IVo. so P S > <^^ # '^ a066 #1 >** Ji^ ^ ?*f ^ ^ f* -#> ^1* f^ # ,,^ # # #> # # # # I vt>; X*« **« J*^ ^ r*f ^ .,^ ^ 4^ «|, ^ 4^ 4^ Xf/r Xt> Xfx ^ >*^ **« 4^ ^ ^^ 4^ ^ (f. 'f> *^ A1N5WORTH & COMPANY . . . CHIOTOO . . . #» ^ #• # # # LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Chap. Copyriglit No. -— .- Shelf _K As, A 4* UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 9—404 WASHINGTON IRVING, gbe Xabegibe Series ot Engtigb iRea&lngs £Iir>tg SELECTIONS THE SKETCH BOOK BY WASHINGTON IRVING WITI/ AN INTRODUCTION FOR THE USE OF SCHOOIS AND ACADEMIES CHICAGO: AINSWORTH & COMPANY igoo V G9403 fibrso-y of Conpr««« NOV 1 1900 Co^ynght entry SECOND COPY. LOROW twviaoN. MOV 23 190U Copyright, 1900, By AINSWORTH & COMPANY, Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons are the publishers of the complete and au- thorized editions of Irving's works. Acknowledgments are due to the compiler of Lessons in Literature for material taken from that book. INTRODUCTION. Washington Irving. (1783-1859.) "Washington Irving!" Why, gentlemen, I don't go upstairs to bed two nights out of the seven without taking Washington Irving under my arm." — Charles Dickens. Washington Irving, one of the earliest and most popular of American writers, was born in New York City in 1783. He received only a common-school education, leaving the schoolroom at sixteen, yet for many years afterward he pursued a systematic course of reading. In his boyhood days he seemed to have a natural talent for writing essays and stories. As he always disliked mathematics, he often wrote composi- tions for his schoolmates, and they in turn worked out his problems for him. He studied law for a time, but preferred to employ himself in rambling excursions around Manhattan Island, by which he became famil- iar with the beautiful scenery which he afterward made famous by his pen. Thus he acquired that minute knowledge of various historical locations, curious traditions and legends so beautifully made use of in his ** Sketch Book" and ''History of New York." In 1 8 14 he served as an aid to Governor Tompkins, and at the close of the war he went to Europe, where 5 6 WASHING TON IR VING, he remained for seventeen years. Having lost all his property, he devoted himself to literature to earn a living. His '* Sketch Book " was published in 1819; his next works were '' Bracebridge Hall " and ''Tales of a Traveler." Having been commissioned to make some translations from the Spanish, he took up his residence in Madrid. To this sojourn in Spain we are indebted for some of his most charming works, as * ' Life of Columbus, " ' ' Conquest of Granada, " " The Alhambra," ''Mahomet and His Successors," and ' ' Spanish Papers. ' ' He returned to America in 1832. During the next ten years were published "Astoria," ' ' Adventures of Captain Bonneville, ' ' and ' ' Wolf ert's Roost." In 1842 Irving was appointed minister to Spain. His " Life of Goldsmith " was published four years later. His last and most carefully written work was the " Life of Washington," in five volumes. He seems to have been born with a rare sense of literary proportion and form. We wonder how, with his want of training, he could have elaborated a style which is distinctly his own, and is as copious and fe- licitous in the choice of words, flowing, spontaneous, clear, and as little wearisome when read continuously in quantity as any in the English tongue. Irving's last years were passed at " Sunnyside, " his delightful residence at Irvington, on the Hudson, in the wildest of the beautiful scenes which he has im- mortalized. CHRONOLOGY. 1783. April 3, Washington Irving was born in the city of New York. 1800. Began to study law. 1802. Contributions to The Morning Chronicle, signed Jonathan 01dst3'le. 1806. Returned to New York from Europe; was admitted to the bar. 1807. Sabnagundi, a humorous magazine; joint production of Washington Irving, James K. Paulding, and William Irving. 1809. History of New York, by Diedrich Knickerbocker. 18 10. Admitted as a partner with two of his brothers in a mercantile business. 1 8 13-14. Edited Analectic Magazijie, published in Phila- delphia. 1815. Second visit to Europe. 18 19. Failure in business. Bankruptcy. 1819-20. The Sketch Book was published in numbers in New York. 1822. Bracebridge Hall. The characters in the Christmas Sketches reappear in this book.. 1824. Tales of a Traveler; sold for 1,500 guineas to Murray, without his having seen the manuscript. 1828. The Life and Voyages ' of Christopher Columbus. Written while in Madrid. 1829. Ch7'-onicle of the Conquest of G)'anada. 183 1. The University of Oxford conferred on him the de- gree of LL. D. 183 1. Voyages of the Companions of Col u?nb us. 7 8 CHRONOLOGY. 1832. Returned to New York after seventeen years' ab- sence. 1832. The Alha7nbra. Irving lived in the old Moorish palace between two and three months " in a kind of Oriental dream," he says. 1834. Traveled in the West, in company with commission- ers appointed by the United States government to treat with the Indians. 1835. A Tour on the Prairies. Abbotsfora and Newstead Abbey {Crayon Miscellany). 1835. Legends of the Conquest of Spain {Crayon Miscellany). Included in Spanish Papers. 1835. Purchased a tract of land on the Hudson, on which was a small Dutch cottage, the Van Tassel house of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, afterward known as Wolfert's Roost, and rechristened Sunnyside. 1836. Astoria: an account of John Jacob Astor's settlement on the Columbia River, scenes beyond the Rocky Mountains, the fur trade, etc. 1837. The Adventures of Captain Bonneville. 1842-46. Minister to Spain. Notified of his appointment by Daniel Webster. 1849. Oliver Goldsmith: A Biography . 1850. Mahomet and His Successors. 1855. Wolf erf s Roost. 1855-59. The Life of George Washington (five volumes). 1859. November 28, Irving died at Sunnyside. CONTENTS. The Author's Account of Himself, II The Voyage, ...... i6 Rip Van Winkle, 26 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, 53 Westminster Abbey, . - . . . 102 The Stage Coach, . . . » . 119 Rural Life in England, . 129 The Country Church, .... 140 Christmas, 148 On page i 5 5 and following will be found a series of studies on " Rip Van Winkle," on *'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," and on "Westminster Abbey." These are submitted with the thought that they may serve as a guide to the understanding of these selec- tions, and as a suggestion for the study of the other selections. For various reasons these studies have been placed at the end of the volume, and the pub- lishers desire to express their acknowledgments to the author of Skinner's "Studies in Literature," from which volume, published by Ainsworth & Company, these extracts have been taken. 10 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. "I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her shel was turned eftsoones into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would." — Lyly'' s Euphues?- 1 I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town- crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my observation. 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 villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge by noting their habits and customs, and conversing with their sages and great ijohn Lyly, Lylie, Lyllie, or Lilly (1553-1609) was an English wit and writer of Shakespeare's time, who is best known from his novel Euphues ; the style of which was intended to reform and purify that of the English language. 1 2 THE SKETCH B OK. men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the summit of the most distant hill, from whence I stretched my eye over many a mile of tei^ra incognita, and was astonished to find how vast a globe I inhabited. 2 This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books of voyages and travels became my passion; and, in devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exercises of the school. How wistfully would I wander about the pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to distant chmes! With what longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagination to the ends of the earth! 3 Further reading and thinking, though they brought this vague incHnation into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it more decided. I visited vari- ous parts of my own country; and, had I been merely influenced by a love of fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification, for on no country have the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her boundless plains, Qwaving with spontaneous ver- dure; 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 A UTHORS A CCO UNT OF HIMSELF. I 3 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. 4 But Europe held forth all the charms of storied and poetical association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, the refinements of highly culti- vated society, the quaint pecuHarities of ancient and local custom. My native country was full of youth- ful promise; Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, and every moldering stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes of renowned achievement; to tread, as it v/ere, in the footsteps of antiquity; to loiter about the ruined castle; to meditate on the falling tower; to escape, in short, from the commonplace realities of the present, and lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 5 I had, besides all this, an earnest desire to see the great men of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in America: not a city but has an ample share of them. I have mingled among them in my time, and been almost withered by the shade into which they cast me; for there is nothing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a great one, particularly the great man of a city. But I was anxious to see the great men of Europe; for I had read in the works of various philosophers that all animals degenerated in America, and man among the number. A great 14 THE SKETCH BOOK. man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as superior to a great man of America as a peak of the Alps to a highland of the Hudson; and in this idea I was confirmed by observing the comparative impor- tance and swelling magnitude of many English travel- ers 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. 6 It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving passion gratified. I have wandered through different countries, and witnessed many of the shift- ing scenes of life. I can not say that I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher, but rather with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to another; caught sometimes by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the enter- tainment of my friends. When, however, I look over the hints and memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost fails me at finding how my idle humor has led me aside from the great objects studied by every regular traveler who would make a book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky landscape painter, who had traveled on THE A UTHOR'S A CCOUNT OF HIMSELF. I 5 the Continent, 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. Peter's^ or the Colos- seum, the cascade of Terni ^ or the Bay of Naples, and had not a single glacier or volcano in his whole collection. iThe Church of St. Peter in Rome is built upon the site of the religious edifice erected in the time of Constantine (306). 2 A town of Italy in the province of Perugia, noted for the Falls of Velino, THE VOYAGE. " Ships, ships, I will descrie you Amidst the main, , I will come and try you, What you are protecting. And projecting, What 's your end and aim. One goes abroad for merchandise and trading. Another stays to keep his country from invading, A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading, Hallo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go ? " —Old Poem. 1 To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make is an excellent preparative. The tem- porary absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition, by which, as in Europe, the features and population of one country blend almost imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment you lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another world. 2 In traveling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a connected succession of persons and i6 , THE VOYAGE. 1/ incidents, that carry on the story of Ufe, and lessen the effect of absence and separation. We drag, it is true, '*a lengthening chain "^ at each remove of our pilgrimage; but the chain is unbroken: we can trace it back link by link; and we feel that the last of them still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our homes, — a gulf subject to tempest and fear and uncertainty, that makes distance palpable, and return precarious. 3 Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all that was most dear to me in life, — what vicissitudes might occur in it, what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it again! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain currents of exist- ence, or when he may return, or whether it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood? 4 I said that at sea all is vacancy. I should cor- rect the expression. To one given to day-dreaming, 1 Goldsmith's Traveler, line lo. 2 l8 THE SKETCH BOOK. and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full 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 raihng,^ or cHmb to the maintop, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own; to watch the gentle, undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. 5 There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols, — shoals of porpoises, tumbling about the bow of the ship, the grampus, slowly heaving his huge form above the surface; or the ravenous shark, darting, like a specter, through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world beneath me, — of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys, of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth, and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 1 The railing reaching from the taffrail to the gangway and serving as a fence to the quarter-deck. THE VOYAGE. 19 6 Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would be another theme of idle specula- tion. How interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence! What a glorious monument of human invention, that has thus triumphed over wind and wave; has brought the ends of the world into communion; has estabhshed an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south; has diffused the light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the human race between which Nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 7 We one day descried some shapeless object drift- ing at a distance. At sea everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts atten- tion. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened themxselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months. Clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long seaweeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew.? Their struggle has long been over; they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest; their bones lie whitening among the caverns 20 THE SKE TCH B O OK. 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 dread into despair! Alas! not one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. All that shall ever be known, is that she sailed from her port, ''and was never heard of more." 8 The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threaten- ing, and gave indications of one of those sudden storms that will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, everyone had his tale of shipwreck and dis- aster. I was particularly struck with a short one related by the captain. 9 "As I was once saihng," said he, " in a fine stout ship across the Banks of Newfoundland,^ one of those heavy fogs that prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead even in the day- time; but at night the weather was so thick that we 1 The shoals to the southeast of the Island of Newfoundland. THE VOYAGE. 21 could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the masthead, and a con- stant watch forward to look out for fishing-smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the Banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. Sud- denly 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 toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had neg- lected to hoist a light. We struck her just amidships. The force, the size, and weight of our vessel bore her down below the waves. We passed over her, and were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin. They just started from their beds, to be swallowed, shrieking, by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget that cry. It was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under such head- way. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors; but all was silent. We never saw or heard anything of them more." 10 I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to 22 THE SKETCH BOOK. all my fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous confu- sion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quivered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waiters, and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the 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 bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. 11 When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like funereal wailings. The creak- ing of the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk- heads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the side of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating prison, seek- ing for his prey. The mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. 12 A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections THE VOYAGE. 23 to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant, she appears! How she seems to lord it over the deep! I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, — for with me it is almost a continual reverie, — but it is time to get to shore. 13 It was a fine, sunny morning when the thrilling cry of " Land! " was given from the masthead. None but those who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associations with the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with everything of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered. 14 From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants along the coast; the head- lands of Ireland, stretching out into the Channel; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds, — all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mer- sey,^ I reconnoitered the shores with a telescope. My eye dvv^elt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw the moldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the 1 A river in the county of Lancaster, England, which opens into a fine estuary be- fore reaching the sea at Liverpool, 24 THE SKE TCH B O OK. taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighboring hill. All were characteristic of Eng- land. 15 The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people, — some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could dis- tinguish 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 be- tween the shore and the ship as friends happened to recognize each other. I particularly noticed one young woman of humble dress but interesting de- meanor. She was leaning forward from among the crowd. Her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed and agitated, when I heard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of everyone on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade; but of late his illness had so increased, that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up THE VOYAGE. 25 the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features. It read at once a whole volume of sorrow. She clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony. 16 All now was hurry and bustle, — the meetings of acquaintances, the greetings of friends, the consulta- tions 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 lando RIP VAN WINKLE. fA Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker.) "By Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday that is Wodensday, Truth is a thing that ever I will keep Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre. ' ' — Cariwright. 1 Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson, must remember the Catskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian fam- ily, 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, pro- duces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. 26 RIP VAN WINKLE. 2y 2 At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager may have descried the Hght smoke curhng up from a village, v^^hose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village, of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!); and 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. 3 In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-v/orn 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 Rip 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 neigh- bor, and an obedient, hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumistance might be owing that meek- ness of spirit which gained him such universal popu- 28 THE SKETCH BOOK. larity; for those men are most apt to be obsequious 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 teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and, if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 4 Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. 5 The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perse- verance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all RIP VAN WINKLE. 29 day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up 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 anybody's business but his own; but as to doing fam- ily duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. 6 In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm. It was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country. Everything 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 anywhere else; the rain always made a point of set- ting in just as he had some outdoor 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 w^orst conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 30 THE SKETCH BOOK. 1 His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins,^ which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 8 Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, which- ever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. 9 Morning, noon, and night, her tongue v/as inces- santly going, and everything 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 grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house, — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 1 A kind of wide breeches. RIP VAN WINKLE. 31 10 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 upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods; but what courage can withstand 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 with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and, at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. 11 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 from 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 rubi- cund portrait of his Majesty George III. Here they used to sit in the shade of a long, lazy, summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the pro- 3 2 THE SKETCH B O OK. found discussions which sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, — a dapper, learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary! and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place! 12 The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufBciently 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 his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but, when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tran- quilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and let- ting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. 13 From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was RIP VAN WINKLE. 33 at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assem- blage, 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 hus- band in habits of idleness. 14 Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative to escape from the labor of the farm and the clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecu- tion. ''Poor Wolf," he would say, ''thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and, if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 15 In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Catskill Mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still soHtudes 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 preci- 3 34 THE SKETCH BOOK. pice. 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 course, 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 high- lands. 16 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 gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long, blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 17 As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, hallooing, ' ' Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air, *' Rip Van Winkle! Rip 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 RIP VAN WINKLE. ' 35 into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him. He looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure toiling slowly up the rocks, and bending under the weight of some- thing he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neigh- borhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 18 On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square built old fellow, with thick, bushy hair and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the an- tique Dutch fashion, — a cloth jerkin^ strapped round the waist; several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulders 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 alac- rity; and mutually relieving each other, they clam- bered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended. Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but, sup- 1 A close jacket. 36 THE SKETCH BOOK, posing it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, sur- rounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught ghmpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the 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 Hquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and in- comprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity. 19 On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a .company of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. 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 consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and col- ors. There was one who seemed to be the com- 1 A close-fitting outer garment. RIP VAN WINKLE. 37 mander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance. He wore a laced doub- let, 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 Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 20 What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mys- terious 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. 21 As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-luster 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 trem- bling. They quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. 22 By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension sub- 1 A short broadsword. 38 THE SKETCH BOOK. sided. He even ventured, when no eyes were 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, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 23 On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes. It was a bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes; and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. *' Surely, " thought Rip, **I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep, — the strange man with a keg of liquor, the mountain ravine, the wild retreat among the rocks, the woe-begone party at nine- pins, the flagon. *'Oh, that wicked flagon ! " thought Rip; ''what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle!" 24 He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire- lock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with 1 Holland gin. RIP VAN WINKLE. 39 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. 25 He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and, if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and want- ing in his usual activity. ' ' These mountain beds do not agree with me, " thought Rip; "and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the glen. He found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but, to his astonish- ment, a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scram- ble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape- vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path. 26 At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks pre- sented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the tor- rent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and 40 THE SKE TCH B O OK. fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog. He was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice, and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done } The morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun, he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the moun- tains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty fire- lock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 27 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 everyone in the country round. Their dress, 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 stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip involuntarily to do the same, when to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long. 28 He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, RIP VAN WINKLE. 41 too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village w^as altered; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors, strange faces at the windows; everything was strange. His mind now misgave him. He began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the Catskill 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." 29 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, — the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half- starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name; but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut, indeed. '* My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me." 30 He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. 42 THE SKETCH BOOK. 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. 31 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn; but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety, wooden building stood in its place, with great, gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats; and over the door was painted, ''The Union Hotel, by Jona- than Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall, naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red night-cap; ' and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes. All this was strange and incom- prehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, ''General Washington." 32 There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very 1 Cap of liberty. Its shape was copied from the Phrygian cap, which had become a symbol or emblem of personal and political freedom. RIP VAN WINKLE. 43 character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, busthng, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain 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, bihous-looking fellow, with his pockets full of hand-bills, was haranguing vehemently about the rights of citizens, election, members of Congress, liberty, Bunker Hill,' heroes of seventy-six, and other words, that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle, ^^ The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern pohticians. They crowded round him, eying him from head to foot with great curiosity. The ora- tor bustled up to him, and, drawing 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 whether he was a Federal or a Democrat. Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question, when a knowing, self-important old gentleman in a 1 A celebrated height in Charlestown, Mass. (now apart of Boston), where a battle was fought between the British and American forces, June 17, 1775. See Webster's oration, in Lakeside Classics No. 27. 44 THE SKETCH BOOK. sharp cocked hat made his way through the crowd, put- ting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and, planting himself 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! gen- tlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, *'I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject to the King, God bless him !" ZA Here a general shout burst from the bystanders: ''A Tory, a tory! A spy! A refugee! Hustle him! Away with him! " It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order, and, having 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 neigh- bors, who used to keep about the tavern. 35 ** Well, who are they.? Name them." 36 Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, '^ Where's Nicholas Vedder .?" 37 There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied in a thin, piping voice, ' * Nicholas Vedder! Why, he is dead and gone these eighteen RIP VAN WINKLE. 45 years! There was a wooden tombstone in the church- yard that used to tell all about him, but that 's rotten and gone, too." 38 *' Whereas Brom Dutcher ? " i 39 *' Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war. Some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point; others say he was drowned in the squall at the foot of Anthony's Nose. I don't know; he never came back again." 40 ''Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster.?" 41 "He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, and is now in Congress." 42 Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand, — war. Congress, Stony Point. He had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle 1 " 43 ' ' Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three. "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." 44 Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain, apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. 46 THE SKETCH BOOK. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was and what was his name. 45 "God knows!" exclaimed he, at his wits' end. "I'm not myself: I'm somebody else. That's me yonder. No, that's somebody else got into my shoes, I was myself last night: but I fell asleep on the mountain; and they've changed my gun; and every- thing 's changed; and I'm changed; and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!" 46 The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip!" cried she. "Hush, you little fool! The old man won't hurt you." 47 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. 48 " Judith Gardenier. " 49 "And your father's name 1 " 50 "Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle. RJP VAN WINKLE. 47 It 's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun and never has been heard of since. His dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl. " 51 Rip had but one question more to ask, but he put it with a faltering voice: — 52 '* Where 's your mother } " 53 Oh, she too had died but a short time since. She broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler. 54 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 he, — ''young Rip Van Winkle once, old Rip Van Winkle now ! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle 1 " 55 All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and, peering under it in his face for a moment, ex- claimed, ''Sure enough! It is Rip Van Wrinkle! It is himself ! Welcome home again, old neighbor ! Why, where have you been these twenty long years } ' ' 56 Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neigh- bors 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 48 THE SKETCH BOOK. hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head, upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 57 It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly ad- vancing 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 an- cient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighbor- hood. 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 Catskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange beings; that it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon, being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his name; that his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses, playing at ninepins in the hollow of the mountain, and that he himself had heard, one sum- mer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 58 To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of RIP VAN WINKLE. 49 the election. Rip's daughter took him home to Hve with her. She had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip rec- ollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm, but evinced a hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business. 59 Rip now resumed his old walks and habits. He soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time, and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. 60 Having nothing to do at home, and being ar- rived at that happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times '' before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor, — how that there had been a revolutionary war; that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England, and that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty George HI, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician, — the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him, — but there was 4 50 THE SKETCH BOOK. one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was, petticoat government. Hap- pily, that was at an end. He had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out when- ever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Wmkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. 61 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 awakened. 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 al- ways pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this^day they never hear a'thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Cats- kill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of ninepins; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. RIP VAN WINKLE. 5 I NOTE. The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the emperor Fred- erick der Rothbart and the Kyphauser Mountain; the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an abso- lute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity: — "The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many; but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvelous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson, all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when I last saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no con- scientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain; 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, therefore, is beyond the possibility of a doubt." POSTSCRIPT. The following are traveling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr. Knickerbocker :— "The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting 52 THE SKETCH BOOK, in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys ! "In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Mani- tou, or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Moun- tains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexations upon the redmen. Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and among r agged rocks, and then spring off with a loud 'ho, ho!' leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging torrent." THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. (Found among the Papers of the Late Diedrich Knickerbocker.) "A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky." — Castle of Indolence?- 1 In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the 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 Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of ' ' Tarry- town. ' ' This name was given it, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their hus- bands 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 three miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the ijames Thomson (1700-1748) was the son of a Scotch minister, and author of The Seasons, which gave him a great reputation. The " Castle of Indolence," from which the above verse is quoted, was his last work. 53 54 ^ THE SKETCH BOOK. 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. 2 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 wan- dered into it at noontime, when all nature is pecul- iarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. 3 From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descend- ants 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 coun- try. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson.^ Certain it lA distinguished English navigator, who made four voyages. On the third of THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 55 is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; and fre- quently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the val- ley than in any other part of the country; and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold,^ seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. 4 The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in- chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary war, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurry- ing along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads and espe- cially to the vicinity of a church that is at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic his- torians of those parts, who have been careful in col- lecting and collating the floating facts concerning this these voyages he entered the bay now called New York Bay, and (Sept. ii, 1609) sailed up what is now the Hudson River. 1 See King Lear, act iii. sc. 4. $6 THE SKETCH BOOK. specter, allege that, the body of the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head; and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the hollow, like a midnight blast, is ow- ing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak. 5 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 spec- ter is known at all the country firesides by the name of "The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow." 6 It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhab- itants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by everyone who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, — to dream dreams, and see appa- ritions. 7 I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud: for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remain fixed; while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still THE LEGEND OE SLEEPY HOLLOW. S7 water 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 vege- tating in its sheltered bosom. 8 In this by-place of Nature there abode, in a re- mote period of American history, — that is to say, some thirty years since, — a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, ' 'tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of th6 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 cogno- men of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large, green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, 58 THE SKETCH BOOK. one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. 9 His schoolhouse 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 hours 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 embarrassment in getting out, — an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot.^ The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low mur- mur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master in the tone of men- ace or command, or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, that ever bore in mind the golden maxim, *' Spare the rod and spoil the child. ' ' ^ Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 1 A box or basket for catching eels, 2 King Solomon's, THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 59 10 I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of jus- tice were satisfied by inflicting a double porticfn on some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called ' ' doing his duty by their parents;" and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that " he would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live." 11 When 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 with 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 dilat- ing powers of an anaconda; but to help out his main- tenance, he was, according to country custom in those 6o THE SKETCH BOOK. parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farm- ers whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time; thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 12 That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and school- masters as mere drones, he had various ways of ren- dering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire the school, and becam© wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like ''the Hon bold," which whilom so magnanimously ''the lamb did hold," he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. 13 In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shiUings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no Httle 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 LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 6 1 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 morn- ing, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers httle makeshifts in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated *'by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of head- work, to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 14 The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighbor- hood, being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanhke personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplish- ments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appear- ance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, per- adventure, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between serv- ices on Sundays! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tomb- stones; or sauntering with a whole bevy of them 62 THE SKETCH BOOK. along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. 15 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 v/as always greeted with satisfaction. He was, more- over, esteemed by the women as a man of great eru- dition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's * ' His- tory of New England Witchcraft;" in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed. i6 He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewd- ness and simple credulity. His appetite for the mar- velous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both has 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 school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened lA celebrated theologian and writer, son of Increase Mather, born in Boston in 1663. He was ordained as a minister in 1684, and preached in Boston. From the first he was eager to bring to trial and punishment those supposed to be guilty of witchcraft ; but he sincerely believed he was serving God in " witch hunting." THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 63 to be quartered, every sound of Nature, at that witch- ing hour, fluttered his excited imagination, — the moan of the whip-poor-wilP from the hillside; the boding cry of the treetoad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl; or the sudden rusthng in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most viv- idly in the darkest 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. 17 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 sputtering along the hearth, and listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the 1 A whip-poor-will is a bird which is heard only at night. It receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. 64 THE SKETCH BOOK. headless horseman, or *' Galloping Hessian of the Hollow," as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times cf Connecticut, and would frighten them woefully 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. 18 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 specter dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homeward. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy 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 specter, beset his very path ! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him ! and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 65 19 All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and though he had seen many specters 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 hfe 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 m_an than ghosts, gobhns, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was — a woman. 20 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-cheeked as one of her father's peaches; and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was, withal, a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even 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 brought over from Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time; and, withal, a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round. 21 Ichabod Grane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex; and it is not to be wondered at that so 5 66 THE SKETCH BOOK. tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her paternal man- sion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts, beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within these everything was snug, happy, and well-condi- tioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it, and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance rather than the st3de in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hud- son, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water in a little well formed of a barrel, and then stole sparkling away through the grass to a neighboring brook that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn that might have served for a church, every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm. The flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons — some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather; some with their heads under their wings or buried in their bosoms; and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames — were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, THE LEGEND OE SLEEPY HOLLOW. 6/ unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens; from whence saUied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were rid- ing in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks. Regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea-fowls fretting about it hke ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discon- tented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart, sometimes tear- ing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. 22 The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind's eye he pictured to himself every roasting pig, running about *^with a pudding in its belly ' ' and an apple in its mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy, relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a neck- lace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer 68 THE SKETCH BOOK. 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. 23 As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow- lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains; and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilder- ness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopeS; and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on 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. 24 When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low, projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, va- rious utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 69 for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wonderful Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the center of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplen- dent pewler, 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 pep- pers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors; and irons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various colored bird's eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich Qg^ was hung from the center of the room; and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well- mended china. 25 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 how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difBculties I Coarse cloth. 70 THE SKETCH BOOK. than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, en- chanters, fiery dragons, and such-hke easily con- quered 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 carve his way to the center of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the con- trary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and ca- prices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments; and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numer- ous 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. 26 Among these the m.ost formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering 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 was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short, curly black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and ar- rogance. From his Herculean frame and great pow- ers of limb, he had received the nickname of ' ' Brom THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY LIOLLOW. 7 1 Bones," by which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horse- manship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock- fights, and, with the ascendency which bodily strength always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that admitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; had more mischief than ill will in his composition; and, with all his overbearing rough- ness, there was a strong dash of waggish good-humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions of his own stamp, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles around. 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, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, " Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang ! " The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good will, and, when 72 THE SKETCH BOOK. any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 27 This rantipole ^ hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not alto- gether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his ad- vances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; inso- much, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tas- sel'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. 28 Such was the formidable rival with whom Icha- bod 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 his head as high, as ever. 29 To have taken the field openly against his rival lEriatic. THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 73 would have been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in this 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 anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling- block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy, 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 notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage the poultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning- vv^heel 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 fight- ing 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. 30 I profess not to know how women's hearts are 1 A famous Greek warrior of Homer's Iliad, 74 THE SKETCH BOOK. wooed and won. To me they have always been mat- ters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for a man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and, from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined. His horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the pre- ceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 31 Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and settled their pretensions to the lady according to the mood 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 the boast of Bones, that he would *< double the schoolmaster up and put him on a shelf;" and he was too wary to give an opportunity. There was something extremely provoking in this THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 75 obstinately pacific system: it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whim- sical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing-school by stopping up the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy; so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But, what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mis- tress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod 's to instruct her in psalmody. 32 In this way matters went on for some time, without producing any material effect on the relative situations of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that scepter of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers; while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as 76 THE SKETCH BOOK. half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant httle 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 schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, m tow-cloth jacket and trousers, 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 merry-making, or "quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's; and hav- ing 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 the importance and hurry of his mission. ZZ All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles. Those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity; and those who were tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help 1 A Roman god who presided over all commercial dealings. THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 77 them over a tall word. Books were flung aside with- out 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 Hke a legion of young imps, yelp- ing and racketing about the green, in joy at their early emancipation. 34 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 arrang- ing his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cava- lier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the name of Hans Van 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 the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow-horse, that had outlived almost everything 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 burrs. One eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from his name, which was Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed 78 THE SKETCH BOOK. of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken- down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country. 35 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, hke a scepter; and, as the horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unhke 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 altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be me met with in broad daylight. 36 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 yellow, while some trees of the ten- derer kind had been nipped by the frost into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air. The bark of the squirrel might be heard THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 79 from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field. 37 The small birds were taking their farewell ban- quets. In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud, querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad, black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red- tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail, and its little montero cap^ of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay, light-blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove. Z^ As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples, — some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees, some gathered into 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 1 Montero cap (Spanish, ;;?^k/^^^), a kind of cap, originally a hunting-cap ; from montero (" a huntsman "). 8o THE SKETCH BOOK. 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 giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breath- ing the odor of the beehive; and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slap- jacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 39 Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and "sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which looked out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disc down into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappen Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved, and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, chang- ing gradually into a pure apple-green, and from that ixito 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 depth 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 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 8 1 along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air. 40 It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of Herr Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country, — old farmers, a spare, leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles; their brisk, withered little dames, in close-crimped caps, long- waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside; buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a stravv^ hat, a fine rib- bon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovations; the sons, in short, square-skirted coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, espe- cially if they could procure an eel-skin for the pur- pose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. 41 Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite steed. Daredevil, — a creature, like himself, full of m.ettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck; for he held a tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 42 Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of 6 82 THE SKETCH BOOK. charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's miansion; 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 plat- ters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives ! There was the doughty doughnut, the tender 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, de- lectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream; all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot 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 his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. 4Z He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating as 1 Doughnuts. THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY' HOLLOW. 83 some men's do with drink. He could not help, too, lolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuck- ling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he 'd turn his back upon the old schoolhouse; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other nig- gardly patron: and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade! 44 Old Baltus Van Tassel m.oved about among his guests wdth a face dilated wdth content and good humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoul- der, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to ' ' fall to, and help themselves." 45 And now^ the sound of the m.usic from, the com- mon room, or hall, summ.oned to the dance. The musician was an old grayheaded negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped away 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. 46 Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal pov/ers. Not a limb, not a fiber about him, w^as idle; and to have seen his loosely 84 THE SKE TCH B O OK. hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought St. 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 windovv^, 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.-^ The lady of his heart Vv^as his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to ail his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner. 47 When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawling out long stories about the war. 48 This neighborhood, at the time of which 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, cowboys, and all kinds of border chivalr}^ Just sufficient time had elapsed to iThe patron saint of dancers and actors, and invoked against the disease known as ■St. Vitus's dance." THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. cSs enable each storyteller to dress up his tale with a lit- tle becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit. 49 There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large, blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, 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 mentioned, who in the battle of Whiteplains, being an excellent master of defense, parried a mus- ket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that he abso- lutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off 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. 50 But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats, but are trampled underfoot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encour- 1 From the Dutch mijn heer, equivalent to the German mein Herr ( " my master," ' my lord " ), our •' Sir " or " Mr." S6 THE SKETCH B OK. agement 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 walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is, perhaps, the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts, except in our long-estabHshed Dutch com- munities. 51 The immediate cause, however, of the prev- alence of supernatural 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 mourning cries and wailings, heard and seen about the great tree where the unfor- tunate 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 Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter 1 Benedict Arnold, who commanded the American fortress of West Point, made arrangements to betray that place into the hands of the British general Sir Henry- Clinton. Andre was associated with Arnold in this plot, which was frustrated and defeated by the capture of Andre, who was tried by a court-martial, and condemned to be hung as a spy. In 1821 his remains were transferred to England, and interred in Westminster Abbey. THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. ^7 nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the head- less 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 churchyard. 52 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 its 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 day- time, but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the headless horsem.an, and the place where he was most fre- quently encountered. The tale was told of old 88 THE SKETCH BOOK. 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 suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 53 This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvelous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed, that, on returning one night from the neigh- boring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with 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 Hes- sian bolted and vanished in a flash of fire. 54 All these tales told in that 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. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvelous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 55 The revel now gradually broke up. The old THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 89 farmers gathered together their famihes in their wag- ons, and were heard for some time ratthng 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 w^oodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually died away, and the late scene of noise and frolic v/as 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 w^ill not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong; for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chopfallen. Oh, these women, these women! Could that girl have been pla3'dng off any of her coquettish tricks.? Was her encourage- ment of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rivai.'^ Heaven only knows, not I ! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a henroost rather than a fair lady's heart. Without 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 cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously from the com- fortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, 90 THE SKE TCH B O OK. dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover. 56 It was the very witching time of night, that Ichabod, heavy hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travel homewards along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarr5^town, and which he had trav- ersed 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 waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of mid- night 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-dravv^n crowing of a cock, accidently 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 oc- curred 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. 57 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 driv- ing clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, more- over, approaching the very place where many of the THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 9 1 scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the center of the road stood an enormous tuhp-tree, which towered hke 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 knov/n by the name of Major Andre's tree. The common people regarded it with a mix- ture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympa- thy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations told concerning it. 58 As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle. He thought his whistle was an- swered: it was but a blast sweeping 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 white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan. His teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle. It v/as 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. 59 About two hundred yards from the tree a small 92 ^ THE SKETCH BOOK. 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 wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was cap- tured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who sur- prised 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. 60 As he approached the stream his heart began to thump. He summoned up, however, all his resolu- tion, 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 animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, w^hose 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 starvling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge with THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 93 a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plash}^ 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 something huge, mis- shapen, black, and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler. 61 The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What v/as to be done } To turn and fly was now too late; and, besides, what chance w^as there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind 1 Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents, "Who are you.?" He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides of the inflexible Gun- powder, 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 horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful 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 94 THE SKETCH BOOK. Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness. 62 Ichabod, who had no reUsh for this strange mid- night companion, and bethought himself of the adven- ture 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, thinking 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 dogged 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 muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he vv^as headless; but his horror was still more increased on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, w^as carried before him on the pom- mel of his saddle. His terror rose to desperation. He rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gun- powder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip; but the specter started full jump with him. Av/ay then they dashed, through thick and thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing, at every bound. Ichabod 's flimsy garments fluttered ir^ the THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 95 air, as he stretched his long, lank body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 63 They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed pos- sessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong downhill to the left. This road runs through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in gobHn story; and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. 64 As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider an apparent advantage in the chase; but, just as he had got halfway 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 endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder around the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled underfoot 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 backbone with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder. gO THE SKETCH BOOK. 65 An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones's ghostly competitor had disappeared. ''If I can but reach that bridge, ' ' thought Ichabod, ' ' I am safe." Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him. He even fancied 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. 66 The next morning the old horse was found with- out his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate. Icha- bod did not make his appearance at breakfast. Dinner- hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 97 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 one 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, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. 67 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 con- sisted 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 dogs' ears; and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, 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 by 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 98 THE SKE TCH B O OK. to school, observing that he never knev;^ any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had re- ceived his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disappearance. 68 The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, 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 others, were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the 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 pedagogue reigned in his stead. 69 It is true, an old farmer who had been down to New York on a 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 neighborhood, partly through fear of the gobhn and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dis- missed by the heiress; that he had changed his quar- THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 99 ters 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 of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, 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. 70 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 around the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of supersti- tious awe; and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The school- house, being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfor- tunate pedagogue; and the plow-boy, loitering home- ward 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. I oo THE SKETCH B OK, POSTSCRIPT. [Found in the handwriting of Mr. Knickerbocker. '\ The preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in which I heard it related at a corporation meeting of the ancient city of the Manhattoes,^ at which were present many of its sagest and most illus- trious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor, he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the grekter part 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. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the other akimbo, 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. The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most logically to prove, — "That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleas- ures, provided we will but take a joke as we find it. "That therefore he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to have rough riding of it. " Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the State." The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him 1 Manhattan, New York City. THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 10 1 with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed that all this was very v^ell, but still he thought the story a little on the extravagant: thei-e were one or two points on which he had his doubts. "Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I don't believe one half of it myself." D. K. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 1 On one of those sober and rather melancholy days in the latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile; and, as I passed its threshold, it seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. 2 I entered from the inner court of Westminster school,^ through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters,^ with the figure of an old verger^ in his black gown, moving along their shad- owy vaults, and seeming like a specter from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the Abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the 1 This school was in existence in 1540, established by charter of Henry VHI. 2 Covered passages extending around the inner walls of monasteries and used for lectures and as a place for recreation for the monks. 3 Old French, vergier: Latin, virga ( " a rod " ). A pew opener and attendant in a church. 102 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. IO3 mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloister still retains something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are discolored by damps, and crumbling with age; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monu- ments, and obscured the death's heads and other funeral emblems; the sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches; the roses which adorned the keystones have lost their leafy beauty; everything bears marks of the gradual dilapi- dations of time, which yet has something touching and pleasing in its very decay. 3 The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters, beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the center, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusty splendor. From between the arcades the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud, and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the Abbey towering into the azure heaven. 4 As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplat- ing this mingled picture of glory and decay, and some- times 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 nearly worn away by the foot- steps of many generations. They were the efBgies of three of the early abbots. The epitaphs were en- tirely effaced. The names alone remained, having, I04 THE SKETCH BOOK. no doubt, been renewed in later times, — Vitalis (Abbas, 1082), and Gislebertus Crispinus (Abbas, 1 1 14), and Laurentius (Abbas, 11 76). I remained some little while, musing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been and had perished; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint records will be obHterated, and the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the Abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward toward the grave. 5 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 eye gazes with wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to such an amazing height, and man wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 1 05 about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb; while every footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters among the sepulchers, making us more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. 6 It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel that we are sur- rounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human am- bition, to see how they are crowded together and jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in doHng out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those whom, when alive, king- doms 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. 7 I passed some time in Poet's Corner^ which occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the Abbey. The monuments are generally simple, for the Hves of literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare^ and Addison^ have 1 Said to have derived its name from the fact that the poet Chaucer, who died Oct. 25, 1400, was the first to be buried in Poet's Corner, through the royal favor of Henry IV. 2 The remains of Shakespeare (1564-1616) were never moved from Stratford. 3 Addison (1672-1719) is buried in the chapel of Henry VH. I06 THE SKETCH BOOK. statues erected to their memories; but the greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere in- scriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these memorials, I have always observed that the visitors to the Abbey remain longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of friends and companions; for, indeed, there is something of companionship between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of history, which is continually grtDwing faint and obscure; but the intercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his re- nown; 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 pi empty names and sounding actions, but whole treas- ures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language. 8 From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll toward that part of the Abbey which contains the sepulchers WESTMINSTER ABBEY. I07 of the kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn I met with some illustrious name, or the cognizance of some powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies, — some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together; warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates with crosiers and miters; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying, as it were, in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so strangely still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been suddenly transmuted into stone. 9 I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm; the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast; the face was almost covered by the morion; the legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader, — of one of those military enthusiasts who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction, between the history and the fairy tale. There is something ex- tremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, 1 08 THE SKETCH B OK. decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are generally found; and in considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fictions, the chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the wars for the sepulcher of Christ. They are the relics of times utterly gone by, of beings passed from recollection, of customs and manners with which ours have no affinity. They are like ob- jects 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 some- thing 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 feehngs than the fanciful attitudes, the overwrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound on modern monuments. I have been struck, also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There 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 conscious- ness of family worth and honorable lineage than one which affirms, of a noble house, that **all the broth- ers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 10 In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument which is among the most renowned WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 109 achievements of modern art, but which to me appears horrible rather than subhme. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubiliac. The bottom of the monu- ment is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shrowd is falling from his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit: we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the specter. 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 everything that might inspire tenderness and venera- tion for the dead, or that might win the living to vir- tue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. 11 While vv^andering 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 equi- page, the murmur of the multitude, or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around; and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating against the very walls of the sepulcher. I lO THE SKETCH BOOK. 12 I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away; the distant tread of loiterers about the Abbey grew less and less frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayer; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry VII's Chapel. A flight of steps leads 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 mortals into this most gorgeous of sepul- chers. 13 On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, and scooped into niches crowded with the statues of saints and mar- tyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 14 Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath ^ richly carved of oak, iThis Order of the Knights of the Bath originated, in 1399, at Henry IV's corona- tion. In the earlier coronations it had been the practice of the sovereigns to create a number of knights before they started on their procession from the Tower. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. I 1 1 though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above them are sus- pended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson with the cold, gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulcher of its founder, — his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing. 15 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 im- presses the mind with a deeper feehng 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 banner 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 wdth the splendor of jeweled rank and military array, alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed away: the silence of death had set- tled again upon the place, interrupted only by the 1 1 2 THE SKETCH BOOK. 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 de- sertion. i6 When I read the names inscribed on the ban- ners, they were those of men scattered far and wide about the world, some tossing upon distant seas, some under arms in distant lands, some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets, all seek- ing to deserve one more distinction in this man- sion of shadowy honors, — the melancholy reward of a monument. 17 Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance of the equality of the grave, which brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the bit- terest enemies together. In one is the sepulcher of the haughty Elizabeth:^ in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary.^ Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth 's sepulcher continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her arrival. 18 A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle 1 Elizabeth (born in 1653) reigned as Queen of England from 1558 to 1603, when she died. She was the last of the Tudors, and was called " the lian-hearted Elizabeth." 2 Mary Queen of Scots, daughter of James V of Scotland, was born in 1542. She was charged by Queen Elizabeth with having entered into a conspiracy against the life of the latter, and was ordered to be executed. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 1 1 3 where Mary lies buried. The Ught 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 raihng, much corroded, bearing her national emblem, — the thistle.^ I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monu- ment, revolving in my mind the checkered and disas- trous story of poor Mary. 19 The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the Abbey. I could only hear now and then the dis- tant 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 prevail- ing around gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place: — For in the silent grave no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers. No careful father's counsel, — nothing's heard, For nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust and an endless darkness, 20 Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolUng, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur 1 The thistle, which gives name to the Scottish order, is also a heraldic bearing in that country. 1 14 THE SKETCH BOOK. accord with this mighty building! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulcher vocal! And now they rise in triumph and acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft and warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences! Vv^hat solemn sweeping concords! It grows more and more dense and powerful; it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls; the ear is stunned; the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee. It is rising from the earth to heaven. The very soul seems rapt away and floated upward on this swelling tide of har- mony. 21 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 around me, the monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom, and the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. 22 I rose, and prepared to leave the Abbey. As I descended the flight of steps which lead into the body WESTMINSTER ABBE V I I 5 of the building, my eye was caught by the shrine^ of Edward the Confessor; and I ascended the small stair- case that conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchers of various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and cham- bers below, crowded with tombs, where warriors, prel- ates, courtiers, and statesmen He moldering in their ' ' beds of darkness. " Close to 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 pro- duce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power: here it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulcher. Would not one think that these incon- gruous mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to human 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 disgrace of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the mean- est of the multitude; for, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. There is a shock- 1 Erected by Henry HI on the canonizing of Edward, king of England, by Pope Alexander HI, who caused his name to be placed in the catalogue of saints. 1 16 THE SKETCH BOOK. ing levity in some natures, which leads them to sport \vith awful and hallowed things; and there are base minds, which delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject homage and groveling servility which they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funeral ornaments; the scepter has been stolen from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth; and the effigy of Henry V lies headless/ Not a royal monument but bears some proof how false and fugi- tive is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered, some mutilated, some covered with ribaldry and insult, all more or less outraged and dishonored. 23 The last beams of day were now faintly stream- ing through the painted windows in the high vaults above me. The lower parts of the Abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effi- gies of the kings faded into shadows; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light; the evening breeze crept through the aisles Uke 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 build- ing with echoes. iThe effigy is said to have originally been plated with silver, and the head to have been of solid silver. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 1 1 7 24 I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already falhng into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchers, but a treasury of humiliation, — a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown and the certainty of oblivion.? It is, indeed, the empire of Death; his great, shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the rehcs of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever silently turning over his pages. We are too much engrossed by the story of the present to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave inter- est to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection, and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to- morrow, ''Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, ^ ''find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades into fable, fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy, the inscription molders from the tablet, the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids — what are they but heaps of sand, lA distinguished English writer, born in London in 1605. He published a work, 'Religio Medici," which was a success, and he became celebrated as a man of letters. 1 18 THE SKETCH BOOK. and their epitaphs but characters written in the dust ? What is the security of the tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The remains of Alexander the Great ^ have been scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. ' ' The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth. Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." 25 What, then, is to insure this pile which now towers above me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums .'' The time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower; whe-n the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column, and the fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told; and his very monument becomes a ruin. 1 Alexander HI (commonly called "the Great") was born at Pella, 356 b. C. He was a great warrior, and successful in all his exploits conquering all the world. THE STAGECOACH " Omne bene Sine poena Tempus est ludendi Venit hora Absque mora Libros deponendi." ^ — Old Holiday School Song. 1 In the preceding paper I have made some general observations on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country; in perusing which I would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only for amusement. 2 In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long distance in one of the public coaches on the day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the man- sions of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas 1 Free translation : — " There 's a time for hard playing. With nothing to fear. Drop books without delaying — The hour is here." 119 1 20 THE SKETCH BOOK. dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of delicacies; and hares hmig dangling their long ears about the coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys for my fellow- passengers inside, full of the buxom, health and manly spirit w^hich I have observed in the children of this country. They were returning home for the holidays in high glee, and promising themselves a world of en- jo3^ment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of pleasure of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to perform during their six-weeks' emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of the antici- pations 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 great- est 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. 3 They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of questions, and 1 The horse of Alexander the Great. THE STAGECOACH. 121 pronounced him one of the best fellows in the whole world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary 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 stuck in the buttonhole of his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so during this season, having so many covnnissions to execute in consequence 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 general representation of this very numerous and im- portant class of fimctionarics, who have a dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, wherever an English stagecoach-man may be seen, he can not be mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery. 4 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 multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried hke a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmicd, low-crowned hat; a huge roll of colored handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted, and tucked in at the bosom; and has in sum- mer time a large bouquet of flowers in his buttonhole. 122 THE SKETCH BOOK, — 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 halfway up his legs. 5 All this costume is maintained with much pre- cision. He has a pride in having his clothes of excel- lent materials; and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discernible that neatness and propriety of person which is almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great conse- quence and consideration along the road; has frequent conferences with the village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; and he seems to have a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler, his duty being merely to drive them from one stage to another. When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets of his great-coat, and he rolls about the inn yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those name- less hangers-on that infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him as THE STA GECOA CH. I 2 3 to an oracle; treasure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions about horses and other topics of jockey lore; and, above all, endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands in his pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo coachey. 6 Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in my own mind that I fancied I saw a cheerfulness in every countenance throughout the journey. A stagecoach, however, carries animation always with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends; some, with bundles and band- boxes, 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: some- times 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 billet-doux^ from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the village, everyone runs to the window, and you have glances on every side of fresh country faces and blooming, giggUng girls. At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and wise men, who 1 French, billet (small letter) and doux (sweet) ; hence a love-letter. 1 24 THE SKETCH B O OK. take their stations there for the important purpose of seeing company pass; but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the cyclops" round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty specter, 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. 7 Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table were in brisk circulation in the villages. The grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' ^shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were stir- ring 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 tur- keys, 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. 2 See Webster. THE STA GECOA CH. I 2 5 Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the conten- tion of holly and ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 8 I was roused from this fit of luxurious medita- tation 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. 9 At the end of a lane there was an old, sober- looking servant in livery, waiting for them. He was accompanied by a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, — a little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane, and long, rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, little dreaming of the busthng times that awaited him. 10 I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of inter- est. All wanted to mount at once ; and it was with 126 THE STAGECOACH. some difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first. il Off they set at last, — one on the pony, with the dog bounding and barking before him; and the others holding John's hands, both talking at once, and over- powering 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 melan- choly predominated; for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments afterward to water the horses, and, on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two 3'Oung girls in the portico; and I saw my little com- rades, 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 grove of trees shut it from my sight. 12 In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the 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 English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated THE S TA GE CO A CH. 1 2 7 here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceihng; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace; and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef and other hearty viands upon it, over which two foaming tank- ards 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 highbacked oaken settles^ beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backward and forward under the directions of a fresh busthng land- lady, but still seizing an occasional moment to ex- change a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene completely realized Poor Robin's ' humble idea of the comforts of mid-winter: — " Now trees their leafy hats do bare To reverence Winter's silver hair, A handsome hostess, merry host, A pot of ale, and now a toast, Tobacco and a good coal fire: Are things this season doth require." 13 I had not been long at the inn when a post- chaise drove up to the door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the light of the lamps I caught 1 Benches. 2 "Poor Robin" was the pseudonym of Robert Herrick, the poet, under which he issued a series of almanacs (begun in 1661). 128 ' THE SKETCH BOOK. 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 traveled on the Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the counte- nance of an old fellow-traveler always brings up the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adven- tures, 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 rea- soning was cogent, and I must confess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a Httle impatient of my lonehness. 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. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace. Domestic life in rural pleasures past! — Coivper. 1 The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the Enghsh character, must not confine his obser- vations to the metropoHs. He must go forth into the country; he must sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farmhouses, cottages; he must wander through parks and gardens; along hedges and green lanes; he must loiter about country churches; attend wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals; and cope with the people in all their conditions, and all their habits and humors. 2 In some countries, the large cities absorb the wealth and fashion of the nation; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metropo- lis is a mere gathering place, or general rendezvous, of the poUte classes, where they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, and having indulged this kind of carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial habits of rural fife. The various orders of society are therefore diffused q 129 1 30 THE SKETCH BOOK. over the whole surface of the kingdom, and the most retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the different ranks. 3 The EngHsh, 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 culti- vation of his flower-garden, and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his business, and the success of a commercial enterprise. Even those less fortunate 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 grassplot and flower bed; and every square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, and gleaming wath refreshing verdure. 4 Those who see the Englishman only in town, are apt to form an unfavorable opinion of his social char- acter. He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand engagements that dissipate time. RURAL LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 1 3 I thought, and feehng, in this huge metropoHs. He has, therefore, too commonly, a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere else; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wandering to another; and while paying a friendly visit, he is calcu- lating how he shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted to the morning. An immense metropolis, like 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 superfices of character — its rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed into a flow. 5 It is in the countr}^ that the Englishman gives scope to his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formalities and negative civilities of town; throws off his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to collect round him all the conveniences and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country seat abounds with every requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint, either upon his guests or himself, but, in the true spirit of hospitahty, provides the means of enjoyment and leaves everyone to partake according to his inclination. 132 THE SKETCH BOOK. 6 The taste of the EngUsh in the cultivation of land, and in what is called landscape gardening, is unrivaled. They have studied Nature intently, and discovered an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms which, in other countries, she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled round the haunts of domestic life. They seemed to have caught her coy and furtive graces, and spread them, like witchery, about their rural abodes. 7 Nothing can be more imposing than the magnifi- cence of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage. The solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them; the hare, bounding away to the covert; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing. The brook, taught to wind in natural meanderings, or expand into a glassy lake — the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters: while some rustic temple, or sylvan statute, grown green and dank with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. 8 These are but a few of the features of park scenery; but w^hat most delights me, is the creative talent with which the English decorate the unostenta- tious abodes of middle hfe. The rudest habitation, R URAL LIFE IN NE W ENGLAND. I 3 3 the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Enghshman of taste, becomes a httle 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 per- ceived. The cherishing and training of some trees; the cautious pruning of others; the nice distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage; the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water — all these are managed with a deli- cate tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, Hke the magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a favorite picture. 9 The residence of people of fortune and refine- ment in the country, has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy, that descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, with his thatched cottage and narrow shp of ground, attends to their embelUshment. The trim hedge, the grassplot before the door, the httle flower bed bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice; the pot of flowers in the window; the holly, providently planted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside; —all these bespeak the influence of taste, 1 34 THE SKETCH B O OK. 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. 10 The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the English has had a great and salutary effect upon the national character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. In- stead of the softness and effeminacy which charac- terize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country. The hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplic- ity of manners, which even the follies and dissipations of the town can not easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different orders of society seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favorably upon each other. The distinctions between them do not appear to be so marked and impassable as in the cities. The manner in which property has been dis- tributed into small estates and farms, has established a regular gradation from the noblemen through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and sub- stantial farmers, down to the laboring peasantry; and while it has thus banded the extremes of society together, has infused into each intermediate rank a R URAL LIFE IN NE W ENGLAND. I 3 5 spirit of independence. This, it must be confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it was for- merly; the larger estates having, in late years of dis- tress, 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. 11 In rural occupation, there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of nat- ural grandeur and beauty; it leaves him to the work- ings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he can not be vul- gar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds noth- ing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoy- ments 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 nobiUty and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in England than they are in any other country; and why the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. 12 To this mingUng of cultivated and rustic society I T,6 THE SKETCH BOOK. may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature; the frequent use of illus- trations from rural life; those incomparable descrip- tions of Nature that abound in the British poets — that have continued down from * ' The Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness andjragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms; but the British poets have lived and reveled with her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze, a leaf could not rustle to the ground, a diamond drop could not patter in the stream, a fragrance could not exhale from the hum- ble 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. 13 The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupations, has been wonderful on the face of the country. A great part of the island is rather level, and would be monotonous were it not for the charms of culture; but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique /e URAL LIFE IN NE I V ENGLAA L). I 3 7 farmhouse 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 continual succession of small landscapes of capti- vating loveliness. 14 The great charm, however, of English scenery, is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober, well-established principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Everything seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The old church, of remote architecture, with its low massive portal; its gothic tower, its windov/s, rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preser- vation — its stately monuments of warriors and wor- thies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil — its tombstones, recording successive gen- erations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plow the same fields, and kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants — the stile and footpath leading from the churchyard, across pleasant fields and along shady hedge-rows, according to an immemorable right of way — the neighboring village, with its venerable cot- tages, its public green, sheltered! by trees, under which the forefathers of the present race have sported — the antique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with a protect- 138 THE SKETCH BOOK. ing air on the surrounding scene — all these common features of English landscape evince a calm and set- tled security, a hereditary transmission of homebred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the nation. 15 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 cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gather- ing about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellishments which their own hands have spread around them. 16 It is this sweet home feehng, this settled repose of affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoy- ments; and I can not close these desultory remarks better than by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who has depicted it with remarkable felicity : — ThrougH each gradation, from the castled hall, The city dome, the villa crowned with shade, But chief from modest mansions numberless, In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof 'd shed, This western isle has long been famed for scenes Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling place: Domestic bliss, that like a harmless dove (Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard). Can center in a little quiet nest RURAL LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. I 39 All that desire would fly for through the earth; That can, the world eluding, be itself A world enjoyed; that wants no witnesses But its own sharers, and approving Heaven. That, like a flower deep hid in leafy cleft, Smiles, though 'tis only looking at the sky.i 1 From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend Rann Kennedy, A. M. THE COUNTRY CHURCH. A gentleman ! What o' the woolpack? or the sugar-chest? Or lists of velvet? which is 't, pound, or yard, You vend your gentry, by? — Beggar'' s Btish. 1 There are few places more favorable to the study of character than an EngUsh 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 famiUes, and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. The interior walls were incrusted with monuments of every age and style. The light streamed through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts of the church were tombs of knights, and high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their effigies in colored marble. On every side, the eye was struck with some instance of aspiring mortality; some haughty memorial which human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this temple of the most humble of all religions. 140 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 141 2 The congregation was composed of the neighbor- ing people of rank, who sat in pews sumptuously lined and cushioned, furnished with rich-gilded prayer- books, and decorated with their arms upon the pew doors; of the villagers and peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a small gallery beside the organ; and of the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. 3 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 anything more than ride to see the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner. 4 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, hke many other feeble Christians, compromised with my conscience by laying the sin of my own deHnquency at another person's threshold, I occupied myself by making observations on my neighbors. 5 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 1 42 THE SKE TCH B O OK. several sons and daughters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than their appearance. They generally came to church in the plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peas- antry, caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble cottagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, with an expression of high refinement, but at the same time a frank cheerfulness, and engaging affability. Their brothers were tall, and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but simply; with strict neatness and propriety, but without any mannerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with that lofty grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak free-born souls that have never been checked in their growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a health- ful 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 gentlemen of the 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. 6 In contrast to these, was the family of a wealthy THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 1 43 citizen, who had amassed a vast fortune, and having purchased the estate and mansion of a ruined noble- man in the neighborhood, was endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity of a hereditary lord of the soil. The family always came to church en prince. They were rolled majestically along in a carriage em- blazoned 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 sank on its long springs with a peculiar stateliness of motion. The very horses champed their bits, arched their necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly than common horses; either because they had got a little of the family feeling, or were reined up" more tightly than ordinary. 7 I could not but admire the style with which this splendid pageant was brought up to the gate of the churchyard. There was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall; a great smacking of the whip; straining and scrambling of the horses; glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vain- glory to the coachman. The horses were urged and checked, until they were fretted into a foam. They 144 THE SKETCH BOOK. threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers saun- tering quietly to church, opened precipitately to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reach- ing the gate, the horses were pulled up with a sudden- ness that produced an immediate stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. 8 There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen to alight, open the door, pull down the steps, and prepare everything for the descent on earth of this august family. The old citizen first emerged his round red face from out the door, looking about him with the pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on 'change, and shake the stockmarket with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little pride in her composition. She was the picture of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world v/ent well with her; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children; everything was fine about her: it was nothing but driving about and visiting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel; it was one long Lord Ma5^or's day. 9 Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. The}^ certainly were handsome, but had a supercilious air that chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. They were ultra-fashionable in dress, and, though no one could deny the richness of their decorations, yet their appropriateness might be ques- THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 145 tioned 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 immedi- ately brightened into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed they were but slight acquaintances. 10 I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of dress which marks the man of questionable pretensions to style. They kept entirely by themselves, eying everyone askance that came near them, as if measuring his claims to respectability; yet they were without con- versation, except the exchange of an occasional phrase. They even moved artificially, for their bodies, in com- pliance with the caprice of the day, had been disci- plined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had done everything 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. 1 46 THE SKETCH B O OK. 11 I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these two families, because I consider them speci- mens of what is often to be met with in this country — the unpretending great, and the arrogant httle. I have no respect for titled rank, unless it be accom- panied by true nobility of soul; but I have remarked, in all countries where these artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. Those who are well assured of their own standing are least apt to trespass on that of others: whereas, nothing is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by humiUating its neighbor. 12 As I have brought these famihes 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 devo- tion, but rather a respect for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable from good breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and whis- per; they betrayed a continual consciousness of finery, and the sorry ambition of being the wonders of a rural congregation. 13 The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the service. He took the whole burden of family devotion upon himself; standing bolt upright, and uttering the 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 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 147 men who connect the idea of devotion and loyahy; who consider the Deity, somehow or other, of the government party, and rehgion *'a very excellent sort of thing, that aught to be countenanced and kept up." 14 When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more by way of example to the lower orders, to show them that though so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious; as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pronouncing it "■ excellent food for the poor." 15 When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sisters, as the day was fine, pre- ferred stroUing home across the fields, chatting with the country people as they went. The others departed as they came, in grand parade. Again were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the ghttering 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 wrapt out of sight in a whirlwind. CHRISTMAS. "But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of his good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, see- ing I can not have more of him." — Hue and Cry after Christinas. " A man might then behold At Christmas, in each hall. Good fires to curb the cold, And meat for great and small. The neighbors were friendly bidden. And all had welcome true, The poor from the gates were not chidden, When this old cap was new." — Old Song.^ 1 There is nothing in England that exercises a more dehghtful spell over my imagination than the linger- ings of the holiday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that 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 grow- ing more and more faint, being gradually worn away 1 From "Guild Hall Giants," by Thomas Hood, a famous English humorist and popu- lar author (born in London, 1798; died, 1845). 148 CHRISTMAS. 149 by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherish- ing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which it has derived so many of its themes, — as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and moldering tower, gratefully repaying their sup- port by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. 2 Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christ- mas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt asso- ciations. There is one 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 ex- tremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pas- toral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good will to men.^ I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem 1 No war was declared, and no capital executions were permitted to take place during this season of good will, I 5 O THE SKE TCH B O OK. in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile w^ith triumphant harmony. 3 It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from the days of yore, that this festival, which commemo- rates the announcement of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of the family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementoes of childhood. 4 There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion of our pleas- ures from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird; the murmur of the stream; the breathing fragrance of spring; the soft voluptu- ousness of summer; the golden pomp of autumn; earth, w4th its mantle of refreshing green; and heaven, with its deep, delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, — all fill us with mute but exquisite de- light, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies de^ CHRISTMAS. I 5 I spoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the land- scape, the short, gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated, our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more 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 living kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity. 5 The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each countenance into a kindlier wel- come. Where does the honest face of hospitality ex- pand into a broader and more cordial smile, where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent, than by the winter fireside t and as the hollow blast of wintry 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 sheltered security with which we look 152 THE SKETCH BOOK, around upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity ? 6 The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holidays which agree- ably interrupt the stillness of country life, and they were in former days particularly observant of the religious and social rights of Christmas/ It is inspir- ing to read even the dry details which some antiqua- ries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this festival was cele- brated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitahty. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly. The cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 7 One of the least pleasing effects of modern refine- ment is the havoc it has made among the hearty old 1 Christmas Day, in the primitive church, was always observed as the Sabbath day, and, like that, preceded by an eve or vigil : hence our Christmas Eve, CHRISTMAS. 153 holiday customs. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited rehefs of these cmbelHsh- ments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less character- istic surface. 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, w^hen men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigor- ously, — times wild picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, aud the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlight- ened and elegant tone; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its home-bred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, 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 tapestried parlor, but are unfitted for the light, showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 1 Second Henry IV, act iv, sc. 3. 1 5 4 THE SKETCH B O OK. 8 Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and fes- tive honors, Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The preparations making on every side for the social board that is again to unite friends and kindred; the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard, and quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness, — all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, ^ rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night with the effect of 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 wdll to mankind. How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns everything to melody and beauty! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country, ' ' telling the night watches to his feathery dames," w^as thought by the common people to announce the approach of this sacred festival. 1 Or wayte, originally a kind of night-watchman, who sounded the hours of his watch, and guarded the streets; later a musician who sang out of doors at Christmas time, going from house to house. 2 Luke ii, 13, 14. SUGGESTIONS FOR A STUDY OF A PORTION OF "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW." Next to ''Rip Van Winkle, "the most popular selection of ''The Sketch Book" is '' The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." It opens with a description of the spot, " which is one of the quietest places in the world." He enumerates some of the superstitions of the people concerning their neighbor- hood, and by this means prepares our imagination for the story. The leading character of the story is Ichabod Crane, a schoolmaster from Connecticut, who pursued his calling in " this by-place of nature." Among other pecul- iarities, Ichabod was nervous in the dark. FROM "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW." 8 The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long, snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. STUDIES. I. In what points does the ludicrousness of the descrip- tion consist? 2. What hyperbole in the description? 3. What are the ludicrous comparisons? 4. What is caricature? 5. What would you call this description? 6. What of Irving's power of ludicrous description of persons ? NOTES ON THE ABOVE MODEL. {a) The first sentence implies the one quality which characterizes the appearance of Ichabod Crane: namely, his awkwardness. "The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person." 155 I 56 LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. (/;) Each of the sentences which follow emphasizes this qualit)^ Examine each sentence and prove this statement. (f) The last sentence restates the general impression which the appearance of Ichabod makes. "To see him striding . . . cornfield." In this neighborhood lived the well-to-do old Baltus Van Tassel with his '^ blooming" daughter, Katrina, v\^ho was in Ichabod's v/eekly music class. Baltus Van Tassel's place is thus described : — 21 His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fend ct nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it; at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well, formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a church, every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, from whence sallied forth now and then, groups of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through t'-e 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; clapping his burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. STUDIES. I. What type in the word "nestling"? 2. What emotional words in the second sentence? 3. Which of them are experiential to you ? 4. Select and explain the types in that sentence. 5. Enumerate the points he has selected in order to bring the scene before your mind. LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLE OW. I 5 7 6. Compare his method with that in his description of the Catskill Mountains. 7. What effects in his description of the barn? 8. Study his description of the swallows and martins. How many points did he select about them ? Are those points sufficient ? Why ? 9. Study his description of the pigeons. Can you imagine the scene ? 10. Has he selected the strongest characteristics of the several kinds of birds? Notice that you do not need many characteristics if you select the right ones, ii. Notice his choice of adjective in ''sleek, unwieldy pork- ers." 12. Explain the types in (^) ''sallied forth," {b) "squadron," (^) "stately," i^d) "convoying," ( cents. niui cents. Illustrated. LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME. ^^ Enameled covers, beautifully |^ price l.'i cents, cloth ^0 cents. Battle of Lake l\e^illus, \ irginia' THE ANCIENT MARINER. No. 13. By CoLERiuriE. With portiait and intro- du<-tioii and twenty-seven illustratini..- lic- scriptive of the text. Enamel price 15 cents. 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