yet he received Philip and his broken forces w'ith ojien 
 arms ; and gave them the most generous countenance and support. 
 This at once dx-ew upon him the hostility of the English ; and 
 it was determined to strike a signal blow that should involve both 
 the Sachems in one common ruin. A great force was,- therefore, 
 gathered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecti- 
 cut, and was sent into the Narraganset countiy in the depth of 
 winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, could be tra- 
 versed with comparative facihty, and would no longer afford dark 
 and impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians. 
 
 Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the greater 
 part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, the women 
 and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress ; Avhere he and 
 Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their forces. This 
 fortress, deemed by the Indians impregnable, was situated upon a 
 rising mound or kind of island, of five or six acres, in the midst 
 of a swamp ; it was constructed with a degree of judgment and 
 skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed in Indian fortifi- 
 cation, and indicative of the martial genius of these two chief- 
 tains. 
 
 Guided by a renegade Indian, the English penetrated, through 
 December snows, to this strong-hold, and came upon the garrison 
 by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. The assail- 
 ants were repulsed in their first attack, and several of their brav- 
 est officers were shot down in the act of storminor the fortress 
 
876 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Bword in hand. The assault ^ras renewed witli greater success. 
 A lodgment was effected. The Indians were driven from one 
 post to another. Thej disputed their ground inch by inch, fight- 
 ing with the fury of despair. Most of their veterans were cut to 
 pieces ; and after a long and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchct, 
 ■with a handful of surviving warriors, retreated from the fort, and 
 took refuge in the thickets of the surrounding forest. 
 
 The victors set fii-e to the wigwams and the fort ; the whole 
 was soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, the women and the 
 children perished in the flames. This last outrage overcame even 
 the stoicism of the savage. The neighboring woods resounded 
 with the yeUs of rage and despair, uttered by the fugitive war- 
 riors, as they beheld the destruction of their dwellings, and heai'd 
 the agonizing cries of their wives and offspring. "The burning 
 of the wigwams," says a contemporary writer, " the shrieks and 
 cries of the women and children, and the yelling of the warriors, 
 exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, so that it greatly 
 moved some of the soldiers." The same writer cautiously adds, 
 "they were in much doubt then, and afterwards seriously inquired, 
 whether burning their enemies alive could be consistent with hu- 
 manity, and the benevolent principles of the Gospel."* 
 
 The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of 
 particular mention : the last scene of his life is one of the noblest 
 instances on record of Indian magnanimity. 
 
 Broken down in his power and resources by this signal defeat, 
 yet faithful to his ally, and to the hapless cause which he had 
 espoused, he rejected all overtures of ^eaCe, offered on condition 
 of betraying Plulip and his followers, and declared that "he 
 
 • MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 377 
 
 would figlit it out to the last man, rather than become a servant 
 to the English." His home being destroyed ; his country har- 
 assed and laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors ; he was 
 obliged to wander away to the banks of the Connecticut ; where 
 he formed a rallying point to the whole body of western Indians, 
 and laid waste several of the English settlements. 
 
 Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedition, 
 with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the 
 ricinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed corn to plant for 
 the sustenance of his troops. Tliis little band of adventuiers 
 had passed safely through the Pequod country, and were in the 
 centre of the Narraganset, resting at some wigwams near Pau- 
 tucket river, when an alarm was given of an approaching enemy. 
 — Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet dis- 
 patched two of them to the top of a neighboring hiU, to bring 
 intelligence of the foe. 
 
 Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and 
 Lidians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past 
 their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger. 
 Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. He then 
 sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and 
 affright, told him that the whole British army Avas at hand. 
 Canonchet saw there was no choice but immediate flight. He 
 attempted to escape round the hill, but was perceived and hotly 
 pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest of the 
 Knglish. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he 
 tlirew off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and belt of 
 peag, by which his enemies knew him to be Canonchet, and 
 redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 
 
 At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped upon 
 
378 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This accident so 
 struck him with despair^ that, as he afterwards confessed, "hia 
 heart and his bowels turned within him, and he became like a 
 rotten stick, void of strengtli." 
 
 To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized by a 
 Pequod Indian within a short distance of the i*iver, he made no 
 resistance, though a man of great vigor of body and boldness of 
 heart. But on being made prisoner the whole pride of his Spirit 
 arose Avithin him ; and from that moment, we find, in the anec- 
 dotes given by his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of ele- 
 vated and prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of the 
 English who first came up with him, and who had not attained 
 his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted warrioi-, looking with 
 lofty contempt upon his youthful countenance, replied, " You are 
 a child — you cannot understand matters of war — let your brother 
 or your chief come — him will I answer." 
 
 Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on con- 
 dition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he rejected 
 them with disdain, and refused to send any proposals of the kind 
 to the great body of his subjects ; saying, that he knew none of 
 them would comply. Being reproached with his breach of faith 
 towards the whites ; his boast that he would not deliver up a 
 Wampanoag nor the paring of a Wampanoag's nail; and hi3 
 threat that he would burn the English alive in their houses ; he 
 disdained to justify himself, haughtily answering that others were 
 as forward for the war as himself, and " he desired to hear no 
 more thereof." 
 
 So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his cause 
 and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the generous 
 and the brave ; but Canonchet was an Indian ; a being towards 
 
iHILIP OF POKANOKET. 379 
 
 whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no com- 
 passion — he Avas condemned to die. The last words of his that 
 are recorded, ai-e worthy the. greatness of his soul. When sen- 
 tence of death was passed upon him, he observed " that he hked 
 it well, for he should die before his heart was soft, or he had 
 spoken any thing unworthy of himself." His enemies gave him 
 the death of a soldier, for he was shot at Stoningham, by three 
 young Sachems of his own rank. 
 
 The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death of 
 Camonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. He 
 made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by stirring up 
 the Mohawks to take arms ; but though possessed of the native 
 talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the superior 
 arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror of their warlike 
 skill began to subdue the resolution of the neighboring tribes. 
 The unfortunate chieftain savv^ liimself daily stripped of power, 
 and his ranks rapidly thinning around him. Some were suborned 
 by the whites ; others fell victims to hunger and fatigue, and to 
 the frequent attacks by which they were harassed. His stores 
 were all captured ; his chosen friends were swept away from 
 before his eyes ; his uncle was shot down by his side ; his sister 
 was carried into captivity ; and in one of liis narrow escapes he 
 was compelled to leave his beloved wife and only son to the 
 mercy of the enemy. "His ruin," says the historian, "being 
 thus gradually carried on, his misery was not prevented, but aug- 
 mented thereby ; being himself made acquainted with the sense 
 and experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of 
 friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family rela- 
 tions, and being stripped of aU outward comforts, before his own 
 life should be taken away" 
 
380 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers 
 began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they might 
 purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery a number of 
 his faithful adherents, the subjects of "Wetamoe, an Indian prm- 
 cess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confederate of Philip, 
 •were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. Wetamoe wfis 
 among them at the time, and attempted to make her escape by 
 crossing a neighboring river : either exhausted by swimming, or 
 starved with cold and hunger, she was found dead and naked 
 near the water side. But persecution ceased not at the grave. 
 Even death, the refuge of the wretched, where the wicked com 
 monly cease from troubling, was no protection to this outcast 
 female, "whose great crime was affectionate fidelity to her kins- 
 man and her friend. Her corpse was the object of unmanly and 
 dastardly vengeance ; the head was severed from the body and 
 set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton, to the view of 
 her captive subjects. They immediately recognized the features 
 of their unfortunate queen, and were so affected at tliis barbarous 
 spectacle, that we are told they broke forth into the " most horrid 
 and diabolical lamentations." 
 
 However Philip had borne up against the complicated mise- 
 ries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of his 
 followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despon- 
 dency. It is said that " he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had 
 success in any of his designs." The spring of hope was broken — 
 the ardor of enterprise was extinguished — he looked around, and 
 all was danger and darkness ; there was no eye to pity, nor any 
 arm that could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of follow- 
 ers, who still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy 
 Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 381 
 
 dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked about, like a spectre-, 
 among the scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of 
 home, of family and friend. There needs no better picture of his 
 destitute and piteous situation, than that furnished by the homely 
 pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of 
 the reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. 
 " Philip," he says, " like a savage wild beast, having been hunted 
 by the English forces through the woods, above a. hundred miles 
 backward and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon 
 Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, 
 into a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till the 
 messengers of death came by divine permission to execute ven- 
 geance upon him." 
 
 Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen 
 gi-andeur gathers I'ound his memory. "We picture him to our- 
 selves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence 
 over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from 
 the wildness and dreariness of his lurking place. Defeated, but 
 not dismayed — crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — he 
 seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience 
 a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Lit- 
 tle minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune ; but great minds 
 rise above it. The very idea of submission awakened the fury 
 of Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers, who pro- 
 posed an expedient of peace. The brother of the victim made 
 his escape, and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. 
 A body of white men and Indians were immediately dispatched 
 to the swamp where Philip lay ci'ouched, glaring with fury and 
 despair. Before he was aware of their approach, they had begun 
 to fforround him. In a httle while he saw five of his trustiest fol- 
 
asa THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 lowers laid dead at Lis feet ; all resistance was vain ; he rushed 
 forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt to escape, but 
 was shot through the heart by a renegado Indian of his own 
 nation. 
 
 Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate King 
 Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonored when 
 dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes 
 furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of 
 amiable and lofty character sufficient to awaken sympathy for his 
 fate, and respect for his memory. We find that, amidst all the 
 harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, he 
 was alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal ten 
 derness, and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity 
 of his " beloved wife and only son " are mentioned with exulta- 
 tion as causing him poignant misery : the death of any near friend 
 is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities ; but 
 the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose 
 affections he had confided, is said to have desolated his heai't, and 
 to have bereaved him of all further comfort. He was a patriot 
 attached to his native soil — a prince true to his subjects, and in- 
 dignant of their wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adver- 
 sity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily 
 sufiering, and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. 
 Proud of heart, and with an untamable love of natural liberty, 
 he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the forests or in tlie 
 dismal and famished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather tlmn 
 bow his haughty s-pmt to submission, and live dependent and 
 despised in the ease and luxury of the settlements. With heniic 
 qualities and bold achievements that would have gi*aced a civilized 
 warrior, and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the 
 
PHILIP OF POZANOKET. 3aa 
 
 historian ; he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, 
 and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and 
 tempest — without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly 
 hand to record his stragale. 
 
JOHN BULL. 
 
 An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
 Of an old worshipful gentleman who Iiad a great estate, 
 That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate. 
 And an old porter to relieve the poor at liis gate. 
 AViih an old study fiU'd full of learned old books, 
 With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks. 
 With an old buttery hatch worn quite oil" the hooks. 
 And an old kitchen that mamtained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
 Like an old courtier, etc. 
 
 Old ?o>jg. 
 
 There is no species of humor in which the English more excel 
 thjin that which consists in caricaturing and giving ludicrous ap 
 pellations, or nicknames. In this way they have whimsically 
 designated, not merely individuals, but nations ; and, in their fond- 
 ness for pushing a joke, they have not spared even themselves. 
 One would think (hat, in personifying itself, a nation would be apt 
 to picture something grand, heroic, and imposing ; but it is cha 
 racteristic of the peculiar humor of the English, and of their love 
 for what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they have embodied 
 their national oddities m the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fel- 
 low, with a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, 
 and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight 
 in exhibiting their most private foibles in a laughable point of 
 view; and have been so successful in their delineations, that there 
 
 17 
 
336 ■ THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 is scarcely a being in actual existence more absolutely present to 
 the public mind than that eccentric personage, John Bull. 
 
 Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus 
 drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the nation ; and thus 
 to give reality to what at first may have been painted in a great 
 measure from the imagination. Men are apt to acquire peculiari- 
 ties that are continually ascribed to them. The common orders 
 of English seem wonderfully captivated with the ieaui deal whiLh 
 they have formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the 
 broad caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. Unluckily, 
 they sometimes make their boasted BuU-ism an apology for their 
 prejudice or grossness ; and this I have especially noticed among 
 those tx'uly homebred and genuine sons of the soil who have 
 never migrated beyond the sound of BoAv-bells. If one of these 
 should be a little uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent 
 truths, he confesses that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks 
 his mind. If he now and then flies into an unreasonable burst 
 of passion about trifles, he observes, that John Bull is a choleric 
 old blade, but then his passion is over in a moment, and he bears 
 no malice, If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insensi- 
 bility to foreign refinements, he thanks heaven for his ignorance — ■ 
 he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and nick- 
 nacks. His very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay 
 extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under the plea of muni- 
 ficence — for John is always more generous than wise. 
 
 Thus, under tlie name of John Bull, he will contrive to argue 
 every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict liiraself of being 
 the hoiiestest fellow in existence. 
 
 However little, therefore, the character may have suited in 
 '.he first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, or 
 
 i 
 
JOHN BULL. 381 
 
 rather tliey have adapted themselves to each other ; and a stran- 
 ger who wishes to study EngUsh pecuHarities, may gather much 
 valuable information from the innumerable portraits of John 
 Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the caricature-shops. Still, 
 however, he is one of those fertile humorists, that are continually 
 throwing out new porti'aits, and presenting different aspects from 
 differents points of view ; and, often as he has been described, I 
 cannot resist the temptation to give a slight sketch of him, such 
 as he has met my eye. 
 
 John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter-of- 
 fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich prose. 
 There is little of romance in his nature, but ix vast deal of strong 
 natural feeling. He excels in humor more than in Avit ; is jolly 
 rather than gay ; melancholy rather than morose ; can easily be 
 moved to a sudden tear, or surprised into a broad laugh ; but he 
 loathes sentiment, and has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a 
 boon companion, if you allow him to have his humor, and to talk 
 about himself; and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with 
 life and purse, however soundly he may be cudgeled. 
 
 In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a pi-opensity to be 
 somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, who thinks 
 not merely for himself and family, but for all the country round, 
 and is most generously disposed to be every body's champion. 
 He is continually volunteering his services to settle his neighbor's 
 affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter 
 of consequence without asking his advice ; though he seldom en- 
 gages in any friendly office of the kind without finishing by getx 
 ting into a squabble with all parties, and then railing bitterly at 
 their ingratitude. He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the 
 oohle science of defence, and having accomplished himself in the 
 
838 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 use of his limbs and his -weapons, and become a perfect master at 
 boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever 
 since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant of 
 his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to fumble with the head 
 of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor does 
 not require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed he has 
 extended his relations of pride and policy so completely over the 
 whole country, that no event can take place, without infringing 
 some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in his little 
 domain, with these filaments stretching forth in every dii*ection, 
 he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied eld spider, who has woven 
 his web over a whole chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz, nor a 
 breeze blow, without startling his repose, and causing him to sally 
 forth wrathfully from his den. 
 
 Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at 
 bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of conten- 
 tion. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he only relishes 
 the beginning of an affray ; he always goes into a fight with alac- 
 rity, but comes out of it grumbling even when victorious ; and 
 though no one fights with more obstinacy to carry a contested 
 point, yet, when the battle is over, and he comes to the reconcili- 
 ation, he is so much taken up with the mere shaking of hands, 
 that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all that they have been 
 quarrehng about. It is not, therefore, fighting that he ought so 
 much to be on his guard against, as making friends. It is difiicult 
 to cudgel him out of a farthing ; but put him in a good humor, 
 and you may bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. 
 He is like a stout ship, which will weather the roughest storm 
 uninjured, but roll its masts overboard in the succeeding calm. 
 
 He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of pulling 
 
JOHN JBULL. 389 
 
 out a long purse ; flinging his money bravely about at boxing 
 matches, horse races, cock fights, and carrying a liigh head among 
 " gentlemen of the fancy :" but immediately after one of these 
 fits of extravagance, he -will be taken with violent qualms of 
 economy ; stop short at the most trivial expenditure ; talk despe- 
 rately of being ruined and brought upon the parish ; and, in such 
 moods, will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill, without violent 
 altercation. He is in fact the most punctual and discontented 
 paymaster in the world ; drawing his coin out of liis breeches 
 pocket with infinite reluctance ; paying to the uttermost farthing, 
 but accompanying every guinea with a growl. 
 
 "With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful pro- 
 vider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a whim- 
 sical kind, its chief object being to devise how he may afford to 
 be extravagant ; for he will begrudge himself a beef-steak and 
 pint of port one day, that he may roast an ox whole, broach a 
 hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors on the next. 
 
 His domestic establishment is enormously expensive : not so 
 much from any great outward parade, as from the great consump- 
 tion of solid beef and pudding ; the vast number of followers he 
 feeds and clothes ; and his singular disposition to pay hugely for 
 small services. He is a most kind and indulgent master, and, 
 provided his servants humor his peculiarities, flatter his vanity 
 a little now and then, and do not peculate grossly on him before 
 his face, they may manage him to perfection. Every thing that 
 lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat. His house-servants 
 are well paid, and pampered, and have little to do. His horses 
 are sleek and lazy, and prance slowly before his state carriage ; 
 and his house-dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will hardly 
 bark at a house-breaker. 
 
390 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray 
 with age, and of a most venerable, though weathei'-beaten ap- 
 pearance. It has been built upon no regular plan, but is a vast 
 accumulation of parts, erected in various tastes and ages. The 
 centre bears evident traces of Saxon architecture, and is as solid 
 as ponderous stone and old English oak can make it. Like all 
 the relics of that style, it is full of obscure passages, intricate 
 mazes, and dusky chambers ; and though these have been par- 
 tially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many places where 
 you must still grope in the dark. Additions have been made 
 to the original edifice from time to time, and great alterations 
 have taken place ; towers and battlements have been erected 
 during wars and tumults : wings built in time of peace ; and out- 
 houses, lodges, and offices, run up according to the whim or con- 
 venience of difierent generations, until it has become one of the 
 most spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. An entire wing is 
 taken up with the family chapel, a reverend pile, that must have 
 been exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of having been 
 altered and simplified at various periods, has still a look of solemn 
 religious pomp. Its walls within are storied with the monuments 
 of John's ancestors ; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions 
 and well-lined chairs, Avhere such of his family as are inclined to 
 church services, may doze comfortably in the discharge of their 
 duties. 
 
 To keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; but he 
 is stanch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the circum- 
 stance that many dissenting chapels have been erected in his 
 vicinity, and several of his neighbors, Avitli whom he has had 
 quarrels, are strong papists. 
 
 To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large ex- 
 
JOHN BULL. 391 
 
 pense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most learned 
 and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred Christian, who 
 always backs the old gentleman in his opinions, winks discreetly 
 at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the children when refractory, and 
 is of great use in exhorting the tenants to read their Bibles, say 
 their prayers, and, above all, to pay their rents punctually"-, and 
 without grumbling. 
 
 The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, some- 
 what heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn 
 magnificence of former times ; fitted up with rich, though faded 
 tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of massy gorgeous old 
 plate. The vast fireplaces, ample kitchens, extensive cellars, 
 and sumptuous banqueting halls, all speak of the roai'iug hospi- 
 tality of days of yore, of which the modern festivity at the manor- 
 bouse is but a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of 
 rooms apparently deserted and time-worn ; and towers and tur- 
 rets that are tottering to decay ; so that in high winds there in 
 danger of their tumbling about the ears of the household. 
 
 John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice 
 thoroughly overhauled ; and to have some of the useless parts 
 pulled down, and the others strengthened with their materials ; 
 but the old gentleman always grows testy on this subject. He 
 swears the house is an excellent house — that it is tight and 
 weather proof, and not to be shaken by tempests — that it has 
 stood for several hundred years, and, therefore, is not likely to 
 tumble down now — that as to its being inconvenient, his family is 
 accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be comfortable 
 without them — that as to its unwieldy size and irregular con- 
 Btruction, these result from its being the growth of centuries, and 
 being improved by the wisdom of every generation — that an old 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 family, like his, requires a large house to dwell in; new, upstart, 
 families may live in modern cottages and snug boxes ; but aa 
 old English family should inhabit an old English manor-house. 
 If you point out any part of the building as superfluous, he insists 
 that it is material to the strength or decoration of the rest, and 
 the harmony of the whole ; and swears that the parts are so built 
 into each other, that if you pull down one, you run the risk of 
 having the whole about your ears. 
 
 The secret of the matter is, that John has a great dispositiou 
 to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to the dig- 
 nity of an ancient and honorable family, to be bounteous in its 
 appointments, and to be eaten up by dependents ; and so, partly 
 from pride, and partly from kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule 
 always to give shelter and maintenance to his superannuated 
 servants. 
 
 The consequence is, that, like many other venerable family 
 establishments, his manor is incumbered by old retainers whom 
 he cannot turn oW, and an old style which he cannot lay down. 
 His mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, and, with all its 
 magnitude, is not a whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a 
 nook or corner but is of use in housing some useless personage. 
 Groups of veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired 
 heroes of the buttery and the larder, are seen lolling about its 
 walls, crawling over its la-wns, dozing under its trees, or sunnin^ 
 themselves upon the benches at its doors. Every office and out- 
 house is garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their fomilies ; 
 for they are amazingly prolific, and when they die off, are sure to 
 leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. ' A 
 mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldering tumble- 
 down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or loop-hole, (be 
 
JOHN BULL. 393 
 
 gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, who has lived at 
 John's expense all his life, and makes the most grievous outcry 
 at their pulling down the roof from over the head of a worn-out 
 servant of the family. This is an appeal that John's honest heart 
 never can withstand ; so that a man, who has faithfully eaten his 
 beef and pudding all his life, is sui-e to be rewarded with a pipe 
 and tankard in his old days. 
 
 A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, where 
 his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze undisturbed 
 for the remainder of their existence — a worthy example of grate- 
 ful recollection, which if some of his neighbors were to imitate, 
 would not be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great 
 pleasures to point out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on 
 their good qualities, extol their past services, and boast, with 
 some little vaingloiy, of the perilous adventures and hardy 
 exploits through which they have carried him. 
 
 He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family 
 usages, and family incumbrances, to a whimsical extent. Hia 
 manor is infested by gangs of gipsies ; yet he will not suflfer them 
 to be driven off, because they have infested the place time out of 
 mind, and been regular poachers upon every generation of the 
 family. He will scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from 
 the great trees that surround the house, lest it should molest the 
 rooks, that have bred there for centuries. Owls have taken 
 possession of the dovecote ; but they are hereditary owls, and 
 must not be disturbed. Swallows have nearly choked up every 
 chimney with their nests ; martins build in every frieze and 
 cornice ; crows flutter about the towers, and perch on every 
 wreather-cock ; and old gray-headed rats may be seen in every 
 quarter of the house, running in and out of their holes undaunt- 
 
 17* 
 
394 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 edly in broad, daylight. In sliort, John has such a reverence for 
 every thing that has been long in the family, that he wiU not 
 hear even of abuses being reformed, because they are good old 
 family abuses. 
 
 All these whims and habits have concurred wofully to drain 
 the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself on punctu- 
 ality in money matters, and wishes to maintain his credit in the 
 neighborhood, they have caused him great perplexity in meeting 
 his engagements. This, too, has been increased by the alter- 
 cations and heart-burnings which are continually taking place in 
 his family. His children have been brought up to different call- 
 ings, and are of different ways of thinking ; and as they have 
 always been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do not fail 
 to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the present posture 
 of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the race, and are 
 clear that the old establishment should be kept up in all its state, 
 whatever may be the cost ; others, who are more prudent and 
 considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench his expenses, 
 and to put his whole system of housekeeping on a more moderate 
 footing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed inclined to listen to 
 their opinions, but their wholesome advice has been completely 
 defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of his sons. This is 
 a noisy rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects his 
 business to frequent ale-houses — is the orator of village clubs, 
 and a complete oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants. 
 No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention reform or 
 retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes the words out of their 
 mouths, and roars out for an overturn. When his tongue is once 
 CToino- nothing can stop it. He rants about the room; hectors 
 the old man about his spendthrift practices ; ridicules his tastes 
 
JOHN BULL. 335 
 
 and pursuits ; insists that he shall turn the old servants out of 
 doors ; give the broken-down horses to the hounds ; send the fat 
 chaplain packing, and take a field-preacher in his place — nay, that 
 the whole family mansion shall be leveled with the ground, and a 
 plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He rails at 
 every social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks away 
 growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives up to the 
 door. Though constantly complaining of the emptiness of his 
 purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket-money in these 
 tavern conTOcations, and even runs up scores for the liquor over 
 which he preaches about Jiis father's extravagance. 
 
 It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting agrees 
 with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has become so ir- 
 ritable, from repeated crossings, that the mere mention of retrench- 
 ment or reform is a signal for a brawl between him and the 
 tavern oracle. As the latter is too sturdy and refractory for 
 paternal discipline, having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, 
 they have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run 
 so high, that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an 
 officer who has served abroad, but is at present living at 
 home, on half-pay. This last is sure to stand by the old gentle- 
 man, right or wrong; likes nothing so much as a racketing, 
 roystering life ; and is ready at a wink or nod, to out sabre, and 
 flourish it over the orator's head, if he dares to array himself 
 against paternal authority. 
 
 These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and are 
 rare food for scandal in -John's neighborhood. People begin to 
 look wise, and shake their heads, whenever his affairs are men. 
 tloned. They all " hope that matters are not so bad with him a3 
 represented ; but when a man's own children begin to rail at hia 
 
S96 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ex.tra'^ agance, things must be badly managed. They understand 
 he is mortgaged over head and ears, and is continually dabbling 
 with money lenders. He is certainly an open-handed old gentle- 
 man, but they fear he has lived too fast; indeed, they never knew 
 any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, reveling and 
 prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one, and 
 has been in the family a long while ; but, for all that, they have 
 known many finer estates come to the hammer." 
 
 "What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary em- 
 barrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor man him' 
 self. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and smug rosy face, 
 ■which he used to present, he has of late become as shriveled and 
 shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, 
 which bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days when he 
 sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about him like a main- 
 sail in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, 
 and apparently have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on 
 both sides of his once sturdy legs. 
 
 Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-cornered 
 hat on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and bringing it down every 
 moment with a hearty thump upon the ground; looking every 
 one sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave of a catch or a 
 drinking song ; he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to him- 
 self, with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his 
 arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of his bi-eeches pockets, 
 which are evidently empty. 
 
 Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet for all 
 this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If 
 you drop the least expression of sympathy or concern, he takes 
 fire in an instant ; swears that he is the richest and stoutest fellow 
 
JOHN BULL. 'ST. 
 
 in the country ; talks of laying out large sums to adorn hi? house 
 or buy another estate ; and Avith a valiant swagger and grasping 
 of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to have another bout at quarter* 
 Btaif. 
 
 Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this, 
 yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation without strong 
 feelings of interest. "With all his odd humors and obstinate pre- 
 judices, he is a sterling-hearted old blade. He may not be so 
 wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks himself, but he is at least 
 twice as good as his neighbors represent him. His virtues are 
 all his own ; all plain, homebred, and unaffected. His very faults 
 smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His extravagance 
 savors of his generosity ; his quarrelsomeness of his courage ; his 
 credulity of his open faith ; his vanity of his pride ; and his 
 bluntness of his sincerity. They are all the redundancies of a 
 rich and liberal character. He is like his own oak, rough with- 
 out, but sound and solid v/ithin ; whose bark abounds with excres- 
 cences in proportion to the growth and grandeur of the timber; 
 and whose branches make a fearful groaning and murmuring in the 
 least storm, from their very magnitude and luxuriance. There is 
 something, too, in the appearance of his old family mansion that 
 is extremely poetical and picturesque ; and, as long as it can be 
 rendered comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble to see it 
 meddled with, during the present conflict of tastes and opinions. 
 Some of his advisers are no doubt good architects, that might be 
 of service ; but many, I fear, are mere levelers, who, when they 
 had once got to work with their mattocks on this venerable edi- 
 fice, would never stop until they had brought it to the ground, and 
 perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is, 
 that John's present troubles may teach him more prudence in 
 
»yS l-HE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 I 
 
 ftiture. That lie may cease to distress lus mind about other peo- 
 ple's affairs ; that lie may give up the fruitless attempt to promote 
 the good of his neighbors, and the peace and happiness of the 
 world, by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at 
 home; gradually get his house into repair; cultivate his rich 
 estate according to his fancy ; husband his income — if he thinks 
 proper ; bring his unruly children into order — if he can ; renew 
 the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity ; and long enjoy, on hia 
 paternal knds, a gi-een, an hc^norable, and a merry old age. 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 May no wolfe howie ; no screech owle stir 
 
 A wing about thy sepulclire ! 
 
 No bovsterous winds or stormes come hither, 
 
 To starve or wither 
 Thy soft sweet earth I but, like a spring. 
 Love kept it ever flourishing. 
 
 Herricit. 
 
 In the coui-se of an excursion through one of the remote coun- 
 ties of England, I had struck into one of those cross roads that 
 lead through the more secluded parts of the country, and stopped 
 one afternoon at a village, the situation of which was beautifully 
 rural and retired. There was an air of primitive simplicity 
 about its inhabitants, not to be found in the villages which lie on. 
 the great coach-roads. I determined to pass the night there, and, 
 having taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighbor- 
 ing scenery. 
 
 My ramble, as is usually the case with travelers, soon led me 
 to the church, which stood at a little distance from the village. 
 Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old tower being 
 completely overrun with ivy, so that only here and there a jut- 
 ting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fantastically carved 
 ornament, peered through the verdant covering. It was a lovely 
 evening. The early part of the day had been dark and showery, 
 
400 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 but in the afternoon it had cleared up ; and though sullen clouds 
 still hung over head, jet there was a broad tract of golden sky in 
 the west, from which the setting sun gleamed through the drip- 
 ping leaves, and lit up all nature into a melancholy smile. It 
 seemed like the parting hour of a good Christian, smiling on the 
 sins and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his 
 decline, an assurance that he will rise again in glory. 
 
 I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was 
 musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on past 
 scenes and early friends— on those who were distant and those 
 who were dead — and indulging in that kind of melancholy fancy- 
 ing, which has in it something sweeter even than pleasure. 
 Every now and then, the stroke of a bell from the neighboring 
 tower fell on my ear; its tones were in unison Avith the scene, 
 and, instead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings ; and it was 
 Gome time before I recollected that it must be tolling the knell of 
 some new tenant of the tomb. 
 
 Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village 
 green ; it wound slowly along a lane ; was lost, and reappeared 
 through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place where 
 I was sitting. The pall was supported by young girls, dressed in 
 white ; and another, about the age of seventeen, walked before, 
 bearing a chaplet of wlxite flowers ; a token that the deceased was 
 a young and unmarried female. The corjose was followed by the 
 parents. They Avere a venerable couple of the better order of 
 peasantry. The father seemed to repress his feelings ; but his 
 fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply-furrowed face, showed the 
 struggle that Avas passing Avitliin. His Avife hung on his arm, and 
 wept aloud with the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorroAV. 
 
 1 followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 401 
 
 in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, with a pair 
 of white gloves, were hung over the seat which the deceased had 
 occupied. 
 
 Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral sei'- 
 vice ; for who is so fortunate as never to have followed some one 
 he has loved to the tomb ? but when performed over the remains 
 of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the bloom of existence 
 — what can be more affecting ? At that simple, but most solemn 
 consignment of the body to the grave — " Earth to earth — ashes 
 to ashes — dust to dust !" — the tears of the youthful companions of 
 the deceased flowed unrestrained- The father still seemed to strug- 
 gle with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the assurance, 
 that the dead are blessed which die in the Lord ; but the mother 
 only thought of her child as a flower of the field cut down and 
 withered in the midst of its sweetness ; she was like Rachel, 
 " mourning over her children, and would not be comforted." 
 
 On returning to the inn, I learnt the whole story of the de- 
 ceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been told. 
 She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Her father 
 had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in circum- 
 Btances. This was an only child, and brought up entirely at 
 home, in the simplicity of rural life. She had been the pupil of 
 the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little flock. The good 
 man watched over her education with paternal care ; it was lim- 
 ited, and suitable to the sphere in which she was to move ; for he 
 only sought to make her an ornament to her station in life, not to 
 raise her above it. The tenderness and indulgence of her parents, 
 and the exemption from all ordinaiy occupations, had fostered a 
 natural grace and delicacy of chai-acter, that accorded with the 
 fragile loveliness of her form. She appeared like some tender 
 
402 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 plant of the garden, blooming accidentally amid the hardier na- 
 tives of the fields. 
 
 The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged by 
 her companions, but Avithout envy ; for it was sui-passed by the 
 unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her manners. Tt 
 might be truly said of her : 
 
 " This is the prettiest low-born lass, tliat ever 
 Ran on the green-sward ; nothing she does or seems. 
 But smacks of something greater than herself; 
 Too noble for this place." 
 
 The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still 
 retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural 
 festivals and holiday pastiines, and still kept up some faint ob- 
 servance of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, had 
 been promoted by its present pastor, Avho was a lover of old cus- 
 toms, and one of those simple Christians that think their mission 
 fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good-will among mankind. 
 Under his auspices the May-pole stood from year to year in the 
 centre of the village green ; on May-day it vv^as decorated with 
 garlands and streamers ; and a queen or lady of the May was 
 appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, and dis- 
 tribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque situation of the 
 village, and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes, would often attract 
 the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on one May-day, was 
 a young officer, whose regiment had been recently quartered in 
 the neighborhood. He was charmed with the native taste that 
 pervaded this village pageant ; but, above all, with the dawning 
 loveliness of the queen of May. It was the village favorite, who 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 408 
 
 was crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all the 
 beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The artless- 
 ness of rui'al habits enabled him readily to make her acquaint- 
 ance ; he gradually won his way into her intimacy ; and paid his 
 court to her in that unthinking way in which young officers are 
 too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. 
 
 There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He 
 never even talked of love : but there are modes of making it 
 more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely and 
 irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of voice, 
 the thousand tendernesses Avhich emanate from every word, and 
 look, and action — these form the true eloquence of love, and can 
 always be felt and understood, but never described. Can we 
 Avonder that they should readily win a heart, young, guileless, and 
 susceptible ? As to her, she loved almost unconsciously ; she 
 scarcely inquired what was the growing passion that was absorb- 
 ing every thought and feeling, or what Avere to be its consequences. 
 She, indeed, looked not to the future. "When present, his looks 
 and words occupied her whole attention ; when absent, she 
 thought but of Avhat had passed at their recent interview. She 
 would Avander Avith him through the gi'een lanes and niral scenes 
 of the vicinity. He taught her to see ncAv beauties in nature ; 
 he talked in the language of polite and cultivated life, and 
 breathed into her ear the Avitcheries of romance and poetry. 
 
 Perhaps there could not haA-e been a passion, between the 
 sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant figure of 
 her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his militaiy attire, 
 might at first have charmed her eye ; but it Avas not these that 
 had captivated her heart. Her attachment had something in it 
 of idolatry. She- looked up to him as to a being of a superior 
 
404 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm of a iniud naturally 
 delicate and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen percep- 
 tion of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinctions of 
 rank and fortune she thought nothing ; it was the difference of 
 intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from those of the rustic 
 society to Avhich she had been accustomed, that elevated him in 
 her opinion. She would listen to him with charmed ear and 
 downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek would mantle with 
 enthusiasm ; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid admi- 
 ration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh and blush 
 at the idea of her comparative unworthiness. 
 
 Her lover was equally impassioned ; hut his passion was 
 mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. ■ He' had begun the 
 connection in levity ; for he had often heard his brother officers 
 boast of their village conquests, and thought seme triumph of the 
 kind necessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But he was 
 too full of youthful fervor. His heart had not yet been rendered 
 sufficiently cold and selfish by a wandering and a dissipated life : 
 it caught fire from the very flame it sought to kindle ; and before 
 ho was awax-e of the nature of his situation, he became really in 
 love. 
 
 What was he to do ? There were the old obstacles which so 
 incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank in 
 life — the prejudices of titled connections — his dependence upon a 
 proud and unyielding father — all forbad him to think of matri- 
 n^ony : — ^but when he looked down upon this innocent being, so 
 tender and confiding, there was a purity in her manners, a 
 blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching modesty in her looks, 
 that awed down every Licentious feeling. In vain did he try to 
 fortify iiimself by a thousand heartless examples of mei of 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 406 
 
 fashion ; and to chill the glow of generous sentiment, ^vith that 
 cold derisive levity with which he had heard them talk of female 
 virtue : whenever he came into her presence, she ^\'as still sur- 
 rounded by that mysterious but impassive charm of virgin purity 
 in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought can live. 
 
 The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to the 
 continent completed the confusion of his mind. He remained for 
 a short time in a state of the most painful irresolution ; he hesi- 
 tated to communicate the tidings, until the day for marching was 
 at hand ; when he gave her the intelligence in the course of an 
 evening i-amble. 
 
 The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It 
 broke in at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked upon 
 it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with the guile- 
 less simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom, and kissed 
 the tears from her soft cheek ; nor did he meet with a repulse, 
 for there are moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness, which 
 hallow the caresses of affection. He was naturally impetuous ; 
 and the sight of beauty, apparently yielding in. his arms, the 
 confidence of his power over her, and the dread of losing her for 
 ever all conspired to overwhelm his better feelings — he ventured 
 to propose that she should leave her home, and be the companion 
 of his fortunes. 
 
 He wa? quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and faltered 
 at I lis own baseness ; but so innocent of mind was his intended 
 victim^ that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his meaning; 
 and why she should leave her native village, and the humble 
 roof of her parents. When at last the nature of his proposal 
 flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was withering. She did 
 not weep — she did not break forth into reproach — she said not a 
 
406 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 word — ^but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper ; gave him a 
 look of anguish that pierced to his very soul ; and, clasping her 
 hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's cottage. 
 
 The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant. 
 It is imcertain Avhat might have been the result of the conflict of 
 his feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the bustle of 
 departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new companions, 
 soon dissipated his self-reproach, and stifled his tenderness yet, 
 amidst the stir of camps the revelries of garrisons, the array of 
 armies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes 
 steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and village simplicity — the 
 white cottage — the footpath along "the silver brook and up the 
 havvthorn hedge, and the little village maid loitering along it, 
 leaning on his arm, and listening to him with eyes beaming with 
 anconscious atfectioH. 
 
 The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruc- 
 tion of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faintings and 
 hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were suc- 
 ceeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld 
 from her window the march of the departing troops. She had 
 seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in triumph, amidst the 
 sound of drum and trumpet, and the pomp of arms. She strained 
 a last aching gaze after him, as the morning sun glittered about 
 his figure, and his plume waved in the breeze ; he passed away 
 like a bright vision from her sight, and left her all in dai-kness. 
 
 It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after story. 
 It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She avoided society, 
 and wandered out alone in the walks she had most frequented 
 with her lover. She sought, like the stricken deer, to Aveep in 
 silence and loneliness, and brood over the barbed sorrow that 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 407 
 
 rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an 
 evening sitting in the porch of tlic village church ; and the milk- 
 maids, returning from the fields, would now and then overhear 
 her singing some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk^ She 
 became fervent in her devotions at church ; and as the old people 
 saw her approach, so wasted away, yet with a hectic gloom, 
 and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses round the form, 
 they would make way for her, as for something spiritual, and, 
 looking after her, would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 
 
 She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but 
 looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver eord that had 
 bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no 
 more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had 
 entertained resentment against her lover, it was extinguished. 
 She was incapable of angry passions ; and, in a moment of sad- 
 dened tenderness, she penned him a farewell letter. It was 
 couched in the simplest language, but touching from its very 
 simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and did not conceal 
 from him that his conduct was the cause. She even depicted the 
 sufferings which she had experienced ; but concluded with say- 
 ing, that she could not die in peace, until she had sent him her 
 forgiveness and her blessing. 
 
 By degrees, her strength declined, that she could no longer 
 leave the cottage She could only totter to ihe window, where, 
 propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and 
 look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint, nor 
 imparted to any one the malady that was preying on her heart. 
 She never even mentioned her lover's name ; but would lay her 
 head on her mothers bosom and weep in silence. Her poor 
 parents hung, in mute anxiety, over this fading blossom of their 
 
408 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 hopes, still flattering tliemselves that it might again revive to 
 freshness, and that the bright unearthly bloom Avhich sometimes 
 flushed her cheek might be the promise of returning health. 
 
 In this way she ^Yas seated between them one Sunday after- 
 noon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown 
 open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it the fragrance 
 of the clustering honeysuckle which her own hands had trained 
 round the windoAV. 
 
 Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible : it 
 spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of heaven : 
 it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through her bosom. 
 Her eye Avas fixed on the distant village church ; the bell had 
 tolled for the eve]:iing service ; the last villager was lagging into 
 the porch ; and every thing had sunk into that hallowed stillness 
 peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her 
 with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so 
 roughly over some faces, had given to hers the expression of a 
 seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue eye. — "Was she think- 
 ing of her faithless lover ? — or were her thoughts Avandering to 
 that distant church-yard, into Avhose bosom she might soon be 
 gathered ? 
 
 Suddenly the clang of hoofs Avas heard — a horseman galloped 
 to the cottage — he dismounted before the windoAv — the poor girl 
 gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her chair : it was her 
 repentant lover ! He rushed into the house, and flew to clasp her 
 to his bosom ; but her Avasted form — her deathlike countenance 
 — so Avan, yet so lovely in its desolation, — smote him to the soul, 
 and he thrcAV himself in agony at her feet. She Avas too faint to 
 rise — she attempted to extend her ti'cmbling hand — her lips moved 
 as if she spoke, but no woi'd was articulated — she looked down 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 409 
 
 upon him with a smile of unutterable tenderness, — and closed her 
 eyes for ever ! 
 
 Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village story. 
 They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little novelty to 
 recommend them. In the present rage also for strange incident 
 and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and insignifi- 
 cant, but they interested me strongly at the time ; and, taken in 
 connection with the affecting ceremony which I had just witnessed, 
 left a deeper impression on my mind than many circumstances of 
 a more striking nature. I have passed through the place since, 
 and visited the church again, from a better motive than mere 
 curiosity. It was a wintry evening ; the trees were stripped of 
 their foliage ; the church-yard looked naked and mournful, and the 
 wind rustled coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, 
 had been planted about the grave of the village favorite, and 
 osiers were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. 
 
 The church door was open, and I stepped in. There hung 
 the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the fune- 
 ral : the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have 
 been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen 
 many monuments, where art has exhausted its powers to awaken 
 the sympathy of the spectator, but I have met with none that 
 spoke more touchingly to my heart, than this simple but delicate 
 memento of departed innocence. 
 
 18 
 
THE ANGLER. 
 
 This day dame Nature seem'd ia lova, 
 
 r'ae lasty sap began to move, 
 
 Fresh juice did stir tli' embracing vines 
 
 And birds bad drawn tlieir valentines 
 
 The jealous trout that low did lie, 
 
 Rose at a well-dissembled (lie. 
 
 There stood my friend, with patient skill. 
 
 Attending of liis trembling quili. 
 
 Sir n. WoTTON. 
 
 Ir is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run awa^ 
 from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring life, from read- 
 ing the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I suspect that, in like 
 manner, many of those worthy gentlemen who are given to haunt 
 the sides of pastoral streams with angle rods in hand, may trace 
 the origin of their passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak 
 Walton. I recollect studying his " Complete Angler" several 
 years since, in company with a knot of friends in America, and 
 moreover that we were all completely bitten with the angling 
 mania. It was early in the year ; but as soon as the weather 
 was auspicious, and that the spring began to melt into the verge 
 of summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the country, as 
 stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading books of 
 chivalry. 
 
412 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 One of our party Lad equaled the Don in the fullness of Lis 
 equipments : bemg attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. He woro 
 a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred 
 pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters ; a basket 
 slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod, a landing net, and a score 
 of other inconveniences, only to be found in the true angler's ar- 
 mory. Thus harnessed for the field, he was a3 great a matter of 
 stare and wonderment among the country folk, who had never 
 seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of La Mancha 
 among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. 
 
 Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the high- 
 lands of the Hudson ; a most unfortunate place for the execution 
 of those piscatory tactics which had been invented along the 
 velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was one of ihosQ 
 wild streams that lavish, among our romantic solitudes, un- 
 heeded beauties, enough to fill the sketch book of a hunter of the 
 picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down rocky shelves, 
 making small cascades, over which the trees threw their broad 
 balancing sprays, and long nameless weeds hung in fringes from 
 the impending banks, dripping with diamond drops. Sometimes 
 it would brawl and fret along a ravine in the matted shade of a 
 forest, filling it Avith murmurs ; and, after this termagant career, 
 ■v^ould steal forth into open day with the most placid demure face 
 imaginable ; as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, 
 after filling her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling 
 out of doors, swimming and curtsying, and smiling upon all the 
 world. 
 
 How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such times, 
 through some bosom of green meadow-land among the mountains : 
 where the quiet was only interrupted by the occasional tinkling 
 
THE ANGLER. 413 
 
 of a bell from the lazy cattle among the clover, or the sound of a 
 woodcutter's axe from the neighboring forest. 
 
 For laj part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport 
 that required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled 
 above half an hour before I had completely "satisfied the senti- 
 ment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's opin- 
 ion, that angling is something like poetry — a man must be borii 
 to it. I hooked myself instead of the fish ; tangled my line in 
 every tree ; lost my bait ; broke my rod ; until I gave up the 
 attempt in despair, and passed the day under the trees, reading 
 old Izaak ; satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honest sim- 
 plicity and rural feeling that had bewitched me, and not the 
 passion for angling. My companions, however, were more per 
 severing in their delusion. I have them at chis moment before 
 my eyes, stealing along fhe border of the brook, where it lay 
 open to the day, or Avas merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I 
 see the bittern rising with hollow scream as they break in upon 
 his rarely-invaded haunt ; the kingfislier watching them suspi- 
 ciously from his dry tree that overhangs the deep black miU-pond, 
 in the gorge of the hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip side- 
 ways from off the stone or log on which he is sunning him- 
 self; and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they 
 approach, and spreading an alarm throughout the watery world 
 around. 
 
 I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and creeping 
 about for the greater parter part of a day, with scarcely any suc- 
 cess, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly country 
 urchin came down from the hills with a rod made from a branch 
 of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall help me ! 
 [ believe, a crooko.d pin for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm 
 
414 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 —and in half an hour caught more fish than we had nibWe3 
 throughout the day ! 
 
 But, above all, I recollect the " good, honest, Avholesome, hun- 
 gry " repast, which we made under a beech-tree, just by a spring 
 of pure sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill ; and how, 
 when it was over, one of the party read old Izaak "Walton's scene 
 with the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass and built castles in a 
 bright pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. All this may appear 
 like mere egotism ; yet I cannot refrain from uttering these recol- 
 lections, which are passing like a strain of music over my mind, 
 and have been called up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed 
 not long since. 
 
 In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beau- 
 tiful little stream which flows down from the "Welsh hills and 
 throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a group 
 seated on the margin. On approaching, I found it to consist of a 
 veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an 
 old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very much but very 
 carefully patched, betokening poverty, honestly come by, and de- 
 cently maintained. His face bore the marks of former storms, 
 but present fair weather ; its furrows had been worn into an ha- 
 bitual smile ; his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had 
 altogether the good-humored air of a constitutional philosopher 
 who was disposed to take the world as it went. One of his com- 
 panions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant 
 poacher, and I'll Avarrant could find his way to any gentleman's 
 fish-pond in the neighborhood in the darkest night. The other 
 was a tall, awkward, country lad, with a lounging gait, and ap- 
 parently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was hu^j in 
 examining the maw of a trout which he had just killed, to discover 
 
THE ANGLER. 415 
 
 by its contents what insects were seasonable for bait ; and was 
 lecturing on the subject to liis companions, who appeared to listen 
 with infinite deference. I have a kind feeling towards all 
 " brothers of the angle," ever since I read Izaak Walton. They 
 are men, he affirms, of a " mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit ;" 
 and my esteem for them has been increased since I met with an 
 old " Tretyse of fishing with the Angle," in which are set forth 
 many of the maxims of their inoffensive fraternity. " Take good 
 hede," sayeth this honest little tretyse, "that in going about 
 your disportes ye open no man's gates but that ye shet them 
 again. Also ye shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for no 
 covetousness to the encreasing and sparing of your money only, 
 but principally for your solace, and to cause the helth of your 
 body and specyally of your soule."* 
 
 I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angfer before 
 me an exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a cheer- 
 ful contentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards him. 
 I could not but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped 
 from one part of the brook to another ; waving his rod in the 
 air, to keep the line from dragging on the ground, or catching 
 among the bushes ; and the adroitness with which he would 
 throw his fly to any particular place ; sometimes skimming it 
 lightly along a little rapid ; sometimes casting it into one of those 
 
 * From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more industri- 
 ous and devout employment than it is generally considered. — " For when ya. 
 purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye will not desyre greatlye many 
 persons with you, which might let you of your game. And that ye may serv3 
 God devoutly in sayinge effectually your customable prayers. And thus do- 
 ymg, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydelnes, which is princi- 
 pal! cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is right well known." 
 
416 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank, in which 
 the large trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile he was giving 
 instructions to his two disciples ; showing them the manner in 
 which thej should handle their rods, fix their flies, and play them 
 along the surface of the stream. The scene brought to my mind 
 the instructions of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The country 
 around was of that pastoral kind which "Walton is fond of 
 describing. It was a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close 
 by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where the inferior 
 "Welsh hiUs begin to swell up from among freshicmelling meadows. 
 The day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and sun- 
 shiny, with now and then a soft-dropping shower, that sowed the 
 whole earth with diamonds. 
 
 I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was 
 so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving instructions 
 in his art, I kept company with him almost the whole day ; wan- 
 dering along the banks of the stream, and listening to his talk. 
 He was very communicative, having all the easy garrulity of 
 cheerful old age ; and I fancy was a little flattered by having an 
 opportunity of displaying his piscatory lore ; for who does not 
 like now and then to play the sage ? 
 
 He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed 
 some years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, 
 where he had entered into trade and had been ruined by the 
 indiscretion of a partner. He had afterwards experienced many 
 ups and downs in life, until he got into the navy, where his leg 
 was carried away by a cannon ball, at the battle of Camperdown. 
 Tills was the only stroke of real good fortune ho had ever expe- 
 rienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with some small 
 paternal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly forty 
 
THE ANGLER. 417 
 
 pounds. On this he retired to his native village, where he lived 
 quietly and independently ; and devoted the remainder of his life 
 to the " noble art of angling." 
 
 I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he 
 seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent 
 good humor. Though he had been eorcly buffeted about the 
 world, he was satisfied that the wor]<l, in itself, was good and 
 beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in different 
 countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and 
 thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor and kindness, 
 appearing to look only on the good side of things : and, above all, 
 he was almost the only man I had ever met with who had been 
 an unfortunate adventurer in America, and had honesty and 
 magnanimity enough to take the fault to his own door, and not to 
 curse the country. The lad that was receiving his instructions, I 
 learnt, was the son and heir apparent of a fat old widow who 
 kept the village inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, 
 and much courted by the idle gentleman-like personages of the 
 place. In taking him under his care, therefore, the old man had 
 probably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room, and an 
 occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 
 
 There is certainly something in angling, if we could forget, 
 which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted 
 on worms and insects, that tends to produce a gentleness of spirit, 
 and a pure serenity of mind. As the English are methodical 
 even in their recreations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, 
 it has been reduced among them to perfect rule and system. 
 Indeed it is an amusement peculiarly adapted to the mild and 
 highly-cultivated scenery of England, where every roughness has 
 been softened away from the landscape. It is delightful to saun- 
 
 18* 
 
418 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ter along those limpid streams wliich wander, like veins of silver 
 through, the bosom of this beautiful country ; leading one through 
 a diversity of small home scenery ; sometimes winding through 
 ornamented grounds ; sometimes brimming along through rich 
 pasturage, where tlie fresh green is mingled with sweet-smelling 
 flowers; sometimes venturing in sight of villages and hamlets, 
 and then running capriciously away into shady retirements. The 
 sweetness and serenity of nature, arid the quiet watchfulness of 
 the sport, gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing ; which are 
 now and then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the 
 distant whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish, 
 leaping out of the still water, and skimming transiently about 
 its glassy surface. " When I Avould beget content," says Izaak 
 "Walton, " and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and 
 providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some 
 gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, 
 and those very many other little living creatures that are not only 
 created, but feed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the 
 God of nature, and therefore trust in him." 
 
 I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those 
 ancient champions of angling, which breathes the same innocent 
 and happy spirit : 
 
 Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 
 
 Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place. 
 Where I may see ray quill, or cork, dow^n sink. 
 
 With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace ; 
 And on the world and my Creator think: 
 
 Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace ; 
 And others spend their time in base excess 
 
 Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonnesa. 
 
THE ANGLER. 419 
 
 Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue. 
 
 And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill ; 
 So I the fields and meadows green may view. 
 
 And daily by fresh rivers walk at will. 
 Among the daisies and the violets blue, 
 
 Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.* 
 
 On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place of 
 abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the village 
 a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him out. 
 I found him living in a small cottage, containing only one room, 
 but a perfect curiosity in its method and arrangement. It was on 
 the skirts of the village, on a green bank, a little back from the 
 road, with a small garden in front, stocked with kitchen herbs, 
 and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the cottage 
 was overrun Avith a honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a 
 weather-cock. The interior was fitted up in a truly nautical 
 style, his ideas of comfort and convenience having been acquired 
 on the berth-deck of a man-of-war. A hammock was slung from 
 the ceiling, which, in the daytime, was lashed up so as to take 
 but little room. From the centre of the chamber hung a model 
 of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table, 
 and a large sea-chest, formed the principal movables. About 
 the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such as Admiral Hosier's 
 Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom Bowling, intermingled with 
 pictures of sea-fights, among which the battle of Camperdown 
 held a distinguished place. The mantel-piece was decorated with 
 sea-shells ; over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood- 
 cuts of most bitter-looking naval commanders. His implements 
 
 « J. Davors. 
 
420 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 for angling Avere carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the 
 room. On a shelf was arranged his library, containing a work 
 on angling, much worn, a Bible covered with canvas, an odd 
 volume or two of voyages, a nautical almanac, and a book of 
 songs. 
 
 His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and a 
 paiTot which he had caught and tamed, and educated himself, in 
 the course of one of his voj'ages ; and which uttered a variety of 
 sea phrases with the hoarse brattling tone of a veteran boatswain. 
 The establishment reminded me of that of the renowned Robinson 
 Crusoe ; it was kept in neat order, every thing being " stowed 
 away " with the regularity of a ship of Avar ; and he informed 
 me that he "scoured the deck every morning, and swept it 
 between meals." 
 
 I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his 
 pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly 
 on the threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolu- 
 tions in an iron ring that SAVung in the centre of his cage. He 
 had been angling all day, and gave me a history of his sport with 
 as much minuteness as a general Avould talk OA'er a campaign ; 
 being particularly animated in relating the manner in which he had 
 taken a large trout, which had completely tasked all his skill and 
 Avariness, and AA'hich he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of 
 the inn. 
 ■ HoAV comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age ; 
 and to behold a poor felloAV, like this, after being tempest-tost 
 through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the 
 evening of his days ! His happiness, hoAvever, sprung from 
 within himself, and Avas independent of external circumstances ; 
 
THE ANGLER. 43i 
 
 for he had that inexhaustible good nature, which is the most precious 
 gift of Heaven ; spreading itself like oil over the troubled sea of 
 thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable in the rough- 
 est weather. 
 
 On inquiring further about him, I learnt that he was a univcr- 
 Bal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the tap-room ; where 
 he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sinbad, aston- 
 ished them with his stories of strange lands, and shipwrecks, and 
 sea-fights. He was much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of 
 the neighborhood ; had taught several of them the art of angling ; 
 and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor 
 of liis Kfe was quiet and inoffensive, being principally passed 
 about the neighboring streams, when the weather and season were 
 favorable ; and at other times he employed himself at home, pre- 
 paring his fishing tackle for the next campaign, or manufacturing 
 rods, nets, and flies, for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. 
 
 He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he 
 generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his 
 particular request that when he died he should be buried in a 
 green spot, which he could see from his seat in church, and which 
 he had marked out ever since he was a boy, and had thought of 
 when far from home on the raging sea, in danger of being food 
 for the fishes — it was the spot where his father and mother had 
 been buried. 
 
 I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ; but 
 I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy 
 "brother of the angle;" who has made me more tban ever in 
 love with the theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in the 
 practice of his art : and I wUl conclude this rambling sketch in 
 
422 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 tne words of honest Izaak "Walton, by craving the blessing of 
 St. Peter's master upon my reader, " and upon all that are true 
 lovers of virtue ; and dare trust in bis providence ; and be quiet ; 
 and go a angling." 
 
THE LEGEND OE SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 FOUND A.MONQ THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICK- 
 ERBOCKER. 
 
 A pleasin;; land of drowsy head it was, 
 
 Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye i 
 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
 For ever flushing round a summer sky. 
 
 Castle op Indolence. 
 
 In the bosom of one of tliose spacious coves which indent the 
 eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river 
 denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, 
 and where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored 
 the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a 
 small market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greens- 
 burgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the 
 name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in 
 former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, 
 from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about 
 the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not 
 vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being 
 precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about 
 two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among 
 
424 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 higli hills, wliicli is one of the quietest places in the whole •world 
 A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull 
 one to repose ; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping 
 of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in 
 upon the uniform tranquillity. 
 
 I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel- 
 shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side 
 of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon time, when all 
 nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my 
 own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was pro- 
 longed and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should 
 w^ish for a retreat, wliither I might steal from the world and its 
 distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled 
 life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. 
 
 "From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar cha- 
 racter of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original 
 Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the 
 name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the 
 Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A 
 drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to 
 pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was be- 
 witched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the 
 settlement ; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizai'd 
 of his tribe, held his po\\wow5 there before the country was dis- 
 covered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place 
 still continues under the SAvay of some witching power, that holds 
 a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk 
 in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvel- 
 ous beliefs ; are subject to trances and visions ; and frequently 
 see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 4l'5 
 
 whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and 
 twilight supei'stitions ; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across 
 the valley than in any other part of the country, and the night- 
 mare, ■with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite 
 scene of her gambols. 
 
 - The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted re- 
 gion, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of 
 the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback Avithout a head. 
 It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose 
 head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless 
 battle during the revolutionary war ; and Avho is ever and anou 
 seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the glo®m of night, 
 as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to 
 the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and espe- 
 cially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, 
 certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have 
 been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concern- 
 ing this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper, having been 
 burled in the church-yard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of 
 battle in nightly quest of his head ; and that the rushing speed with 
 which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight 
 blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back 
 to the church-yard before daybreak. 
 
 Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, 
 which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that 
 region of shadows ; and the spectre is known, at all the country 
 firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy 
 Hollow. 
 
 It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have men- 
 tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but 
 
426 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for & 
 time. However wide aAvuke they may have been before they 
 entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to (, 
 inhalo the Avitching influence of the air, and begin to grow imagi- 
 native — to dream dreams, and see apparitions. 
 
 T mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; for it is 
 in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embo- 
 somed in the great state of New- York, that population, manners, 
 and customs, remain fixed ; while the great torrent of migi'ation 
 and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in 
 other partg of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. 
 They are like those little nooks of still Avater which border a 
 rapid stream ; where we may see the straw and bubble riding 
 quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, 
 undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many 
 years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy 
 Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same 
 trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. 
 
 In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote period of 
 American history, that is tc say, some thirty years since, a worthy 
 wight of the name of Ichabod Crane ; who sojourned, or, as he 
 expressed it, " tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of 
 instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of 
 Connecticut ; a state which supplies the Union with pioneers for 
 the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its 
 legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The 
 cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was 
 tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and 
 legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might 
 have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOV/. 42T 
 
 together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, 
 large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked 
 like a weather-cock, perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which 
 way the wind blew. To see him striding along the pi'ofile of a 
 hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering 
 about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine 
 descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a 
 corn fi el J. 
 
 His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely 
 constructed of logs ; the windows partly glazed, and partly 
 patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingeniously 
 secured at vacant houi's, by a withe twisted in the handle of the 
 door, and stakes set against the window-shutters ; so that, though 
 a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embar- 
 rassment in getting out ; an idea most probably borrowed by the 
 architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot. 
 The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, 
 just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, 
 and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. From 
 hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their 
 lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum 
 of a bee-hive ; interrupted now and then by the authoritative 
 voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command ; or, per- 
 adventure, by the appal'ing sound of the birch, as he urged some 
 tai'dy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to 
 say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the 
 golden maxim, " Spare the rod and spoil the child." — Ichabod 
 Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 
 
 I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of 
 those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of their 
 
428 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 subjects ; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimi- 
 nation rather than severity ; taking the burthen off the backs of 
 the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny 
 stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed 
 by Avith indulgence ; but the claims of justice were satisfied by 
 inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, 
 broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew 
 dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called " doing 
 his duty by their parents ;" and ho never inflicted a chastisement 
 without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the 
 smarting urchin, that " he would remember it and thank him for 
 it the longest day he had to live." 
 
 "Wlien school hours were over, he was even the companion 
 and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holiday afternoons 
 would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to 
 have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the 
 comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behooved him to keep on 
 good terms Avith his pupils. The revenue arising from his school 
 was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him 
 with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though lank, had 
 the dilating powers of an anaconda ; but to help out his mainte- 
 nance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded 
 and lodged at the houses of the farmers, whose children he in- 
 structed. With these he lived successively a week at a time ; 
 thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, Avith all his worldly 
 effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 
 
 That aU this might not be too onerous on the purses of his 
 rustic patrons, Avho are apt to consider the costs of schooling a 
 grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had vari- 
 ous ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. IIg 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 429 
 
 assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their 
 farms ; helped to make hay ; mended the fences ; took -the horses 
 to water ; drove the cows from pasture ; and cut wood for the 
 winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and 
 absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the 
 school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He 
 found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the children, 
 particularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold, which whilom 
 so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child 
 on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole houi's 
 together. 
 
 In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master 
 of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by 
 instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no 
 little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his station in front of the 
 church gallery, with a band of chosen singers ; where, in his own 
 mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. 
 Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the 
 congregation ; and- there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in 
 that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite 
 to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, 
 which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of 
 Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little make-shifts, in that inge- 
 nious way which is commonly denominated " by hook and by 
 crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was 
 thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, 
 to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 
 
 The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in 
 the female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being considered a 
 kind of idle gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior taste 
 
430 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, 
 inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, there- 
 fore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farm- 
 house, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or 
 sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our 
 man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of 
 all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in 
 the church-yard, between services on Sundays ! gathering grapes 
 for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees ; 
 reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; 
 or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the 
 adjacent mill-pond ; while the more bashful country bumpkins 
 hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and ad- 
 dress. 
 
 From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of traveling 
 gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to 
 house ; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfac- 
 tion. He w^as, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of 
 gi-eat erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and 
 was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's History of New Eng- 
 land Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and po- 
 tently believed. 
 
 He was, in fa.ct, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and 
 simple credulity. His appetite for the marvelous, and his pow- 
 ers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; and both had 
 been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No 
 tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It 
 was often his delight, after his scliool was dismissed in the after- 
 noon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordei'ing the 
 little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and there con 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 431 
 
 over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of the 
 evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. 
 Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful 
 woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, 
 every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited 
 imagination : the moan of the whip-poor-will* from the hill-side ; 
 the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm ; the 
 dreary hooting of the screech-owl or the sudden rustling in the 
 thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, 
 which sparkled most vividly in the dai'kest places, now and then 
 startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across 
 his path ; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came 
 winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was 
 ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with 
 a witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either to 
 drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; 
 — and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their 
 doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing his 
 nasal melody, " in linked sweetness long drawn out," floating from 
 the distant hill, or along the dusky road. 
 
 Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long 
 winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning 
 by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along 
 the heartJi, and listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts and gob- 
 lins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, 
 and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, 
 or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called 
 him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witch- 
 
 * The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives 
 its name from its note, which ia thought to resemble those words. 
 
432 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 craft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds 
 in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut ; 
 and would frighten them wofuUy with speculations upon comets 
 and shooting stars ; and with the alarming fact that the world did 
 absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy- 
 turvy ! 
 
 But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling 
 in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy 
 glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spec- 
 tre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors 
 of his subsequent walk homewards. "What fearful shapes and 
 Bhadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a 
 Bnowy night ! — With what wistful look did he eye every trembling 
 ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant 
 window ! — How often was he appalled by some shrub covered 
 with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path ! — 
 How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his 
 own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet ; and dread to look 
 over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being 
 tramping close behind him ! — and how often was he thrown into 
 complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, 
 in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly 
 scourlngs ! 
 
 All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms 
 of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though he had seen many 
 spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in 
 divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an 
 end to all these evils ; and he would have passed a pleasant life 
 of it, in despite of the devil and all his works. If his path had 
 not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal 
 
THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 433 
 
 man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put 
 together, and that was — a woman. 
 
 Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in 
 each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina 
 Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch 
 farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; plump as a 
 partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy-checked as one of her 
 father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, 
 but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, 
 as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of 
 ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. 
 She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great- 
 great-grandmother had bi'ouglit over frpm Saardam ; the tempt- 
 ing stomacher of the olden time ; and withal a provokingly short 
 petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country 
 round. 
 
 Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex ; 
 and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon 
 found favor in his eyes ; more especially after he had visited her 
 in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect 
 picture of a thriving, contented, iiberal-hearted farmer. He sel- 
 dom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the 
 boundaiies of his own farm ; but within those every thino- was 
 snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his 
 wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty 
 abundance^ rather than the style in which he lived. His strong- 
 hold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those 
 green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so 
 fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches 
 
 over it ; at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest 
 
 19 
 
434 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 and sweetest water, in a little well, formed of a barrel ; and tlicn 
 stole sparkling away throngli the grass, to a neighboring brook, 
 that bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by 
 the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a 
 church ; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting 
 forth with the treasures of the farm ; the flail was busily resound- 
 ing within it from morning to night ; swallows and martins skim- 
 med twittering about the eaves ; and rows of pigeons, some with 
 one eye turned up. as if watching the weather, some with their 
 heads ' under their Vv^ings, or buried in their bosoms, and others 
 swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, Avere enjoy- 
 ing the sunshine on the roof. Sleek uuAvieldy porkers were 
 grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens ; whence sal- 
 lied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the 
 air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an ad- 
 joining pond, convoying wliole fleets of ducks ; regiments of 
 turkeys were gobbling through the farm-yard, and guinea fowls 
 fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish 
 discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, 
 that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clap- 
 ping his burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness 
 of liis heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and 
 then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and 
 children to enjoy the rich morsel Avhich he had discovered. 
 
 The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon his sump- 
 tuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind's 
 eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with 
 a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth ; the pigeons 
 were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with 
 a eoverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in their own gravy : 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 4% 
 
 and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married coupleSj 
 with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he 
 saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishinp; 
 ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its 
 gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savoiy 
 sausages ; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on 
 his back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that 
 quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 
 
 As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled 
 his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of 
 wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards 
 burthened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement 
 of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to in- 
 herit these domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, 
 •how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money 
 invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces iu 
 the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, 
 and presented to him the blooming Kacrina, with a whole family 
 of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household 
 trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld 
 himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting 
 out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. 
 
 When he entered the house the conquest of his heart was 
 complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high- 
 ridg(^,d, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down 
 from the first Dutch settlers ; the low projecting eaves forming a 
 piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. 
 Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husban- 
 dry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were 
 built along the sides for summer use ; and a great spinning-wheel 
 
436 THE SKETCH BOt)K. 
 
 at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to 
 which this important porch might be devoted. From tliis piazza 
 the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre 
 of the mansion and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of 
 resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. 
 In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun ; in 
 another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom ; ears of 
 Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay 
 festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; 
 and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where 
 the claw-footed chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like mir- 
 rors ; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glis- 
 tened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock oranges and 
 conch-shells decorated the mantel-piece ; strings of various-colored 
 birds' eggs were suspended above it ; a great ostrich egg was 
 hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, know- 
 ingly left open, displayed imijiense treasures of old silver and 
 well-mended china. 
 
 From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions 
 of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only 
 study was h w to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of 
 Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real diffi- 
 culties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore, 
 who seldom had any thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, 
 and such like easily conquered adversaries, to contend with ; and 
 had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and 
 walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart 
 was confined ; all which he achieved as easily as a man would 
 carvft his way to the centre of a Christmas pie ; and then the lady 
 gave him her hand as a matter of course Ichabod, on the con- 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 437 
 
 trary, had to win liis way to the heart of a country coquette, be- 
 set with a labyrinth of Avhims and caprices, which were for ever 
 presenting new difficulties and impediments ; and he had to en- 
 counter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the 
 numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart ; 
 keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to 
 fly out in the common cause against any new competitor. 
 
 Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, royster- 
 ing blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch 
 abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, 
 which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He wa3 
 broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, 
 and a bluff, but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air 
 of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great 
 powers of limb, he had received the nickname of Bkom Bones, 
 by which he was universally known. He was famed for great 
 knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dextrous on horse- 
 back as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock-fights ; 
 and, with the ascendency which bodily strength acquires in rustic 
 life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and 
 giving his decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay 
 or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic ; but 
 had more mischief than ill-will in his composition ; and, with all 
 his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish 
 good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, 
 who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he 
 scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment 
 for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur 
 cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when the folks at 
 a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, 
 
438 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 whisking about among a squad of hard riders, thej always stood by 
 for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along 
 past the farmhouses at midnight, with hoop and halloo, like a troop 
 of Don Cossacks ; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, 
 would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered 
 by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his 
 gang !" The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, 
 admiration, and good will ; and when any madcap prank, or rustic 
 brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and war- 
 ranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 
 
 This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the bloom- 
 ing Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though 
 his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and 
 endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not 
 altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were 
 signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to 
 cross a lion in his amours ; insomuch, that when his horse was 
 seen tied to Van Tassel's paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign 
 that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking," 
 within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war 
 into other quarters. 
 
 Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had 
 to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than he 
 would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would 
 have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability 
 and perseverance in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a 
 supple-jack — yielding, but tough ; though he bent, he never 
 broke ; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, 
 the moment it was away — jerk ! he was as erect, and carried hia 
 head an high as ever. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 439 
 
 To have taken the field openly against his I'ival would have 
 been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his 
 amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, 
 therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating 
 manner. Under cover of his character of 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 
 Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul ; he loved his daughter 
 better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an 
 excellent father, let her have her way in every thing. His nota- 
 ble little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeep- 
 ing and manage her poultry ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks 
 and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls 
 can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame bustled 
 about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the 
 piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the 
 other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, 
 armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the 
 wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod 
 would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the 
 spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, 
 that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. 
 
 I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and 
 won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admi- 
 ration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of 
 access ; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be cap- 
 tured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill 
 to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to 
 maintain possession of the latter, for a man must bivttle for his 
 
440 THE SKETCH BOCK. 
 
 fortress at every door ancPwindow. 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 preceptor 
 of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, 
 would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have settled 
 their pi'etensions to the lady, according to the mode of those most 
 concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore — by 
 single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior 
 might of his adversary to enter the lists against him : he had 
 overheard a boast of Bones, that he would " double the school- 
 master up, and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house ;" and 
 he Avas too wary to give him an opportunity. There was some- 
 thing extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; it 
 left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic 
 waggery m his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes 
 ujion his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical perse- 
 cution 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 schoolmas 
 tcr began to think all the witches in the country held their meet- 
 ings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all 
 opportunities of turning hioi into ridicule in presence of his mis- 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOILOW. 441 
 
 tress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the 
 most hidicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to 
 instruct her in psalmody. 
 
 In this way matters went on for some time, without producing 
 any material effect o« 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 jus- 
 tice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to 
 evil doers ; while on the desk before liim might be seen sundry 
 contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the 
 persons of idle urchins ; such as half-munched apples, popguns, 
 whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper 
 game-cocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of 
 justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent 
 upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye 
 kept upon 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 managed 
 with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the 
 school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a meiry- 
 making or " quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer 
 Van Tassel's ; and having delivered 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 brook, 
 and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of tho impor- 
 tance and hurry of his mission. 
 
 19* 
 
U2 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 All was no^ bustle and liubbub in the late quiet school-room 
 The scholars were hurried through their lessons, without stopping 
 at trifles ; those who were nimble skipped over half with impu- 
 nity, and those who were tardy, had a smart application now and 
 then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or telp them over a taU 
 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 eai'ly 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 borrowed a horse from the farmer v/ith whom he was 
 domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Vaii 
 Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight- 
 errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the 
 true spirit of romantic story, give some account of tlie looks and 
 equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode 
 was a broken-down plough-horse, that had outlived almost every 
 thing but his viciousness. 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 bun-s ; 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 Ave may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. 
 He had, m fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the cholerio 
 Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very 
 
THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 443 
 
 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 perpendicularly 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 Van Ripper, and it was alto- 
 gether such an apparition 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 abundance. The forests 
 had put on their sober brown and yelloAV, 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 squir- 
 rel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, 
 and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neigh- 
 boring stubble-field. 
 
 The small birds were taking their fai'ewell banquets. In the 
 fullness of their I'evelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking. 
 from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very pro- 
 fusion and variety ai-ound them. There was the honest cock- 
 robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud 
 
444 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 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 
 rnonteiro cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, 
 in his gay light-blue coat and white under clothes ; screaming and 
 chattering, nodding and bobbing 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 dehght 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 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 beneath them, 
 turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and givhig ample 
 prospects of the most luxurious of pies ; and anon he passe'd the 
 fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and 
 as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty 
 skipjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by 
 the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 
 
 Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and " su- 
 gared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of 
 hiUs which look out upon some of the goodUest scenes of the 
 mighty Hudson. The sun gradually Avheeled his broad disk 
 down into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay 
 motioidess and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle un- 
 dulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 445 
 
 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 slanting ray lingered 
 on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts 
 of the river, giving greater deptli to the dark-gray and purple of 
 their rocky sides. 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 Avas suspended in the air. 
 
 It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of 
 the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged Avith the pi-ide 
 and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leath- 
 ern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, 
 huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk with- 
 ered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted shortgowns, 
 homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico 
 pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as anti- 
 quated as their mothers, exceptmg Avhere a straw hat, a fine 
 riband, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innova- 
 tion. The sons, in short square-skirted coats Avith roAvs of stu- 
 pendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the 
 fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin 
 for the purpose, it being esteemed, throughout the country, as a 
 potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. 
 
 Brom Bones, however, Avas the hero of the scene, having 
 come to the gatheiing on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, 
 like himself, full of metal and mischief, and Avhich no one but 
 himself could manage. He Avas, in fact, noted for preferring 
 vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider 
 
446 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 in coBstant risk of 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 Van 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 genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the 
 sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakea 
 of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experi- 
 enced 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 pumpkin 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 Avith boAvls of milk and cream, all 
 mino-led higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated 
 them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of vapor 
 from the midst — Heaven bless the mark ! I want breath and 
 time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to 
 get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so 
 great a hurry as liis historian, but did ample justice to every 
 dainty. 
 
 He was a Mnd and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in 
 proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer ; and whose 
 spirits rose with eating as some men's do Avith drink. He could 
 not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and 
 chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all 
 this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. U1 
 
 he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school- 
 house ; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van 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 humoi*, round and jolly as the 
 harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expres- 
 sive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, 
 a loud laugh, and a pressing inA'itation to " fall to, and help them- 
 selves." 
 
 And now the sound of the music from the common room, or 
 hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray- 
 headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neigh- 
 borhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as 
 old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time ho 
 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. 
 
 Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as 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 admiration of all the negroes ; "who, having gathered, 
 of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood 
 forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and win- 
 dow, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, 
 and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could 
 the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous ? 
 
448 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 the lady of liis heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling 
 graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, 
 sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in 
 one corner. 
 
 When the dance was at an end, Icbabod was attracted to a 
 knot of the sager folks, who, with old Yan Tassel, sat smoking at 
 one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawing 
 out long stories about the war;' 
 
 This neighborhood, at the time of v/hicb I am speaking, was 
 one of those highly favored places which abound with chronicle 
 and great men. The British and American line had run near it 
 during the war ; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding, 
 and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border chi- 
 valry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-teller 
 to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the in- 
 distinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every 
 exploit. 
 
 There was the story of Doflfue Martling, a large blue-bearded 
 Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old 
 iron nine-pounder from a mud breastv^'ork, only that his gun burst 
 at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who 
 shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly men- 
 tioned, who, in the battle of Whiteplains, being an excellent mas- 
 ter of defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, inso- 
 much that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance 
 ofi" at the hilt : in proof of which, he was ready at any time to 
 show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several 
 more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom 
 but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing 
 the war to a happy termination. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 449 
 
 But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appari- 
 tions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary 
 treasures of the kind. Local talcs and superstitions thrive best in 
 these sheltered long-settled retx-eats ; but are trampled under fool 
 by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our 
 country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in 
 most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish 
 their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their 
 surviving friends have traveled away from the neighborhood ; so 
 that -when they turn out at night to Avalk their rounds, they have 
 no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason 
 why we so seldom heai of ghosts except in our long-established 
 Dutch communities. 
 
 The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super 
 natural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity 
 of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that 
 blew from that haunted region ; it breathed forth an atmosphere 
 of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the 
 Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, 
 were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal 
 tales were told about funeral trains, and moui'ning cries and wail- 
 ings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate 
 Major Andre was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. 
 Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted 
 the dark glen at Eaven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on 
 winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. 
 The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite 
 ppectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been 
 heard several times of late, patrolling the country ; and, it was said, 
 tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the church-yard. 
 
450 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have 
 made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, 
 surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which ita 
 decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian 
 purity, beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle 
 slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by 
 high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills 
 of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the 
 sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at 
 least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church 
 extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook 
 among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep 
 black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly 
 thrown a wooden bridge ; the road that led to it, and the bridge 
 itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a 
 gloom about it, even in the daytime ; but occasioned a feai'ful 
 darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the 
 headless horseman ; and the place where he was most frequently 
 encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical 
 disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from 
 his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind 
 him ; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and 
 swamp, until they reached the bridge ; when the horseman sud- 
 denly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, 
 and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 
 
 This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvelous 
 adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping Hes- 
 sian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, on returning one 
 night from the neighboring village of Sing-Sing, he had been 
 overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that he had offered to race 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 451 
 
 ■witli him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for 
 Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but, just as they came 
 to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a tla^h 
 of fire. 
 
 All these tales, told in tliat drowsy undertone with which men 
 talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and 
 then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep 
 in the mind of Ichabod. lie repaid them in kind with large ex- 
 tracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Matlier, and added many 
 marvelous events that had taken place in his native state of Con- 
 necticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks 
 about Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered 
 together their families in their Avagons, and were heard for some 
 time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. 
 Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite 
 swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter 
 of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and 
 fainter until they gmdually died away — and the late scene of 
 noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lin- 
 gered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have 
 a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on 
 the high road to success. What passed at this interview I will 
 not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, how- 
 ever, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied 
 forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and 
 chop-fallen — Oh these women ! these women ! Could that girl 
 have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks ? — Was her 
 encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure 
 her conquest of his rival ? — Heaven only knows, not I ! — Let it 
 
452 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 suffice to say, Icbabod stole forth witt the air of one wlio had 
 been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. With- 
 out looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, 
 on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, 
 and with several hearty cuflfs and kicks, roused his steed mo8t 
 uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was 
 soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and 
 whole valleys of timothy and clover. 
 
 It was the very witching time of night that Icbabod, heavy- 
 hearted, and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along the 
 sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which 
 he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as 
 dismal as himself. Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread its 
 dusky and indistinct waste of Avaters, with here and there the tall 
 mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the 
 dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the 
 watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but it was so 
 vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this 
 faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn 
 crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far 
 off, from some farmhouse away among the hills — but it was like 
 a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, 
 but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the 
 guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if 
 sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. 
 
 All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the 
 afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night 
 grew darker and darker ; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the 
 sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight 
 He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, ap- 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 proacliing the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost 
 stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enor- 
 mous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other 
 trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its 
 limbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large enough to form trunks 
 for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising 
 again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of 
 the unfortunate Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by ; 
 and was universally known by the name of IMajor Andre's tree. 
 The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and 
 superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred 
 namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful 
 lamentations told concerning it. 
 
 As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle : 
 he thought his whistle was answered — it was but a blast sweep- 
 ing sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little 
 nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst 
 of the tree — he paused and ceased whistling ; but on looking 
 more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had 
 been scathed by lightning, and the Avhite wood laid bare. Sud- 
 denly he heard a groan — his teeth chattered and his knees smote 
 against the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge bough 
 upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He 
 passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him. 
 
 About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed 
 the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known 
 by the name of "Wiley's swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by 
 side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the 
 road where the brook entered the Avood, a group of oaks and chest- 
 uuta, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom 
 
454 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at 
 this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and 
 under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy 
 yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been 
 considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the 
 schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark. 
 
 As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump ; he 
 summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a 
 score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across 
 the bridge ; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old ani- 
 mal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the 
 fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the 
 reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot : 
 it was all in vain ; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to 
 plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles 
 and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip 
 and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed 
 forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the 
 bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling 
 over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side 
 of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark 
 shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld some- 
 thing huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but 
 seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster 
 ready to spring upon the traveler. 
 
 The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with 
 terror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly was now too 
 late ; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or 
 goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the 
 wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he de- 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 455 
 
 raanded in stammering accents — " Who are you ?" He received 
 no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voicei. 
 Still there Avas no answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides of 
 the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with 
 involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy 
 object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a 
 bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the 
 night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might 
 now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horse- 
 man of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of pow- 
 erful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but 
 kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind 
 side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and 
 waywai'dness. 
 
 Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight compan- 
 ion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with 
 the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of 
 leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse 
 to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, think- 
 ing to lag behind — the other did the same. His heart began to 
 sink within him ; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but 
 his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could 
 not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dog- 
 ged silence of this pertinacious companion, that was mysterious 
 and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting 
 a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in 
 relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and rauflled in a cloak, 
 Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was headless ! — 
 but his horror was still moi-e increased, on observing that tlio 
 head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was canieel 
 
456 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 before him on the pommel of the saddle : his terror rose to despe- 
 rsitioR ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, 
 hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip — 
 but the spectre started full jump with him. Away then they 
 dashed, through thick and thin ; stones flying, and sparks flashiilg, 
 at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, 
 as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse's head, in 
 the eagerness of his flight.. 
 
 They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
 Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, 
 instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged 
 headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy 
 hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it 
 crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells 
 the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. 
 
 As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider an 
 apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got half way 
 through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt 
 it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and en- 
 deavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and had just time to save 
 himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the 
 saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by 
 his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's 
 wrath passed across his mind — for it was his Sunday saddle ; but 
 this was no time for petty fears ; the goblin was hard on his 
 haunches ; and (unskillful rider that he was !) he had much ado 
 to maintain his seat ; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes 
 on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's 
 back bone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him 
 asunder. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. lb'/ 
 
 An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that 
 the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a 
 eilver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not 
 mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimlj glaring under 
 the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones' 
 ghostly competitor had disappeared. " If I can but reach that 
 bridge," thought Ichabod, " I am safe." Just then he heard (he 
 black steed panting and blowing close behind him ; he even fan- 
 cied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the 
 ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge ; he thundered 
 over the resounding planks ; he gained the opposite side ; and 
 now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should 
 vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just 
 then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act 
 of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the 
 horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a 
 tremendous crash — he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and 
 Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like 
 a whirlwind. 
 
 The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, 
 and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at 
 liis master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at break- 
 fast — dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at 
 the school-house, and strolled idly about the banjj^s of the brook ; 
 but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some 
 uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An 
 inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came 
 upon his traces. In cue part of the road leading to the church 
 was found the saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of horses' 
 hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed- 
 
 20 
 
458 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 were traced to the bi'idge, beyond which, on the Dank of a. broad 
 part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found 
 tlie hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered 
 pumpkin. 
 
 The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster 
 was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his 
 estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. 
 They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck ; 
 a pair or two of worsted stockings ; an old pair of corduroy small- 
 clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of psalm tunes, full of dog's ears ; 
 and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the 
 school-house, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton 
 Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a 
 book of dreams and fortune-telling ; in which last was a sheet of 
 foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to 
 make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. 
 These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned 
 to the flames by Hans Van Ripper ; who from that time forward 
 determined to send his children no more to school ; observing, 
 that he never knew any good come of this same reading and 
 writing. "Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he 
 had received his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must 
 have had about his person at the time of his disappearance. 
 
 The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church 
 an the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were col- 
 lected in the church-yard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the 
 hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of 
 Bones, and a whole budget of otJiers, were called to mind ; and 
 when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them 
 ivith the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 459 
 
 and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by 
 tlie galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's 
 debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him . the school 
 was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pe- 
 dagogue reigned in his stead. 
 
 It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New- York on 
 <i visit several years after, and from whom this account of the 
 ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence 
 that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that he had left the neighbor- 
 Jiood, partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, 
 and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by 
 the heiress ; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of 
 the country ; had kept school and studied law at the same time ; 
 had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, 
 written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice 
 c>f the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones too, Avho shortly after hia 
 rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katriua in triumph 
 to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever 
 the slory of Ichabod was x'elated, and always burst into a 
 hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin ; which led some 
 to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose 
 to tell. 
 
 The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of 
 these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away 
 by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story often told about 
 the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. Tlie bridge be- 
 came more than ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may 
 be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so aa 
 to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The 
 Bchool-house being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported 
 
460 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and 
 the plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has 
 often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm 
 tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 / 
 
POSTSCRIPT, 
 
 FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 
 
 The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words ir 
 whicli I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient 
 city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and 
 most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, 
 gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly 
 humorous face ; and one whom I strongly susjiected of being 
 poor, — he made such efforts to be entertaining. "When his story 
 was concluded, there Avas much laughter and approbation, par- 
 ticularly fi-om two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep 
 the gx'eater pai't of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry- 
 looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained 
 a grave and rather severe face throughout : now and then folding 
 his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as 
 if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary 
 men, who never laugh, but upon good grounds — when they have 
 reason and the law on their side. V/hen tlie mirth of the lest 
 of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned 
 one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the other a-kimbo, 
 demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head, 
 and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story. 
 and what it went to prove ? 
 
462 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 The story-teller, wlio was just putting a glass of wine to hia 
 lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked 
 at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the 
 glass slowly to the table, observed, that the story was intended 
 most logically to prove : — 
 
 " That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
 pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it : 
 
 " That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers i« 
 likely to have rough riding of it. 
 
 " Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand 
 of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the 
 state." 
 
 The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after 
 this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the 
 syllogism ; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him 
 with something of a triumphant leer. At length, he observed, 
 that all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little 
 on the extravagant — there were one or two points on which he 
 had his doubts. 
 
 " Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, '•' as to that matter, 1 
 ^on't believe one-half of it myself." 
 
 D. K 
 
L'ENYOY.* 
 
 Go, little booke, God send llifo good pussugc, 
 Aiul sjieoially lot tliis be thy prayere, 
 Unto lliem all that thee will read or hear, 
 Where thou art wronj, after their help to caD, 
 Thee to correct in any part or all. 
 
 Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Mercie. 
 
 In concluding a second volume of the Sketch Book, the Author 
 cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with which 
 his first has been received, and of the liberal disposition that has 
 been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. Even the 
 critics, whatever may be said of them by others, he has found to 
 be a singularly gentle and good-natured race ; it is true that each 
 has in turn objected to some one or two articles, and that these 
 individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would amount 
 almost to a total condemnation of his work ; but then he has been 
 consoled by observing, that what one has particularly censured, 
 another has as particularly praised ; and thus, the encomiums 
 being set off against the objections, he finds his work, upon the 
 whole, commended far beyond its deserts. 
 
 He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this 
 Wnd favor by not following the counsel that has been liberally 
 
 * Closing the second volume of the London edition. 
 
464 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 bestowed upon him ; for where abundance of valuable advice is 
 given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if he should go 
 astray. He only can say, in his vindication, that he faithfully 
 determined, for a time, to govern himself in his second volume by 
 the opinions passed upon his first ; but he was soon brought to a 
 stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly ad- 
 vised him to avoid the ludicrous ; another to shun the pathetic ; 
 a third assured him that he was tolerable at description, but cau- 
 tioned him to leave narrative alone ; while a fourth declared that 
 he had-a very pretty knack at turning a story, and Avas reaUy 
 entertaining when in a pensive mood, but was grievously mis- 
 taken if he imagined himself to possess a spirit of humor. 
 
 Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in 
 turn closed some particular path, but left him all the world beside 
 to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels would, in 
 fact, be to stand still. He remained for a time sadly embarrassed ; 
 when, all at once, the thought struck him to ramble on as he had 
 begun ; that his work being miscellaneous, and written for differ- 
 ent humors, it could not be expected that any one Avould be 
 pleased with the whole ; but that if it should contain something 
 to suit each reader, his end would be completely answered. Few 
 guests sit down to a varied table Avitli an equal appetite for every 
 dish. One has an elegant horror of a roasted pig ; another holds 
 a curry or a devil in utter abomination ; a third cannot tolerate 
 the ancient flavor of venison and wild-fowl ; and a fourth, of 
 tnily masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt on those 
 knick-knacks, here and there dished up for the ladies. Thus each 
 article is condemned in its turn ; and yet, amidst this variety of 
 appetiteS; seldom does a dish go away from the table without 
 being lasted and relished by some one or other of the guests. 
 
L'ENVOY. 405 
 
 "With these considerations he ventures to serve up this second 
 volume in the same heterogeneous way with his first ; simply 
 requesting the reader, if he should find here and there something 
 to please him, to rest assured that it was written expressly for 
 intelligent readers like himself; but entreating him, should he 
 find any thing to dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those articles 
 which the author ha3 been obliged to write for readers of a less 
 refined taste. 
 
 To be serious. — The author is conscious of the numerous 
 faults and imperfections of his work ; and well aware how little 
 he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of authorship. His 
 deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence arising from his 
 peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in a strange land, 
 and appearing before a public which he has been accustomed, 
 from childhood, to regard with the highest feelings of awe and 
 reverence. He is full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, 
 yet finds that very solicitude continually embarrassing his powers, 
 and depriving him of that ease and confidence which are neces- 
 sary 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 footing ; and thus he proceeds, half venturing, 
 half shrinking, surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering 
 at his own temerity- 
 
 THE END. 
 
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