'-rHESKETCHBOOK

BYWASHINGTON IRVING

CHICAGO

W. B. CONKEY CO;\IPANY

WASHlXGTON Invrxo,

CON'TENTS.PAliE

The Author's Account of Himself ..... -;............ 17The Voyage.. ..•................................. 22Roscoe .•.•..•.................................. " 31The Wife.. . . . .. . • •. .•. .. .. . . . . • •. .. . . .. .. . .. . . . . . 41Rip Van Winkle........................ ..... .. 52English Writers on America ....•............ '" 79Rural Life in England................... .. 93The Broken Heart.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 104The Art of Book-making , , . •. • .. • .. . . .. . . . . . . . . . .. 1I2A Royal Poet. ................••................. 122The Country Church .•..•. " . • . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 142The Widow and Her Son .•.•...•............... ' .. ISOA Sunday in London. .. .. .. •. . •. . .. . . .. .. .. 161The Boar's Head Tavern , 164The Mutability of Literature 181Rural Funerals 197The Inn Kitchen 214The Spectre Bridegroom , " 217Westminster Abbey •.............................. 240Christmas •....................................... 256The Stage-Coach. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 264Christmas Eve. . . . • . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 274Christmas Day , .. 29[The Christmas Dinner 3IlLondon Antiques .......••........................ 332Little Britain. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 34\Stratford-on-Avon '" 363Traits of Indian Character : .. 391Philip of Pokanoket 408John Bull _ 433The Pride of the Village .. ; . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 450The Angler 463The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 476

5

THE SI<:ETCH BOOK.

THE AUTHOR'S ACCOC:.Jl' OF nDI-SELF.

I am of this mind with Homer, ,'la, as the snaile thatcrept out of her shel W'lS turned t:'tsoones into a toad,and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit 01<-; sothe traveler that stragleth from his owne country is in ashort time transformed into so monstrous a shape, thathe is faine to alter his mansion with h is manners, and tolive where he can, not where he would.-Lyly's Euphues.

I was always fond of visiting new scenes, andobserving strange characters and manners.Even when a mere child I began my travels,and madcm an y tours of discovery in to foreignparts and unknown regions of my native city,to the frequent alarm of my parents, and theemolument of the town crier. As I grew intoboyhood, I extended the range of my observa-tions. My holiday afternoons were spent inrambles about the surrounding country. Imade myself familiar with an its places famousin history or fable. I knew every spot wherea murder or robbery had been committed, or aghost seen. I visited the neighboring villages,and added greatly to my stock of knowledge,by noting their habits and customs, and con-

18 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH nOOK. 19

versing with their sages and great men. reven ~ourneyed one long summer's day to thesummit of the most distant hill, whence I~tretc~ed my eye over many a mile of terratncognua. and was astonished to find how vast aglobe I inhabited.This rambling propensity strengthened with

my years. Books of voyages and travels be-came my passion, and in devouring their con-tents, I neglected the regular exercises of theschool. How wistfully would I wander aboutthe pier-heads in fine weather and watch theparting ships, bound to distant climes . withwhat :ongiD:g eyes would I gaze after' theirlessenmg sails, and waft myself in imaginationto the ends of the earth!Further :-eading and thinking, though they

brought this vague inclination into more rea-sonable bounds, only served to make it moredecided. I visited various parts of my owncountry; and had I been merely a lover of finescenery, I should have felt little desire to seekelsewhere its gratification, for on no countryhad the charms of nature been more prodigallylavished. Her mighty lakes her oceans ofliq~id s~lver; her mountains, ~ith their brightaen~~ tints; her valleys, teeming with wildfertIhty; her tremendous cataracts thunder-ing in their solitudes; her boundless plainswaving with spontaneous verdure' her broad'deep rivers, rolling in solemn siience to th~ocean; her tr.ackless f?rests, where vegetation~uts forth all ItS magmficence; her skies, kind-ling with the magic of summer clouds and

glorious sunshine ;-no, never need an Amer-ican look beyond his own country for the sub-lime and beautiful of natural scenery.... But Europe held forth all the charms of stor-ied and poetical association. There were to beseen the masterpieces of art, the refinementsof highly cultivated society, the quaint peculi-arities of ancient and local custom. My nativecountry was full of youthful promise; Europewas rich in the accumulated treasures of azeHer very ruins told the history of the ti~e~gone by, and every mouldering stone was achronicle. I longed to wander over the scenesof renowned achievement-to tread as it werein the. footsteps of antiquity-to loiter aboll~the ruined castle-to meditate on the fal lin o

• btower-to escape, in short, from the common-place realities of the present, and lose myselfamong the shadowy grandeurs of the past.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 citybut has an ample share of them, I have min-gled among them in my time and been almostwithered by the shade into which they cast me'for there is nothing so baleful to a small manas the shade of a great one, particularly thegreat man of a city. But I was anxious to seethe great men of Europe; for I had read inthe works of various philosophers, that all ani.mals degenerated in America, and man amongthe number. A great man of Europe, thoughtI, must, therefore, be as superior to a greatman of America, as a peak of the Alps to a

___~ .A .-, . ~ ..----- ..~P--: S

THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. <ll

highland of the IImison: and in this idea I was; confirmed by observing the comparative im-

portance and swelling magnitude of many Eng-lish travelers among us, who, I was assured,were very little people in their own country.I will visit this land of wunder,:" thought I. andsee the gigantic race from which I a111 degen-erated.

It Ius been either my good or evil lot tohave rnv roving naseion gratified. I have wan-dered througl~ "different countries and wit-nessed many of the shifting scenes of life. Icannot say that I have studied them with theeye of a philosopher. but rather with the saun-tering gaze with which humble lovers of thepicturesque stroll from the window of oneprint-shop to another; caught sometimes bythe delineations of beauty, sometimes by thedistortions of caricature, and sometimes bythe loveliness of landscape. As it is the fash-ion for modern tourists to travel pencil inhand, and bring home their portfolios filledwith sketches, I am disposed to get up a fewfor the entertainment of my friends. When,however, I look over the hints and memoran-dums I have taken down for the purpose, my'heart almost fails me, at finding how my idlehumor has led me astray from the great objectstudied by every regular traveler who wouldmake a book. I fear I shall give equal disap-pointment with an unlucky landscape-painter,who had traveled on the Continent, but follow-ing the bent of his vagrant inclination, hadsketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places.

His sketch book was accordingly crowded \:,ithcottages, and landsca pes, aI~d obscure r;uns;but he had neglected to paint S~. Peter s, orthe Coliseum, the cascade ?f Term, ~r the bayof Naples, and had not a; single glacier or vol-cano in his whole collection,

22 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 23

THE VOYAGE.

and lessen the effect of absence and separa-tion. We drag, it is true, "a lengtheningchain" at each remove of our pilgrimage; butthe chain is unbroken; we can trace it backlink by link; and we feel that the last stillgrapples us to home. But a wide sea ,-,oyagesevers us at once. It makes us conscious ofbeinz cast loose from the secure anchorage ofsett1~d life and sent adrift upon a doubtfulworld. It interposes a gulf, not merely imagi-narv but real between us and our homes-agulf,' subject ;0 tempest, and fear, and uncer-tainty, rendering distance palpable, and returnprecarious.

Such at least was the case with myself.As I sa'w the last blue lines of my native landfade away like a cloud in the horizon, itseemed as if I had closed one volume of theworld and its concerns, and had time for med-itation before I opened another. That land,too now vanishing from my view, which con-tained all most dear to me in life; what vicis-situdes might occur in it-what changes ~l1!g~ttake place in me, before I should VISIt Itagain! Who can tell, when he sets forth towander whither he may be driven by the un-certain 'curren ts of existence; or when he mayreturn; or whether it may be ever his lot torevisit the scenes of his childhood?

I said that at sea all is vacancy; I shouldcorrect t'he impression. To one given to day-dreaming and fond of losing himself in rever-ies, a sea voyage is full of subjects for medita-tion; but then they are the wonders of the deep

Ships, ships, I will descrie youAmidst 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 ladin: t,Hallo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go? . b

-Old Poem.

To an American visiting Europe, the longvoyage he has to make is an excellent prepara-tive. The temporary absence of worldly scenesand employments produces a state of mind pe-culiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impres-sions. The vast space of waters that separatethe hemispheres is like a blank page in exist-ence. There is no gradual transition by which.as in Europe, the features and population ofone country blend almost imperceptibly withthose of another. From the moment you losesight of the land you have left, all is vacancy,until you step on the opposite shore, and arelaunched at once into the bustle and noveltiesof another world.

In traveling by land there is a continuity ofscene, and a connected succession of personsand incidents, that carryon the story of life,

24 THE SKETCH BOOK, THE SKETCH BOOK. 25

an.d of the air, and rather tend to abstract themirid from worldly themes. I delighted to lollover the quarter-railing or climb to the main-top, of a calm (~ay, and muse for hours togetheron the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea' to?aze upon the pile~ of golden clouds just p~er-mg above the horizon, fancy them some fairyrealms, and people them with a creation of myowr:;-to \\:atch the g'ently undulating bil lowsrolling their silver volumes, as if to die awa von those happy shores. ~

There was a delicious sensation of min sle.lsecurity and awe with which I looked do';,,'r\~rom 111ygi?dy height, on the monsters of tll~cee p at their uncouth gambols; shoals of pur-poises tum?ling about the bow of the ship; t l.egrampus, Slowly heaving his huge form abovet~le surface; or the ravenous shark, darting,~lke <: sp~ctre, through the blue waters. MyImag1l1atlOn would conjure up all that I hadheard or read of the waterv world beneath me'of the finny herds that roam its fathomless val-leys; of the shapeless monsters that lurkamong the very foundations of the earth; andof those wild phantasms that swell the tales offishermen and sailors.

Sometimes a distant sail gliding alonz the1 ' h '"ec ge of the ocean, would be another theme of

id le speculation, How in teresting this frag-ment of a .world, hastening to rejoin the greatmass of existence! 'What a glorious monumentof. human invention; which has in a mannertriumphed over wind and wave; has brough tthe ends of the world into communion' has,

established an interchange of blessings, pour-ing into the sterile regions of the north all theluxuries of the south; has diffused the light ofknowledge, and the charities of cultivated life;and has thus bound together those scatteredportions of the human race, between whichnature seemed to have thrown an insurmount-able barrier.

We one day descried some shapeless objectdrifting at a distance. At sea, everything thatbreaks the monotony of the surrounding ex-panse attracts attention, It proved to be themast of a ship that must have been completelywrecked; for there were the remains of hand-kerchiefs, bv which some of the crew had fas-tened them;ch-cs to this spar, to prevent theirbeing washed off by the waves. There was notrace by which the name of the ship could beascertained. The wreck had evidently driftedabout for manv months: clusters of shell-fishhad fastened ~bout it, and long sea-weedsflaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, isthe crew? Their struggle has long been over-they have gone down amidst the roar of thetempest-their bones lie whitening among thecaverns of the deep, Silence, oblivion, likethe waves, have closed over them, and no onecan tell the story of their end. What sighshave been wafted after that ship! what prayersoffered up at the deserted fireside of home!How often has the mistress, the wife, themother, pored over the daily news, to catchsome casual intelligence of this rover of thedeep! How has expectation darkened in to

26 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 27

anxiety-anxiety into dread-and dread intodespair! Alas! not one memento may everreturn for love to cherish. All that may everbe known, is that she sailed from her port," andwas never heard of more!"

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave riseto many dismal anecdotes. This was particu-larly the case in the evening, when theweather, which had hitherto been fair, begant? look wild and threatening, and gave indica-tions of one of those sudden storms that willsometimes break in upon the serenity of a sum-mer voyage. As we sat round the dull lightof a lamp, in the cabin, that made the gloommore ghastly, everyone had his tale of ship-wreck and disaster. I was particularly struckwith a short one related by the captain.

"As I was once sail ing," said he, "in a fine,stout ship across the banks of Newfoundland,one of those heavy fogs that prevail in thoseparts rendered it impossible for us to see farahead, even in the daytime; but at night theweather was so thick that we could not distin-guish any object at twice the length of theship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and aconstant watch forward to look out for fishingsmacks, which are accustomed to anchor on~he banks. The wind was blowing a smack-mg breeze, and we were going at a great ratethrough the water. Suddenly the watch gavethe alarm of 'a sail ahead "-it was scarcelyuttered before we were upon her. She was asmall schooner, at anchor, with her broadsidetoward us. The crew were all asleep, and had

neglected to hoist a light. V!e struck h~r justamidships. The force, the SIze, and weIght ofour vessel bore her down below the waves;we passed' over her and were hurried ~m ?urcourse. As the crashing wreck was sinkingbeneath us, I had a glimpse of two or th~eehalf-naked wretches, rushing from her cabin ;they just started from their beds to be swa~-lowed shrieking by the waves. I h.eard theirdrowning cry mingling with the wmd. Theblast that bore it to our ears, swept us out ofall further hearing. I shall never forget thatcry! It was some time before we could putthe ship about she was under such headway.We returned as nearly as we could guess, tothe place wh~re the smack had anc.hored. Wecruised about for several hours in the densefog. 'Ve fired signal-guns, and listened if wemight hear the halloo of any survivors: ~ut allwas sfient-we never saw or heard anythmg ofthem more. "

I confess these stories, for a time, put an endto all my fine fancies. The storm i~creasedwith the night. The sea was lashed into tre-mendous confusion. There was a fearful, sul-len sound of rushing waves and broken surges.Deep called unto deep. At times the blackvolume of clouds overhead seemed rent asun-der by flashes of lightning which quiveredalong the foaming billows, and made the suc-ceeding darkness doubly terrible. The thun-ders bellowed over the wild waste of waters,and were echoed and prolonged by the moun-tain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and

28 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 29plunging among these roaring. caverns, itseemed miraculous that she regained her bal-ance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yardswould dip into the water; her bow was almostburied beneath the waves. Sometimes an im-pending surge appeared ready to overwhelmher, and nothing but a dexterous movementof the helm preserved her from the shock.

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scenestill followed me. The whistling of the windthrough the rigging sounded like funeral w~il-ings. The creaking of the masts; the str~l~-inz and o-roaninCf of bulkheads, as the S11lp

b b b 'hfllabored in the weltering sea, were fng t u .As I heard the waves rushing along the side ofthe ship, and roaring in my very ear,. it seen:edas if Death were raging around this float~ngprison, seeking for his pre;; the mere startl.ngof a nail, the yawning of a seam, might gIvehim entrance.

A fine day, however, with a tranqui~ seaand favoring breeze, soon put all these dlsrr;.alreflections to flight. It is impossible to resistthe <Yladdening influence of fine weather andfair ~ind at sea. When the ship is decked outin all her canvas, every sail swelled, andcareering gayly over the curling waves, howlofty, how gallant, she appears-how she seemsto lord it over the deep!

I might fill a volume with the reveries of asea voyage; for with me it is almost a conti~-ual reverie-but it is time to get to shore.

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrill-ing cry of "land!" was given from the mast-

head. None but those who have experiencedit can form an idea of the delicious throng ofsensations which rush into an American's bos-om, when he first comes in sight of Europe.There is a volume of associations with the veryname. It is the land of promise, teeming witheverything of which his childhood has heard,or on which his studious years have pondered.

From that time, until the moment of arrival,it was all feverish excitement. The ships ofwar, that prowled like guardian giants alongthe coast; the headlands of Ireland, stretchingout into the channel; the Welsh mountainstowering into the clouds ;-all were objects ofintense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey,I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My

.eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, withtheir trim shrubberies and green grass-plots.I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrunwith ivy, and the taper spire of a villagechurch rising from the brow of a neighboringhill ;-all were characteristic of England.

The tide and wind were so favorable, thatthe ship was enabled to come at once to herpier. It was thronged with people; some idlelookers-on; others, eager expectants of friendsor relations. I could distinguish the merchantto whom the ship was consigned. I knew himby his calculating brow and restless air. Hishands were thrust into his pockets; he waswhistling thoughtfully, and walking to andfro, a small space having been accorded himby the crowd, in deference to his temporaryimportance. There were repeated cheerings

30 THE SKETCH BOOK.

and salutations interchanged between theshore and the ship, as friends happened to rec-ognize each other. I particularly noticed oneyoung woman of humble dress, but interestingdemeanor. She was leaning forward fromamong the crowd; her eye hurried over theship as it neared the shore, to catch somewished-for countenance. She seemed disap-pointed and sad; when I heard a faint voicecall her name.-It was from a poor sailor whohad been ill all the voyage, and had excitedthe sympathy of everyone on board. 'Whenthe weather was fine, his messmates had spreada mattress for him on deck in the shade, butof late his illness had so increased that he hadtaken to his hammock, and onlv breathed awish that he might see his wife be"fore he died.He had been helped on deck as we came up theriver, and was now leaning against theshrouds, with a countenance so wasted, sopale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder eventhe eye of affection did not recognize him.But at the sound of his voice, her eye dartedon his features: it read, at once, a whole vol-ume of sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttereda faint shriek, and stood wringing them insilent agony,All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings

of acquaintances-the greetings of friends-theconsultations of men of business. I alone wassolitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, nocheering to receive. I stepped upon the landof my forefathers-but felt that I wac astranger in the land.

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ROSCOE.

I --In the service of mankind to beA gua~dian god below; still to employThe minds brave ardor in heroic aimsSuch as may raise us o'er the groveling herd,And make us shine for ever-that is life.

-Thomson.

One ?f th.e first pl<1:cesto which a stranger istaken 111 LIverpool IS the Athenreum. It isestabl,ished on a ~iberal and judicious plan; itcontains a good library, and spacious reading-room, and is the great literary resort of theplace. Go there a~ what hO~lr you may, youare sure to find It filled with grave-lookingpersonages, deeply absorbed in the study ofnewspapers.As I was once visiting this haunt of the

~earned, ~y attention was attracted to a personJust entenng the room. He was advanced inlife, tall, and of a form that might once have~een commanding, but it was a little bowed bytime-e-perb aps by care. He had a noble Romanstyle of countenance; a head that would havepleased a pai.nter; and though some slightfurrows on hIS brow showed that wastingthought h.ad been busy there, yet his eyebeamed with the fire of a poetic soul. Therewas something in his whole appearance that

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indicated a being of a different order from thebustling race round him. .I inquired his name, and was. lllforn:-ed that

it was Roscoe. I drew back with an involun-tary feeling of veneration. This, then, was anauthor of celebrity; this was one of those menwhose voices have gone forth to the ends ofthe earth; with whose minds I have c~m.muned even in the solitudes of Amenca.Accustomed as we are in our country, toknow European writers only by their works,we cannot conceive of them, as of other men,engrossed by trivial or sordid pursui~s, a~djostling with the crowd of common minds IIIthe du~ty paths of life. They pass b~fore ~urimaginations like sup~dor ~eings, radiant withthe emanations of their gem us, and surroundedby a halo of literary glory.To find, therefore, the elegant historian of

the Medici mingling among th~ bu~y sons oftraffic, at first shocked my poetical Ideas;. butit is from the very circumstances and situa-tions in which he has been placed, that ~Ir.Roscoe derives his highest claims to admira-tion. It is interesting to notice how someminds seem almost to create themselves,springing up under every di~adv~nt.age, andworking their solitary but irresistible waythrough a thousand obstacles. Nat~.ue. ~eemsto delight in disappointing the a~~IdU1t1esofart with which it would rear legitimate dul-ness to maturity: and to glory in the vigorand luxuriance of her chance product~ons.She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds,

and though some may perish among the stonyplaces of the world, and some be ch?ked. bythe thorns and brambles of early adversity,yet others will now and then strike root evenin the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely upinto sunshine. and spread over their sterilebirthplace all the beauties Of vegetation.Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe.

Born in a place apparently ungenial to thegrowth of literary talent-in the very ~arket.place of trade; wi thou t fortune, famil y COIl-nections, or patronage; self-prompted, self.sustained, and almost self-taught, he has con-quered every obstacle, achieved his way toeminence, and, having become one of theornaments of the nation, has turned thewhole force of his talents and influence toadvance and embellish his native town.Indeed, it is this last trait in his c~aracte!

which has given him the greatest interestin my eyes, and induced me particul.arly topoint him out to my countrymen. Eminent asare his literary merits, he is but one amongthe many distinguished authors of this intel-lectual nation. They, however, in general,live but for their own fame, or their ownpleasures. Their private history presents nolesson to the world, or, perhaps, a humiliatingone of human frailty or inconsistency. Atbest. they are prone to steal away from thebustle and commonplace of busy existence; toindulge in the selfishness of lettered ease; ~ndto revel in scenes of mental, but exclusiveenjoyment.3 Sketch Book

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Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has chimednone of the accorded privileges of talent. Hehas shut himself up in no garden of thought,nor elysium of fancy; but has gone forth intothe highways and thoroughfares of life, he hasplanted bowers by the wayside, for the refresh-ment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, andhas opened pure fountains, where the laboringman may turn aside from the dust and heat ofthe day, and drink of the living streams ofknowledge. 'There is a "daily beauty in hislife," on which mankind may meditate, andgrow better. It exhibits no lofty and almostuseless, because inimitable example of excel-lence; but presents a picture of active, yetsimple and imitable virtues, which are withinevery man's reach, but which, unfortunately,are not exercised by many, or this worldwould be a paradise.But his private life is peculiarly worthy the

attention of the citizens of our young andbusy country where literature and the elegantarts must grow up side by side with thecoarser plants of daily necessity; and mustdepend for their culture, not on the exclusivedevotion of time and wealth; nor the quicken-ing rays of titled patronage; but on hours andseasons snatched from the purest of worldlyinterests, by intelligent and public-spirited in-dividualsHe has shown how much may be done for a

place in hours of leisure by one master-spirit,and how completely it can give its own im-press to surrounding, objects. Like his own

Lorenzo de Medici, on whom he seems tohave fixed his eye as on a pure model of anti-quity, he has interwoven the history of hislife with the history of his native town, andhas made the foundations of his famethe monuments of his virtues. Whereveryou go, in Liverpool, you perceive traces~f his footsteps in all that is elegant andliberal. He found the tide of wealth flowingmerely in the channels of traffic' he hasdiverted from it invigorating rills to refreshthe garden of literature. By his ownexample and constant exertions, he haseffected that union of commerce and the intel-~ectual pursuits, so eloquently recornrnend xlIII one of his latest writings;* and has prccti-cally proved how beautifully they may bebrought to harmonize, and to benefit eachot~er.. The noble insti~utions for literary andsClen~lfic purposes, which reflect such crediton Llverp~ol, ~nd are giving such an impulse:to the public mind, have mostly been originatedand have all been effectuall~ promoted,- by~r. Ro~coe: and when we consider the rapidlyincreasing opulence and magnitude of thattown, which promises to vie in commercialimportance with the metropolis, it vill beperceive? that in awakening an ambition:£mental Improvement among its inhabitantshe has effected a great benefit to the cause ai,British literature. .In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as

*Address on the opening of the Liver~ Institution,

36 THE SKETCH BOOK.

the author' in Liverpool he is spoken of asthe banker.' and I was told of his having beenunfortunat~ in business. I could not pityhim as I heard some rich men do. I consid-ered him far above the reach of pity. Thosewho live only for the world, and in the wo~ld,may be cast down by the frowns of adversity ;but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcomeby the reverses of fortune. They ~o butdrive him in upon the resources of hIS ownmind, to the superior society of his ownthouzhts : which the best of men are apt some-tiDe~ to ~eglect, and to roam abroad in searchof less worthy associates. He is independentof the world around him. He lives with anti-uuitv and with posterity: with antiquity, inthe J;weet communion of studious retirement;and with posterity, in the generous aspiringsafter future renown. The solitude of such amind is its state of highest enjoyment. It isthen visited by those elevated meditationswnich are the proper aliment of noble souls,and are like manna sent from heaven, in thewi1dern~ss of this w~r1d.

'While my feelings were yet alive on thesubject, it was my fortune to light on furthertraces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with agentleman, to view the environs of ~iverpool,when he turned off, through a gate, into someornamented grounds. After riding a. shortclistance. we came to a spacious mansion offreestone built in the Grecian style. It wasnot in the purest style. yet it had an air ofelegance, and. the situation was delightful. A

II

THE SKETCH BOOK. 3,fine lawn sloped away from it. studded withclumps of trees, so disposed as to break a softfertile country into a variety of landscapes.The Mersey was seen winding a broad quietsheet of water thro.ugh an expanse of greenmeadow land, while the 'Welsh mountainsblended with clouds, and melting into distance'bordered the horizon. '

This was Roscoe's favorite residence durinzthe days of his prosperity. It had been th~seat of elegant hospitality and literary retire-ment. The house was now silent and deserted.I saw the windows of the study, which lookedout upop the soft scenery I have mentioned.The windows were closed-the library wasgone.. Two or three ill-favored beings werel~itenng . about ~he place, whom my fancypictured into retainers of the law. It was likevisiting some classic fountain that had oncewell.ed i~? pure waters in a s~cred shade, butfindlllg It dry and dusty, with the lizard andthe toad brooding over the shattered marbles

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe'~library, which had consisted of scarce andforeign books, from many of which he haddrawn the materials for his Italian histories,It had passed under the hammer of theauctioneer, and was dispersed about thecountry. The good people of the vicinitythronged like wreckers to get some part of then~ble vessel that had been driven on shore.I?ld such a scene admit of ludicrous associa-!lons,. we might imagine something whimsicalm this strange irruption in the rezions of

b

THE SKETCH BOOK. .THE SKETCH BOOK. 39

learning. Pigmies rummaging the armoryof a giant, and contending for the possessionof weapons which they could not wield. Wemight picture to ourselves some knot of specu-lators. debating with calculating brow overthe quaint binding and illuminated margin ofan obsolete author; of the air of intense, butbaffled sagacity, with which some successfulpurchaser attempted to dive into the black.letter bargain he had secured.

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr.Roscoe's misfortunes, and one which cannotfail to interest the studious mind, that theparting with his books seems to have touchedupon his tenderest feelings, and to have beenthe only circumstance that could provoke thenotice of his muse. The scholar only knowshow dear these silent, yet eloquent, compan-ions of pure thoughts and innocent hoursbecome in the season of adversity. When allthat is worldly turns to dross around us,these only retain their steady value. Whenfriends grow cold, and the converse o~ inti-mates languishes into vapid civility and com-monplace, these only continue the unalteredcountenance of happier days, and cheer us withthat true friendship which never deceivedhope, nor deserted sorrow.

I do not wish to censure; but, surely, it t.hepeople of Liverpool had been properly sensibleof what was due to Mr. Roscoe and theni-selves, his library would never have beensold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless,be given for the circumstance, which it would

be difficult to combat with others that mightseem merely fanciful; but it certainly appearsto me such an opportunity as seldom occurs,of cheering a noble mind struggling undermisfortunes by one of the most delicate, butmost expressive tokens of public sympathy.It is difficult, however, to estimate a man ofgenius properly who is daily before our eyes.He becomes mingled and confounded withother men. His great qualities lose theirnovelty; we become too familiar with thecommon materials which form the basis evenof the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe'stownsmen may regard him merely as a man ofbusiness; others, as a politician; all find himengaged like themselves in ordinary occupa-tions, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselveson some points of worldly wisdom. Eventhat amiable and unostentatious simplicity ofcharacter, which gives the nameless grace toreal excellence, may cause him to be under-valued by some coarse minds, who do notknow that true worth is always void of glareand pretension. But the man of letters. whospeaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the resi-dence of Roscoe.-The intellizent travelerwho visits it inquires where Roscoe is to beseen. He is the literary landmark of theplace, indicating its existence to 'the distantscholar.-He is like Pompey's column at Alex-andria, towering alone in classic dignity.

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr.Roscoe to his books, on parting with them,hal; already been alluded to. If anything can

40 THE SKETCH BOOK.

add effect to the pure feeling and elevatedthought here displayed, it is the conviction,that the whole is no effusion of fancy, but afaithful transcriptfrom the writer's h-eart.

TO MY BOOKS.

As one who, destined from his friends to part,Regrets his loss, but hopes aga~n erewhile ,To share their converse and enjoy their smile,

And tempers as he may affliction's dart;

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art,Teachers of wisdom, ViI ho could once beguileMy tedious hours, and lighten every toil,

I now resign you; nor with fainting heart;

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,

And all your sacred fellowship restore'When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers.

Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,And kindred spirits meet to part no more.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 41

THE WIFE.

The treasures of the deep are not so preciousAs are the concealed comforts of a manLock'd up in woman's love. I scent the airOf blessings, when I come but near the house,What a delicious breath marriage sends forth-The violet bed's no sweeter!

-Middleton.

I have often had occasion to remark the for-titude with which women sustain the mostoverwhelming reverses of fortune. Thosedisasters which break down the spirit of aman, and prostrate him in the dust, seem tocall forth all the energies of the softer sex,and give such intrepidity and elevation totheir character, that at times it approaches tosublimity. Nothing can be more touching,than to behold a soft and tender female, whohad been all weakness and dependence. andalive to every trivial roughness, while tread-ing the prospe rous paths of life, suddenlyrising in mental force to be the comforter andsupport of her husband under misfortune, andabiding with unshrinking firmness the bitterestblast of adversity.

As the vine, which has long twined itsgraceful foliage about the oak, and been liftedby it into sunshine, will, when the hardy oaki" rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it

i Sketch Book

42 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 43

with its caressing tendrils, and bind up itsshattered boughs, so is it beautifull~yordered by Providence, that woman, who ISthe mere dependent and ornament of manin his happier hours, should be his stay andsolace when smitten with sudden calamity;winding herself into the rugged recesses of hisnature, tenderly supporting the drooping head,and binding up the broken heart.

I was once congratulating a friend, who hadaround him a blooming family, knit togetherin the strongest affection. "I can wish youno better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "thanto have a wife and children. If you are pros-perous, there they are to share your pros-perity; if otherwise, there they are to comfortyou." And, indeed, I have observed that amarried man falling into misfortune, is moreapt to retrieve his situation in the wo~ld thana single one; partly, because he IS morestimulated to exertion by the necessities of thehelpless and beloved beings :vho depend upophim for subsistence but chiefly because hISspirits are soothed 'and relieved by domesticendearments, and his self-respect kept aliveby finding, that, though all abroad is darknessand humiliation, yet there is still a little worldof love at home, of which he is the monarch.Whereas, a single man is apt to run to wasteand self-neglect; to fancy himself lon~ly ~ndabandoned and his heart to fall to rum, Ekesome deserted mansion, for want of an in-habitant,

These observations call to mind a little.

domestic story, of which I was once a witness.My intimate friend, Leslie, had married abeautiful and accomplished girl, who had beenbrought up in the midst of fashionable life.She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of myfriend was ample; and he delighted in theanticipation of indulging her in every elegantpursuit, and administering to those delicatetastes and fancies that spread a kind ofwitchery about the sex.-" Her life," saidhe, "shall be like a fairy tale."

The very difference in their characters pro-duced a harmonious combination; he was ofa romantic, and somewhat serious cast: shewas all life and gladness. I have oftennoticed the mute rapture with which he wouldgaze upon her in company, of which hersprightly powers made her the delight; andhow, in the midst of applause, her eye wouldstill turn to him, as if there alone she soughtfavor and acceptance. When leaning on hisarm her slender form contrasted finely withhis tall, manly person. The fond, confidingair with which she looked up to him seemedto call forth a flush of triumphant pride andcherishing tenderness, as if he doated on hislovely burden from its very helplessness.Never did a couple set forward on the flowerypath of early and well-suited marriage with afairer prospect of felicity.

It was the misfortune of my friend, how-ever, to have embarked his property in largespeculations; and he had not been marriedmany months, when, by a succession of sud-

44 THE SKETCH BOOK.

den disasters, it was swept from him, and hefound himself reduced to-almost penury. Fora time he kept his situation to himself, andwent about with a haggard countenance, anda breaking heart. His life was but a pro-tracted agony; and what rendered it more in-supportable was the necessity of keeping up asmile in the presence of his wife; for he couldnot bring himself to overwhelm her with thenews. She saw, however, with the quickeves of affection, that all was not well withhim. She marked his altered looks and stifledsighs, and was not to be deceived by his sicklyand vapid attempts at cheerfulness. Shetasked all her sprightly powers and tenderblandishments to win him back to happiness;but she only drove the arrow deeper into hissoul. The more he saw cause to love her,the more torturing was the thought that hewas" soon to make her wretched. A littlewhile, thought he, and the smile will vanishfrom that cheek-the song will die away fromthose lips-the lustre of those eyes will bequenched with sorrow; and the happy heartwhich now beats lightly in that bosom, willhe weighed down, like mine, by the cares andmiseries of the world.

At length he came to me one day, andrelated his whole situation in a tone of thedeepest despair. When I had heard himthrough. I inquired: "Does you wife knowall this?"-At the question he burst into anagony of tears. "For God's sake!" cried he."if you have any pity on me don't mention my

THE SKETCH BOOK. 45

wife; it is the thought of her that drives mealmost to madness!"

"And why not?" said 1. "She must knowit sooner or later: you cannot keep it longfrom her, and the intelligence may break uponher in 3. more startling manner than if im-parted by yourself; for the accents of thosewe love soften the harshest tidings. Besides,you are depriving yourself of the comforts ofher sympathy; and not merely that, but alsoendangering the' only bond that can keephearts together-an unreserved community ofthought and feeling. She will soon perceivethat something is secretly preying upon yourmind; and true love will not brook reserve;it feels undervalued and outraged, when eventhe sorrows of those it loves are concealedfrom it. "

"Oh, but my friend! to think what a blow Iam to give 'to all her future prospects,-how Iam to strike her very soul to the earth, bytelling her that her husband is a beggar! thatshe is to forego all the elegancies of life-allthe pleasures of society-to shrink with me intoindigence and obscurity! To tell her that Ihave dragged her down from the sphere inwhich she might have continued to move inconstant brightness-the light of every eye-the admiration of every heart -How can shebear poverty? She has been brought up inall the refinements of opulence. How can shebear neglect? She has been the idol of society.Oh, it will break her heart-it will break herheart!"

46 THE SKETCH BOOK.

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let ithave its flow; for sorrow relieves itself bywords. When his paroxysm had subsided, andhe had relapsed into moody silence, I resumedthe subject gently, and urged him to break hissituation at once to his wife. He shook hishead mournfully, but positively."But how are you to keep it from her? It

is necessary she should know it, that you maytake the steps proper to the alteration of yourcircumstances. You must change your styleof living-nay," observing a pang to passacross his countenance, "don't let that afflictyou. I am sure you have never placed yourhappiness in outward show-you have yetfriends, warm friends, who will not think theworse of you for being less splendidly lodged;and surely it does not require a palace to behappy with Mary--""I could be happy with her," cried he, con-

vulsively, "in a hovel !-I could go down withher into poverty and the dust !-I could-Godbless her !--God bless her!" cried he, burstinginto a transport of grief and tenderness."And believe me, my friend," said I, step-

ping up. and grasping him warmly by thehand. "believe me, she can be the same withyou.' Ay, more; it will be a source of prideand triumph to her-it will call forth all thelatent energies and fervent sympathies of hernature; for she will rejoice to prove that sheloves you for yourself. There is in every truewoman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, whichlies dormant on the broad daylight of prosper-

THE SKETCH BOOK. 47

ity ; bU,t which kindles up, and beams, andblazes 111the dark hour of adversity. No manknows what the wife of his bosom is-no manknows what a l,?iriistering angel she is-~1tilhe has gone with her through the fiery tr'ialsof this world. "There was something in the earnestness of

my manner, and the figurative style of mylangua~e, that caught the excited imaginationof Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to dealwith; and following up the impression I hadmade, I finished by .persuading him to gohome and un burden hIS sad heart to his wife.I must confess, notwithstandiuz all I had

said, I felt some little solicitude fo~ the result.Who can calculate on the fortitude of onewhose life has been a round of pleasures? Hergay spirits might revolt at the dark, downwardpath of low humility suddenly pointed out be-~ore h.er, and might. cling to the sunny regions111WhIChthey had hitherto reveled. Besidesruin in fa~hionabl~ lif~ is accompanied by s~many gall111gmortifications, to which in otherranks, it is a stranger. In short I ~ould notme~t Leslie, the next morning, ~ithout trepi-dation. He had made the disclosure."And how did she bear it?""Like an angel! It seemed rather to be a

relief to her mind, for she threw her armsaround my neck, and asked if this was all thathad lately made me unhappy.-But, poor girl "added he, "she cannot realize the change ,~e:uust undergo. She has no idea of poverty but111the abstract; she has only read of it in the

41; THE SKETCH BOOK.

poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels asyet no privation; she suffers no loss of accus-tomed conveniences nor elegancies. When wecome practically to experience its sordid cares,its paltry wants, its petty humiliations-thenwill be the real triaL"

"But," said I, "now that you have got overthe severest task, that of breaking it to her,the sooner you let the world into the secret thebetter. The disclosure may be mortifying;but then it is a single misery, and soon over:whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipa-tion, every hour in the day. It is not povertyso much as pretence. that harasses a ruinedman-the struggle between a proud mind andan empty purse-the keeping up a hollowshow that must soon come to an end. Havethe courage to appear poor, and you disarmpoverty of its sharpest sting. " On this pointI found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had nofalse pride himself, and as to his wife, she wasunly anxious to conform to their altered for-tunes.

Some days afterwards, he called upon me inthe evening. He had disposed of his dwell-ing-house, and taken a small cottage in thecountry, a few miles from town. He had beenbusied all day in sending out furniture. Thenew establishment required few articles, andthose of the simplest kind. All the splendidfurniture of his late residence had been sold,excepting his wife's harp. This, he said, wastoo closely associated with the idea of herself:it belonged to the little story of their loves:

THE SKETCH BOOK. 49

for some of the sweetest moments of theircourtship were those when he had leaned overthat instrume~t, and listened to the meltingtones of her voice, I could not but smile atthis instance of romantic gallantry in a doat-ing husband.

. He.was now going out to the cottage, wherehIS WIfe had been all day superintending itsarrangement. My feelings had become~trongly interested in the progress of his fam-ily story, and, as it was a fine evening Ioffered to accompany him. '

He was wearied with the !atigues of the day,and,. as we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomymusing.. "Poor Mary!'.' at length broke, with a heavy

SIgh, from his lips."And what of her, " asked I, "has anything

happened to her?""Wha~,:.' ~aid h~, darting an impatient

glance, IS It nothing to be reduced to thispaltry situation-to be caged in a miserablecottage-to be obliged to toil almost in themenial concerns of her wretched habitation?"

::Has.she then repined at the change?"Repined ! she has been nothing but sweet-

ness and good-humor. Indeed, she seems inbetter spirits than have ever known her; shehas been to me all love, and tenderness, andcomfort !"

"Admirable girl !" exclaimed I. "You cally~)Urself poor, my friend; you never were sonch,-you never knew the boundless treasuresof excellence you possessed in that woman. "

50 THE SKETCH BOOK.

"Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting atthe cottage were over, I think I could then becomfortable. But this is her first day of realexperience; she has been introduced into ahumble dwelling.i--ehe has been employed allday in arranging its miserable equipments,-she has, for the first time, known the fatiguesof domestic employment, she has, for the firsttime, looked around her on a home destituteof every thing elegant-almost of every thingconvenient; and may now be sitting down,exhausted and spiritless, brooding over aprospect of future poverty."

There was a degree of probability in thispicture that I could not gainsay, so we walkedon in silence.

After turning from the main road up a nar-row lane, so thickly shaded with forest-treesas to give it a complete air of seclusion, wecarne in sight of the cottage. It was humbleenough in its appearance for the most pastoralpoet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. Awild vine had overrun one end with a profusionof foliage; a few trees threw their branchesgracefully over it; and I observed several potsof flowers tastefully disposed about the door,and on the grass-plot in front. A small wicket-gate opened upon a footpath that woundthrough some shrubbery to the door. Just aswe approached, we heard the sound of music-Leslie grasped my arm; we paused andlistened. It was Mary's voice singing, in astyle of the most touching simplicity, a littleair of which her husband was peculiarly fond.

If

THE SKETCH BOOK. 51

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. Hestepped forward, to hear more distinctly. Hisstep made a noise on the gravel-walk. Abright beautiful face glanced out at the win-dow, and vanished-a light footstep was heard-and Mary came tripping forth to meet us.She was in a pretty rural dress of white' afew wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair:a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her wholecountenance beamed with smiles-I had neverseen her look so lovelv.

" My dear George, " cried she, ., I am soglad youare come ; I ha~e been watching and watching foryou; and runmngdown the lane, and looking outfor you. I've set out a table under a beautiful~ree behind the cottage; and I've been gather ..mg some of the most delicious strawberriesfor I know you are fond of them-and we hav~such excelle~t cream-and everything is sosweet and .st1~1he~e-Oh!"-said she, puttingher arm within hIS, and 100kinO' up brightlyin his face, "Oh, we shall be so 'happy!"

P?or Leslie was overcome.-He caught herto hIS bosom-he folded his arms round her-he kissed her again and again-he could notspeak, but the tears gushed into his eyes; andhe has oft:n assured me, that though theworld has smce gone prosperously with himand his life has, indeed, been a happy one:yet never has he experienced a moment ofmore exquisite felicity.

52 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 53

RIP VAN WINKLE.

The old gentleman died shortly after the publicationof his work; and now that he is dead and gone, it can-not do much harm to his memory to say that his timemight have been much better employed in weightierlabors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby hisown way; and though it did now and then kick up thedust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grievethe spirit of some friends, for whom he fet the truestdeference and affection, yet his errors and follies areremembered "more in sorrow than in anger," and itbegins to be suspected, that he never intended to injureor offend. But however his memory may be appre-ciated by critics, it is still held dear among many folks,whose ~ood opinion is well worth having; particularlyby certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as toimprint his likeness on their new-year cakes, and havethus given him a chance for immortality, almost equalto the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a QueenAnne's farthing.]

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH Kl\;CKER-

BOCKER.

By Woden, God of Saxons,From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday,Truth is a thing that ever I will keepUnto thylke day in which I creep intoMy sepulchre- Cartwright.

[The following Tale was found among the papers o~the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman otNew York, who was very curious in the Dutch Historyof the province, and the man~ers .of t~e descendantsfrom its primitive settlers. HIS historical researches,however, did not lie so much among books as amongmen; for the former are lamentably scanty on hISfavorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, andstill more, their wives, rich in that legendary lore, soinvaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, hehappened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut upin its low-roofed farm-house, under a spreading syca-more he looked upon it as a little clasped volume ofblack-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book-worm. . f hThe result of all these researches was a history 0 t eprovince, during the reign of .the Dutch governors,which he published some y.ears smce. There ha:ve beenvarious opinions as to the literary char~cter of hISwor~,and to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than Itshould be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy,which, indeed, was a little questioned, on it~ first appear-ance but has since been completely established ; and Itis now admitted into all historical collections, as a bookof unquestionable authority.

'Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudsonmust remember the Kaatskill mountains. Theyare a dismembered branch of the great Appa-lachian family, and are seen away to the westof the river, swelling up to a noble height, andlording it over the surrounding country.Every change of season, every change ofweather, indeed, every hour of the day pro-duces some change in the magical hues andshapes of these mountains; and they are re-garded by all the good wives, far and near, asperfect barometers. When the weather isfair and settled, they are clothed in blue andpurple, and print their bold outlines on theclear evening sky; but sometimes, when therest of the landscape is cloudless, they willgather a hood of gray vapors about their sum-

f"~'il'

n

I:Ii,:

54 TH£ SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 55

mits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun,will glow and light up likc a crown of f;"lory.

At' the foot of these fairy mo~ntams, thevoyager may have descried .t~e ll&"ht smokecurling up from a VIllage, .whose shmgle roofs

leam among the trees. Just w~ere the blue~nts of the upland melt away into .the f:-eshr-reen of the nearer landscape. It 15 a Iittle~il1age of great antiquity, ha,,:ing ~een foundedby some of the Dutch colonists, in the ea~lytimes of the province just about the begin-ning of the government of the good Peter Stuy-vesant (may he rest in peace l) and there weresome of the houses of the orii!,i~al settlersstanding within a few years, built of sn::a11yellow bricks, brought from Holland, havinglatticed windows and gable fronts, surmountedwith weathercocks. .

In that same village, and in on~ of these veryhouses (which, to tell the preClse truth, wassadly time-worn and weather-beaten), therelived, many years since, whi~e .the c?untrywas yet a province of Great Britain, a ~lmple,aood-natured fellow, of the name of RIp VanWinkle. He was a descendant. of the yanWinkles who figured so gallantly 111 the chival-rous days of Peter Stuyvesant, ~n~ accom-panied him to the siege of Fort Christina, I:Ieinherited, however, but little of the martialcharacter of his ancestors. I have observedthat he was a simple. good-natured man; hewas moreover a kind neighbor, and anobedient henpe~ked husband. .Indeed, to t~elatter circumstance might be owmg that meex-

ness of spirit which gained him such universalpopulari ty ; for those men are Go pt to be ab-sequious and conciliating abroad, who are underthe discipline of shrews at home. Their tem-pers, doubtless, are rendered pliant andmalleable in the fiery furnace of domestictribulation, and a curtain-lecture is worth allthe sermons in the world for teachir, ,,' thevirtues of patience and long-suffering. Atermagent wife may, therefore, in some re-spects, be considered a tolerable blessing, andif so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.

Certain it is, that he was a great favoriteamong all the good wives of the village, who,as usual with the amiable sex, took his part inall family squabbles, and never failed, when-ever they talked those matters over in theirevening gossipings, to lay all the blame onDame Van Winkle. The children of the vil-lage, too, would shout with joy whenever heapproached. He assisted at their sports, madetheir playthings, taught them to fly kites andshoot marbles, and told them long stories ofghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever hewent dodging about the village, he was sur.rounded by a troop of them hanging on hisskirts, clambering on his back, and playing athousand tricks on him with impunity; and nota dog would bark at him throughout theneigh borhood,

The great error in Rip's composition was aninsuperable aversion to all kinds of profitablelabor. It could not be for want of assiduityor perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock,

56 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 5"1

with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar'slance, and fish all day without a murmur, eventhough he should not be encouraged by a sin-gle nibble. He would carry a fowling-pieceon his shoulder, for hours together, trudgingthrough woods and swamps, and up hill anddown dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wildpigeons. He would never refuse to assist aneighbor even in the roughest toil, and was aforemost man in all country frolics for husk-ing Indian corn, or building stone fences; thewomen of the village, too, used to employ himto run their errands, and to do such little oddjobs as their less obliging husbands would notdo for them. In a word, Rip was ready to at-tend to anybody's business but his own; butas to doing family duty, and keeping his farmin order, he found it impossible.

In fact, he declared it was of no use to workon his farm; it was the most pestilent little

,piece of ground in the whole country; every-thing about it went wrong, in spite of him.His fences were continually falling to pieces;his cow would either go astray, or get amongthe cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quick-er in his fields than anywhere else; the rainalways made a point of setting in just as hehad some outdoor work to do; so that thoughhis patrimonial estate had dwindled away un-der his management, acre by acre, until therewas little more left than a mere patch of In-dian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood.

His children, too, were as ragged and wild

•• ::> if th~y belonged to .nobody, His son Rip,~n urch.m be~otten in ~l1S own likeness, prom-ised ~o inherit the habits, with the old clothes?f h~s father. H~ was generally seen troop-~ng lIke. a colt ~t his mother's heels, equipped

, m ~ pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins,which he had much ado to hold up with onehand, as a fine lady does her train in badweather.

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those~appy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled disposi-tions, who tak~ the world easy, eat white breador brown, whichever can be got with leastthought or trouble, and would rather starveo? a penny than work for a pound. If left tohimself, he would have whistled life away inr:erfect c~nt~ntn:ent: but his wife kept c'on-tl?ually dmmng m his ears about his idleness,his c~reless?ess, and ~he ruin he was bringingon h is family, Morning, noon, and night,he~ tongue. was incessantly going, and every-thmg he said or did was sure to produce a tor-rent of household eloquence. Rip had but oneway of replying to all lectures of the kindand. that, by frequent use, had grown into ~habit, He shrugged his shoulders, shook hishe~d, cast up his eyes, but said nothing.'I'his, h.owe.ver, always provoked a fresh volleyf~om his wife, so that he was fain to draw offhis forces, and take to the outside of thehouse-the only side which; in truth, belongsto a henpecked husband.

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dogWolf, who was as much henpecked as his mas-

THE SKETCH BOOK.

tel'; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them ascompanions in idleness, and even looked uponWolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his mas-ter's going so often astray. True it is, in allpoints of spirit befitting an honorable dog, hewas as courageous an animal as ever scouredthe woods-but what courage can withstandthe evil-doing and all-besetting terrors of awoman's tongue? The moment Wolf enteredthe house, his crest fell, his tail drooped to thegronnd, or curled between his legs, he sneakedabout with a gallows air, casting many a side-long glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at theleast flourish of a broomstick or ladle, hewould fly to the door with yelping precipita-tion.

Times grew worse and worse with Rip VanWinkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a tarttemper never mellows with age, and a sharptongue-is the only edged tOQIthat grows keen-er with constant use. For a long while heused to console himself, when driven fromhome, by frequenting a kind of perpetual clubof the sages, philosophers, and other idle per-sonages of the village, which held its sessionson a bench before a small inn, designated bya rubicund portrait of his Majesty George theThird. Here they used to sit in the shadethrough a long, lazy summer's day, talkingJ istlessly over village gossip, or telling end-less, sleepy stories about nothing. But itwould have been worth any statesman's moneyto have heard the profound discussions whichsometimes took place, when by chance an old

;.'

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rI. '

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.aewspaper fell into their hands from somepassing traveler. How solemnly they wouldlisten to the contents, as drawled out by Der-rick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapperlearned little man, who was not to be dauntedby the most gigantic word in the dictionary;and how sagely they would deliberate uponpublic events some months after they had takenplace.

The opinions of this junto were completelycontrolled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch ofthe village, and landlord of the inn, at thedoor of which he took his seat from morningtill night, just moving sufficiently to avoid thesun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; sothat the neighbors could tell the hour by hismovements as accurately as by a sun-dial. Itis true, he was rarely heard to speak, butsmoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents,however (for every great man has his adher-ents), perfectly understood him, and knew howto gather his opinions. When anything thatwas rend or related displeased him, he wasobserved to smoke his pipe vehemently, andto send forth short, frequent and angry puffs;but when pleased, he would inhale the smokeslowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light andplacid clouds, and sometimes, taking his pipefrom his mouth, and letting the fragrant vaporcurl about his nose, would gravely nod his headin token of perfect approbation.

From even this stronghold the unlucky Ripwas at length routed by his termagant wife,wbo would suddenly break in upon the tran-

60 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 61

quillity of the assemblage, and call the memobers all to nought; nor was that august per·sonage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred fromthe daring tongue of this terrible virago, whocharged him outright with encouraging herhusband in habits of idleness.

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to de.spair; and his only alternative, to escape fromthe labor of the farm and the clamor of hiswife, was to take gun in hand, and stroll awayinto the woods. Here he would sometimesseat himself at the foot of a tree, and share thecontents of his wallet with Wolf, with whomhe sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecu-tion. "Poor ",Volf," he would say, "thy mis-tress leads thee a dog's life of it; but nevermind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt neverwant a friend to stand by thee! " Wolf wouldwag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face,and if" dogs can feel pity, I verily believe hereciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.

In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine au-tumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambledto one of the highest parts of the Kaatskillmountains. He was after his favorite sport ofsquirrel shooting, and the still solitudes hadechoed and re-echoed with the reports of hisgun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself,late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, coveredwith mountain herbage, that crowned the browof a precipice. From an opening between thetrees, he could overlook all the lower countrvfor many a mile of rich woodland. He saw a'ta distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below

him, moving on its silent but majestic course,with the reflection of a purple cloud, or thesail of a lagging bark, here and there sleepingon its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself inthe blue highlands.

On the other side he looked down into a deepmountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, thebottom filled with fragments from the impend.ing cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflectedrays of the setting sun. For some time Riplay musing on this scene; evening was grad-ually advancing; the mountains began to throwtheir long blue shadows over the valleys; hesaw that it would be dark long before he couldreach the village; and he heaved a heavy sighwhen he thought of encountering the terrorsof Dame Van Winkle.

As he was about to descend, he heard a voicefrom a distance hallooing: ., Rip Van 'Winkle!Rip Van Winkle!" He looked around, butcould see nothing but a crow winging its sol-itary flight across the mountain. He thoughthis fancy must have deceived him, and turnedagain to descend, when he heard the same cryring through the still evening air, "Rip VanWinkle! Rip Van Winkle!"-at the same timeWolf bristled up his back, and giving a lowgrowl, skulked to his master's side, lookingfearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt avague apprehension stealing over him; helooked anxiously in the same direction, andperceived a strange figure slowly toiling upthe rocks, and bending under the weight ofsomething he carried on his back. He was

62 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK.

surprised to see any human being in this lonelyand unfrequented place, but supposing it to besome one of the neighborhood in need of hisassistance, he hastened down to yield it.

On nearer approach, he was still more sur-prised at the singularity of the stranger's ap-pearance. He was a short, square-built oldfellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzledbeard. His dress was of the antique Dutchfashion-a cloth jerkin strapped round thewaist-several pairs of breeches, the outer oneof ample volume, decorated with rows of but-tons down the sides, and bunches at the knees.He bore on his shoulders a stout keg, thatseemed full of liquor, and made signs for Ripto approach and assist him with the load,Though rather shy and distrustful of this newacquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alac-rity; and mutually relieving each other, theyclambered up a narrow gully, apparently thedry bed of a rno un tain torrent. As they as-cended, Rip every now and then heard longrolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemedto issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleftbetween lofty rocks, toward which their rug-ged path conducted. He paused for an in-stant, but supposing it to be the muttering ofone of those transient thunder-showers whichoften take place in the mountain heights, heproceeded. Passing through the ravine, theycame to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre,surrounded by perpendicular precipices, overthe brinks of which impending trees shot theirbranches, so that you only caught glimpses of

the azure sky, and the bright evening cloud.During the whole time Rip and his companionhad labored on in silence; for though the form-er marveled greatly what could be the objectof carrying a keg of liquor ~p this wild mOl:n-tain, yet there was something strange and ~n-comprehensible about the unknown, that 111-

spired awe, and checked familiarity.On entering the amphitheatre, new objects

of wonder presented themselves. On a levelspot in the center was a company of odd-look-ing personages playing at ninepins. Theywere dressed in quaint outlandish fashion;some wore short doublets, others jerkins, withlonr- knives in their belts, and most of themhal enormous breeches, of similar style withthat of the <Tuide's. Their visages, too, werepeculiar; on; had a large head, broad face, andsmall piggish eyes; the face of another seemedto consist entirely of nose, and was surmountedby a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a littl.ered. cock's tail. They all had beards, of van-ow; shapes and colors. There was one whosee-med to be the commander. He was a stoutold gentleman, with a weather-beaten counte-nance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt andhail gel', high-crowned hat and feather, r~dstockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses 111

them. The whole group reminded Rip of thefigures in an old Flemish painting, in the par-lor of Dominie Van Schaick, the village par-son, and which had been brought over fromHolland at the time of the settlement.

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was,

I'I

ti4 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 65

I,

I,

,I

that though these folks were evidently amusingthemselves, yet they maintained the gravestfaces, the most mysterious silence, and were,withal, the most melancholy party of pleasurehe had ever witnessed. Nothing interruptedthe stillness of the scene but the noise of theballs, which, whenever they were rolled,echoed along the mountains like rumblingpeals of thunder. .

As Rip and his companion approached them,they suddenly desisted from their play, andstared at him with such a fixed statue-like gaze,and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre counte-nances, that his heart turned wichin him, andhis knees smote together. His companion nowemptied the contents of the keg into large flag-ons, and made signs to him to wait upon thecompany. He obeyed with fear and trernb-ling; they quaffed the liquor in profoundsilence, and then returned to their game.

By degrees, Rip's awe and apprehension sub-sided. He even ventured, when no eye wasfixed upon him, to taste the beverage whichhe found had much of the flavor of excellentHollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul,and was soon tempted to repeat the draught.One taste provoked another; and he reiteratedhis visits to the flagon so often, that at lengthhis sense were overpowered, his eyes swam inhis head, his head gradually declined, and hefell into a deep sleep.

On waking, he found himself on the greenknoll whence he had first seen the old man ofthe glen. He rubbed his eyes-it was a bright

sunny morning. The birds were hopping andtwittering among the bushes, :and the eaglewas wheeling aloft, and breasting the puremountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip, "1have not slept here all night." He recalledthe occurrences before he fell asleep. Thestrange man with the keg of liquor-themountain ravine-the wild retreat among therocks-the »ro- begone party at ninepins-theflagon-" Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!"thought Rip-"what excuse shall I make toDame Van Winkle?"

He looked around for his gun, but in placeof the clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he foundan old fire-lock lying by him, the barrel en·crusted with rust, the lock falling off, and thestock worm-eaten. He now suspected that thegrave roysterers of the mountains had put atrick upon him, and, having dosed him withliquor, had robbed him of his gun Wolf, too,had disappeared, but he might have strayedaway after a squirrel or partridge. He whis-tled after him and shouted his name, but all invain; the echoes repeated his whistle andshout, but no dog was to be seen.

He determined to revisit the scene of thelast evening's gambol, and if he met with anyof the party, to demand his dog and gun. Ashe rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the30ints, and wanting in his usual activity."These mountain beds do not agree with me,"thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay meup with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have ablessed time wit}. Dame Van Winkle." With

5 Sketch Book

THE SKETCH BOOK. "fHE SKETCH BOOK. 67some difficulty he got down into the glen; hefound the gully up which he and his companionh~d ascer:ded the preceding evening; but tohIS astonishment a mountain stream was nowfoaming down it, leaping from rock to rockand filling the glen with babbling murmurs:~e, howev~r, ~ade. shift to scramble up itssIdes, wo.rklllg hIS toilsome way through thick-ets of birch, sassafras and witch-hazel' andsometirr:es tripped up ~r entangled by th; wildgrape vmes that twisted their coils and tendrilsfrom tree to tree, and spread a kind of net-work in his path.At length he reachcd to where the ravine

had opened through the cliffs to the amphithe-atre; but no traces of such opening remained.The rock.s presented a high impenetrable wall,over which the torrent came tumbling in asheet of feathery foam and fell into a broaddeep basin, black from the shadows of the sur-rounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip wasbrought to a stand. He again called and whis-tled aft~r his dog; he wa~ only answered bythe cawing of a flock of Idle crows sportinghigh in the ai.r ~bout a dry tree that ~verhunga sunny precipros , and who, secure in theirelevation, seemed to look down and scoff atthe poor man's perplexities. What was to bedone' T~e morning was passing away, and Ripfelt famished for want of his breakfast. Hegrieved to give up his dog and gun; he dread-ed to meet his wife; but it would not do tostarve among the mountains. He shook hishead, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with

a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned hissteps homeward.As he approached the village, he met a nurn-

bel' of people, but none whom he knew, whichsomewhat surprised him, for he had thoughthimself acquainted with everyone in thecountry rounel. Their dress, too, was of adifferent fashion from that to which he wasaccustomed. They all stared at him withequal marks of surprise and whenever theycast eyes upon him, invariably stroked theirchins. The constant recurrence of this ges-ture, induced Rip involuntarily, to do the same,when, to his astonishment, be found his beardhad grown a foot long!He had now entered the skirts of the village.

A troop of strange children ran at his heels,hooting after him, and pointing at his graybeard. The dogs, too, not one of which herecognized for an old acquaintance, barked athim as he passed. The very village wasaltered; it was larger and more populous.There were rows of houses which he had neverseen before, and those which had been his fa--n.iliar haunts had disappeared. Strange nameswere over the doors-strange faces at the win.dows-everything was strange. His mind nowmisgave him; he began to doubt whether bothhe and the world around him were not be-witched. Surely, this was his native village,which he had left but a day before. Therestood the Kaatskill mountains-there ran thesilver Hudson at a distance-there was everyhill and dale precisely as it had always been-

68 THE SKETCH BOOK.

Rip was sorely perplexed-"'2hat flagon lastnight," thought he, "has addled my poor headsadlv!"

It" was with some difficultv that he found theway to his own house, which he approachedwith silent awe, expecting every moment tohear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. Hefound the house gone to decay-the roof hadfallen in, the windows shattered, and the doorsoff the hinges. A half-starved dog, that lookedlike Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip calledhim by name, but the cur snarled, showed histeeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut,indeed.-"My very dog," sighed poor Rip,"has forgotten me!"

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth,Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neatorder. It was empty, forlorn, and apparentlyabandoned. This desolateness overcame alIhis connubial fears-he called loudly for hiswife and children-the lonely chambers rangfor a moment with his voice, and then allagain was silence.

He now hurried forth, and hastened to hisold resort, the village inn-but it too wasgone. A large rickety wooden bUilding stoodin its place, with great gaping windows, someof them broken, and mended with old hats andpetticoats, and over the door was painted,"The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle."Instead of the great tree that used to shelterthe quiet little Dntch inn of yore, there nowwas reared a tall naked pole, with somethingon the top that looked like a red night-cap, and

THE SKETCH BOOK. C9

from it was fluttering a flag, on which was asingular assemblage of stars and stripes-allthis was strange and incomprehensible. Herecognized on the sign, however, the ruby faceof King George, under which he had smokedso many a peaceful pipe, but even this wassingularly metamorphosed. The red coat waschanged for one of blue and buff, a sword washeld in the hand instead of a sceptre, the headwas decorated with a cocked hat, and under-neath was painted in large characters, "Gen-eral Washington."

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk aboutthe door, but none that Rip recollected. Thevery character of the people seemed changed.There was a busy, bustling, disputatious toneabout it, instead of the accustomed phlegmand drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vainfor the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broadface, double chin, and fair long pipe, utteringclouds of tobacco-smoke. instead of idle speech-es; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, dolingforth the contents of an ancient newspaper.In place of these, a lean. bilious-looking fel-low, with his pockets full of handbills, washaranguing vehemently about rights of citizens-elections-members of Congress-Ii berty-Bunker's hill- heroes of seventy-six - andother words, which were a perfect Babylonishjargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.

The appearance of Rip, with his long, .griz.zled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouthdress, and the army of women and children athis heels, soon attracted the attention of the

70 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. ,I

tavern politicians. They crowded round him,eyeing him from head to foot, with great curioosity. The orator bustled up to him, and,drawing him partly aside, inquired, "on whichside he voted?" Rip stared in vacant stupid-ity. Another short but busy little fellowpulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe,Inquired in his ear, "whether he was Federalor Democrat." Rip was equally at a loss tocomprehend the question; when a knowing,self- important old gentleman, in a sharp cockedhat, made his way through the crowd, puttingthem to the right and left with his elbows ashe passed, and planting himself before Van'Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other rest-ing on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hatpenetrating, as it were, into his very soul,demanded in an austere tone, "\Vhat broughthim to the election with a gun on his shoul-del', and a mob at his heels; and whether hemeant to breed a riot in the village?"

"Alas, gent1E:men!" cried Rip, somewhatdismayed, "I am a poor, quiet man, a native ofthe place, and a loyal subject of the King, Godbless him!"

Here a general shout burst from the bvstarid-('rs-"a tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee ( hustlehim! away with him!" It was with OTeatdifficulty that the self-important man i~ thecocked hat restored order; and having assumeJa tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again cfthe unknown culprit, what he came there for,and whom he was seeking. The poor manhumbly assured him that he meant no harm

but merelv came there in search of some ofhis neighbors, who used to keep about the tav-ern.

"Well-who are they?-name them."Rip bethought himself a moment, and in-

quired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?"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 gonethese eighteen years! There was a woodentombstone in the churchyard that used to tellall about him, but that's rotten and gone too ..

"\Vhere's Brom Dutcher?""Oh. he went off to the army in the begin-

ning of the war; some say he was killed at thestorming of Stony Point-others say he wasdrowned in a squall at the foot of Antony'sNose. I don't know-he never came backa~ain. "

-. Wheres Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?""He went off to the wars, too; was a great

militia general, and is now in Congress."Rip's heart died away, at hearing of these

sad changes in his home and friends, and find-ing himself thus alone in the world. Everyanswer puzzled him, too, by treating' of suchenormous lapses cf time, and of matters whichhe could not understand: war-Congress-Stony Point-he had no courage to ask afterany more friends, but cried ant in despair."Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?"

"Oh, Rip Van 'Winkle!" exclaimed two orthree, "oh, to be sure' thats Rip Van 'Winkleyonder, leaning against the tree."

72 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 73Rip looked, and behold a precise counterpart

of himself as he went up the mountain; ap-parently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. Thepoor fellow was now completely confounded.He doubted his own identity, and whether hewas himself or another man. In the midst ofhis bewilderment. the man in the cocked hatdemanded who he was, and what was hisname?

"God knows!" exclaimed he at his wit'send; "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'vechanged my gun, and everything's changed,and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's myname, or who I am!"

The bystanders began now to look at eachother, nod, wink significantly, and tap theirfingers against their foreheads. There was awhisper, also, about securing the gun, andkeeping the old fellow from doing mischief;at the very suggestion of which, the self-im-portant man with the cocked hat retired withsome precipitation. At this critical moment afresh, comely woman passed through thethrong 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 oldma~ won't hurt you. " The name of the ch!ld,the air of the mother, the tone of her VOIce,all awakened a train of recollections in hismind..

"What is your name, my good woman?"asked he.

"Judith Gardenier.""And your father's name?""Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his

name, but it's twenty years since he went awayfrom home with his gun, and never has beenheard of since,-his dog came home withouthim' but whether he shot himself, or was car-riedaway by the Indians, nobody can tell. Iwas then but a little girl."

Rip had but one more question to ask; buthe put it with a faltering voice:

"Where's your mother?"Oh, she, too, had died but a short time

since' she broke a blood vessel in a fit of pas-sion at a New England pedler.

There was a drop of comfort at least in thisintelligence. The honest man cO:lld containhimself no Jonger. He caught his daughterand her child in nis arms. "I am your father!"cried he-"Young Rip Van Winkle once-oldRip Van Winkle now-Does nobody know poorRip Van Winkle?"

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tot-terinv out from among the crowd, put her handto h~r brow, and peering under it in his facefor a momen t exclaimed, "Sure enough, it isRip Van Winkle-it is himself. Welcome homeagain, old neighbor. Why, where have youbeen these twenty long years?"

Rip's story was soon told, for the wholetwenty years had been to him but as on.e night.The neighbors stared when they heard It; some

6 S'ratcllBock

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74 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 75

were seen to wink at each other, and put theirtongues in their cheeks; and the self-impor-tant man in the cocked hat, who, when thealarm was over, had returned to the field,screwed down the corners of his mouth, andshook his head-upon which there was a gen-eral shaking of the head throughout the assem-blage.

It was determined, however, to take theopinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who wasseen slowly advancing up the road. He wasa descendant of the historian of that name,who wrote one of the earliest accounts of theprovince. Peter was the most ancient inhabi-tant of the village, and well versed in all thewonderful events and traditions of the neigh-borhood. He recollected Rip at once, and cor-roborated his story in the most satisfactorymanner. He assured the company that it wasa fact.handed down from his ancestor, the his-torian, that the Kaatskill mountains hadalways been haunted by strange beings. Thatit was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hud-son, the first discoverer of the river andcountry, kept a kind of vigil there everytwenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon;being permitted in this way to revisit thescenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian

, eye upon the river and the great city called byhis name. That his father had once seenthem in their old Dutch dresses playing atninepins in the hollow of the mountain: andthat he himself had heard, one summer after-

noon the sound of their balls, like distantpeal~ of thunder.

To make a long story short, the companybroke up and returned to the more importantconcerns' of the election. Rip's daughtertook him home to live with her; she had asnug, well-furnished house, and ~ stoutcheery farmer for a husband, whom R1P re~o~-lected for one of the urchins that used t~ clirn 0

upon his back. As to Rip's son an~ heir, ,:,'howas the ditto of himself, seen leamng agamstthe tree, he was employed t.o wor~ on, !hefarm; but evinced an hereditary dl~posltlOnto attend to anything else but his business ..

Rip now resumed his old. walks and hab~ts;he soon found many of Ius former cronres,though all rather the worse for t~e wea~ andtear of time' and preferred making friendsamonz the rising generation, with whom he

b f .soon grew into great avor. .Having nothing to do at home, and having'

arrived at that happy age when.a man can beidle with impunity, he took his place oncemore on the bench, at the inn door, and w~sreverenced as one of the patriarc~s of ,~he vil-lagp and a chronicle of the old times beforeth';; ~var... It was some time befo~e he couldget into the regular track of gOSSlp,or couldbe made to com prehend the strange even tsthat had taken place during his torpor. Howthat there had been a revolutionary war-that the country had thrown off the yoke ofold England-and that, instead of b.eing a sub-ject to his Majesty George the Thud, he was

76 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 77

now a free citizen of the United States. Ripin fact was no politician; the changes of states'and empires made but little impression onhim; but there was one species of despotismunder which he had long groaned and that was-petticoat government. Happily, that wasat an end; he had got his neck out of the yokeof matrimony, and could go in and out when-ever he pleased, without dreading the tyrannyof Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her namewas mentioned, however, he shook his headshrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes;which might pass either for an expression ofresignation to his fate, or joy at his deliver-ance.

He used to tell his story to every strangerthat arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He wasobserved, at first, to vary on some pointsevery time he told it, which was, doubtless.owing to his having so recently awaked. Itat last settled down precisely to the tale I haverelated, and not a man, woman, or child inthe neighborhood but knew it by heart. Somealways pretended to doubt the reality of it,and insisted that Rip had been out of his head,arid that this was one point on which healways remained flighty. The old Dutch in-habitants, however, almost universally gave itfull credit. Even to this day, they neverhear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoonabont the Kaatskill, but they say HendrickHudson and his crew are at their game ofninepins; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when

life hangs heavy on their hands, that theymight have a quieting draught out of Rip VanWinkle's flagon.

NOTE.-The foregoing tale, one would suspect, hadbeen suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little Ger-man superstition about the Emperor Frederick "derRothbart" and the Kypphauser mountain; the sub-joined note, however, which he had appended to thetale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with hisusual fidelity.

"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredibleto many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for Iknow the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to havebeen very subject to marvelous events and appear-ances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger storiesthan this, in the villages along the Hudson; all ofwhich were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt.I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who,when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man,and so perfectly rational and consistent on every otherpoint, that I think no conscientious person could refuseto take this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a certifi-cate on the subject taken before a country justice, andsigned with a cross, in the justice'S own handwriting.The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt.

~·D. K."

POSTSCRIPT.-Thefollowing- are traveling notes froma memorandum-book of Mr. Knickerbocker:

The Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have alwaysbeen a region full of fable. The Indians consideredthem the abode of spirits, who influenced the weather,spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, andsending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruledby an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. Shedwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and hadcharge of the doors of day and night to open and shutthem at the proper hour. She hung up the new moonsin the skies, and cut ,up the old ones into stars. Intimes of drought, if properly propitiated, she wouldspin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning

78 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 711'

dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, tofloat in the air' until, dissolved by the heat of the sun,they would fali in gentle showers, causing the grass tospring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow aninch an hour, If displeased, however, she wouldbrew up clouds blac~ as iJ.1k,~itting it: the midst ofthem like a bottle-bellted spider in the midst of ItS w.eb;and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys!

In old times, says the Indian traditions. there ~as akind of Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the WIldestrecesses of the Catskill mountains, and took a mischiev-ous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexa-tions upon the red men. Sometimes he would assumethe form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewil-dered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests andamong ragged rocks, and then spring. off with a loudho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a bettlingprecipice or raging torrent.. . . .

The favorite abode of this Manitou IS still shown. Itis a great rock or cliff on the loneli~st part ~f the moun-tains and. from the flowering vines which clamberabout it, and the wild flowers which abound in itsneighborhood, is known by the name of the GardenRock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt ofthe solitary bittern, with water- snakes basking in thesun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the sur-face. ThIS place was held in great aw; by the Indians,insomuch that the boldest hunter WOUldnot pursue hISgame within its precincts. Once upon a time, how-ever, a hunter who had lost his way penetrated to theGarden Rock where he beheld a number of gourdsplaced in the crotches of trees. One of the.se he seizedand made off with it. but in the hurry of hISretreat helet it fall among the rocks, when a great strear:t gushedforth which washed him away and swept him downprecipices, where he was dashed to pieces, ~nd thestream made its way to the Hudson, and continues toflow to the present day, being the identical streamknown by the name of the Kaaterskill.

ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA.

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissantnation, rousing herself like a strong man after sleep,and shaking her invincible locks; methinks I see her asan eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling herendazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam.-Milton onthe Liberty of the Press.

It is with feelings of deep regret that I ob-serve the literary animosity daily growing upbetween England and America. Great curi-osity has been awakened of late with respectto the United States, and the London presshas teemed with volumes of travels throughthe Republic; but they seem intended to dif-fuse error rather thna knowledge; and so suc-cessful have .they been, that, notwithstandingthe constant intercourse between the nationsthere is no people concerning whom the greatmass of the British public have less pure infor-n:ation, or entertain more numerous prejudices,

English travelers are the best and the worstin the world. Where no motives of pride orinterest intervene, none can equal them forpr?found and philosophical views of society, orfaithful and graphical description of externalobjects; but when either the interest or repu-tation of their own country comes in collisionwith that of another, they go to the opposite

80 THE SKETCH BOOK.

extreme, and forget their usual probity and'candor, in the indulgence of splenetic remark,and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. .

Hence, their travels are more honest andaccurate, the more remote the country de-scribed, I would place implicit confidence inan Enctlishman's description of the regions

b .

beyond the cataracts of the NIle; o~ un~nownislands in the Yellow Sea; of the mtenor ofIndia' or of anv other tract which other travel-ers n;ight be apt to picture out with th~ illu-sions of their fancies. But I would cautiouslyreceive his account of his immediate neigh-bors and of those nations with which he is inhabits of most frequent intercourse. HoweverI might be disposed to trust his probity, I darenot trust his prejudices.

It has also been the peculiar lot of ourcountry to be visited by the worst kind ~fEng1ish travelers. When men of philosophi-cal spirit and cultivated minds have been sentfrom England to ransack the poles, to pene-trate the deserts, and to study the mannersand customs of barbarous nations, with whichshe can have no permanent intercourse ofprofit or pleasure; it has been left to thebroken-down tradesman, the scheming adven-turer, the wandering mechanic, the Manches-ter and Birmingham agent, to be her oraclesrespecting America. From such sources sheis content to receive her information respect-ing a country in a singular state of moral andphysical development; a country in whi~h oneof the greatest political experiments 111 the

THE SKETCH BOOK. 81

his~ory of the world is now performing; andWhIChpresents the most profound and mornen-tous studies to the statesman and the philoso-pher.

That such men should give prejudicalaccounts of America, is not a matter of sur-prise. The themes it offers for contemplation,are too vast and elevated for their capacities.The national character is yet in a state of fer-mentation; it may have its frothiness and sedi-ment, but its ingredients are sound and whole-some; it has already given proofs of powerfuland generous quali ties; and the whole promisesto settle down into something substantiallyexcellent. But the causes which are operatingto strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily in-dications of admirable properties, are all lostupon these purblind observers; who are onlyaffected by the little asperities incident to itspresent situation. They are capable of judg-ing only of the surface of things; of those mat-ters which come in contact with their privateinterests and personal gratifications. Thevmiss some of the snug conveniences and pettycomforts which belong to an old, highly-fin-ished, and over-populous state of society;where the ranks of useful labor are crowded,and many earn a painful and servile subsist-ence, by studying the very caprices of appetiteand self-indulgence. These minor comforts,however, are all-important in the estimationof narrow minds; which either do not perceive,or will not acknowledge, that they are more

82 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 83

than counterbalanced amon« us by (Treat andb , b

generally diffused blessings.. They may, perhaps, have been disappointedIII .some unreasonable expectation of suddengam. They may have pictured America tothemselves an El Dorado, where gold and silverabounded, and the natives were Iackinv insagacity, and where they were to becomestrangely and suddenly rich, in some unfore-seen but easy manner. The same weaknessof mind that indulges absurd expectations,produces petulance in disappointment. Suchpersons become embittered against the countrvon finding that there, as everywhere else, ~man must .sow before he can reap; must winwealth by industry and talent; and must con-tend with the common difficulties of natureand the shrewdness of an inte llizent and en-terprising people. b

Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directedhospitality, or from the prompt disposition tocheer and countenance the stranver preva-I

to,ent among m~ countrymen, they may have

?een treated :"lth unwonted respect in Amer-ica : and, having been accustomed all theirlives to consider themselves below the surfaceof &,oodso~iety,. and brought up in a servilefeeling of inferiority, they become arroganton the co~mon boon of civility; they attribut~to the lowhness of others their own elevation'and underrate a society where there are noartifi~ial.di.stinctions,and where, by any chance,such individuals as themselves can rise to con-sequence.

One would suppose, however that informa-tion coming from such source's, on a subjectwhere the truth is so desirable, would he reoceived with caution by the censors of the press;tha~ the moti~~s of these men, their veracity,their opportunities of inquiry and observation,and their capacities for judging correctly wouldb . b'

e ngorously scrutinized, before their evidencewas. admit~ed, in such sweeping extent,against a. kindred nation. The very reverse,?owever, 1S the case, and it furnishes a strikinginstance of human inconsistency. Nothingcan surpass the vigilance with which Englishcritics will examine the credibility of the trav-eler who publishes an account of some distantand comparatively unimportant country.How warily will they compare the measure-ments of a pyramid or the description of aruin; and. how sternly will they censure any in-accuracy in these contributions of merely curi-ous knowledge, while they will receive, withea.gerness and. unhesitating faith, the grossmisrepresentations of coarse and obscure writ-ers, concerning a country with which theirown is placed in the most important and deli-cate relations. Nay, they will even make theseapocryphal volumes text-books on which toenlarge, with a zeal and an ability worthy of amore generous cause.

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome andhackneyed topic; nor should I have advertedto it, ~ut. for the undue interest apparently~ak:n m It by my countrymen, and certain in-Jurl0US effects which I apprehend it might pro-

84 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 8:::

duce upon the national feeling. We attach toomuch consequence to these attacks. They can-not do us any essential injury. The tissue ofmisrepresentations attempted to be wovenround us, are like cobwebs woven round thelimbs of an infant giant. Our country contin-ually outgrows them. One falsehood after an-other falls off of itself. We have but to liveon, and every day we live a whole volume ofrefutation.

All the writers of England united, if wecould for a moment suppose their great mindsstooping to so unworthy a combination, couldnot conceal our rapidly growing importanceand matchless prosperity. They could notconceal that these are owing, not merely tophysical and local, but also to moral causes-tothe political liberty, the general diffusion ofknowledge, the prevalence of sound, moral,and religious principles, which give force andsustained energy to the character of a people,and which, in fact, have been the acknowl-edged and wonderful supporters of their ownnational power and glory.

But why are we so exquisitely alive to theaspersions of England? 'Why do we suffer our-selves to be so affected by the contumely shehas endeavored to cast upon us? It is not inthe opinion of England alone that honor lives,and reputation has its being. The world atlarge is the arbiter of a nation's fame: withits thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds.and from their collective testimony is nationalglory or national disgrace established.

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparativelyof but little importance whether England doesus justice or not; it is, perhaps, of far moreimportance to herself. She. is instilling angerand resentment into the bosom of a youthfulnation, to grow with its growth, and strength-enwith its strength. If in America, as someof her writers are laboring to convince her,she is hereafter to find an invidious rival, anda gigantic foe, she may thank those very writ-ers for having provoked rivalship, and irritatedhostility. Everyone knows the all-pervadinginfluence of literature at the present day, andhow much the opinions and passions of man-kind are under its control. The mere contestsof the sword are temporary; their wounds arebut in the flesh, and it is the pride of the gen.erous to forgive and forget them; but the slan-del's of the pen pierce to the heart; they ranklelongest in the noblest spirits; they dwell everpresent in the mind, and render it morbidlysensi tive to the most trifling collision. I t [sbut seldom that anyone overt act produces hos-tilities between two nations; there exists, mostcommonly, a previous jealousy and ill-will, apredisposition to take offence. Trace these totheir cause, and how often will they be foundto originate in the mischievous effusions ofmercenary writers, who, secure in their closetsand for ignominious bread, concoct and circu-late the venom that is to inflame the generousand the brave.

I am not laying too much stress upon thispoint; for it applies most emphatically to our

86 THE SKETCH B00K. THE SKETCH BOOK. 87

particular case. Over no nation does the presshold a more absolute control than over the peo-ple of America; for the universal education ofthe poorest classes makes every individual areader. There is nothing published in Eng-land on the subject of our country, that doesnot circulate through every part of it. Thereis not a calumny dropt from an English pen,~or an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an Eng-Iish statesman, that does not go to blight zood,will, and add to the mass of latent resentmerit.Possessing, then, as England does the foun-tain- head whence the literature of the languageflows, how completely is it in her power, andhow truly is it her duty, to make it the medi-um of amiable and magnanimous feeling--astream where the two nations might meet to-gether and drink in peace and kindness.Should she, however, persist in turning it towaters, of bitterness, the time may come whenshe may repent her folly. The present friend-ship of America mav be of but little momentto her; but the future destinies of that coun trydo not admit of a doubt; over those of Eng-land, there lower some shadows of uncertain ty,Should, then, a day of gloom arrive-shouldthose reverses overtake her, from which theproudest empires have not been exempt-shemay look back with regret at her infatuationin repulsing from her side a nation she might?ave grappled to her bosom, and thus destroy-lllg her only chance for real friendship beyondthe boundaries of her own dominions.

There is a general impression in England,

that the people of the United States areinimical to the parent country. It is one of theerrors which have been diligently propagatedby designing writers. There is, doubtlessconsiderable hostility, and a general sorenessat the illiberality of the English press; but,collectively speaking, the propossessions of thepeople are strongly in favor of England.Indeed, at one time they amounted, in manyparts of the Union, to an absurd degree ofbigotry. The bare name of Englishman wasa passport to the confidence and hospitality ofevery family, and too often gave a transientcurrency to the worthless and the ungrateful.Throughout the country, there was somethingof enthusiasm connected with the idea of Eng-land. We looked to it with a hollowed feelingof tenderness and veneration, as the land ofour forefathers-the august repository of themonuments and antiquities of our race-thebirthplace and mausoleum of the sages andheroes of our paternal history. After our owncountry, there was none in whose glory wemore delighted-none whose good opinion wewere more anxious to possess-none towardwhich our hearts yearned with such throbbingsof warm consanguinity. Even during the latewar, whenever there was the least opportunityfor kind feelings to spring forth, it was thedelight of the generous spirits of our countryto show that, in the midst of hostilities, theystill kept alive the sparks of future friendship.

Is all this to be at an end? Is this goldenband of kindred sympathies, so rare between

88 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 89

nations, to be broken forever?-Perhaps it isfor the best-it may dispel an allusion whichmight have kept us in mental vassalage;which might have interfered occasionallv withour true interests, and prevented the growthof proper national pride. But it is hard togive up the kindred tie! and there are feel-ings dearer than interest-closer to the heartthan pride-that will still make us cast backa look of regret as we wander farther and fartherfrom the paternal roof, and lament the way-wardness of the parent that would repel theaffections of the child.

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, asthe conduct of England may be in this systemof aspersion, recrimination on our part wouldbe equally ill-judged. I speak not of a promptand spirited vindication of our countrv or thekeenest castigation of her slanderel:s'-but Iallude to a disposition to retaliate in kind, toretort sarcasm and inspire prejudice, whichseems to he spreading widely among ourwriters. Let us guard particularly againstsuch a temper; for it would double the evil,instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing isso easy and inviting as the retort of abuse andsarcasm; but it is a paltry and an unprofitablecontest. It is the alternative of a morbidmind, fretted into petulance, rather thanwarmed into indignation. If England iswilling to permit the mean jealousies of trade,or the rancorous animosities of politics, todeprave the integrity of her press, and poisonthe fountain of public opinion, let us beware

of her example. She may deem it her interestto diffuse error, and engender antipathy, forthe purpose of checking emigration: we haveno purpose of the kind to serve. Neitherhav~ we any spirit of national jealousy togratify; for as yet, in all our ri valships withEngland, we are the rising and the gainingparty. There can be no end to answer there-fore, but the gratification of resent~ent-amere spirit of retaliation-and even that is!mpotent. Our retorts are never republishedtn England; they fall short, therefore, of theiraim; but they foster a querulous and peevishtemper among our writers; they sour thesweet flow of our early literature, and sowthorns and brambles among its blossoms.What is still worse, they circulate through ourown country, and, as far as they have effectexcite virulent national prejudices. This lastis the evil most especially to be deprecated.Governed, as we are, entirely by publicopinion, the utmost care should be taken topreserve the purity of the public mind. Knowl-edge is power, and truth is knowledge; who-eve:, . th,ere.fore, knowingly propagates aprejudice, wilfully saps the foundation of hiscountry's strength,

The members of a republic, above all othermen, should be candid and dispassionate.They are, individually, portions of the sover-eign mind and sovereign will, and should beenabled to come to all questions of nationalconcern with calm and unbiassed judgments.From the peculiar nature of our relations with

90 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 91

England, we must have more frequent ques-tions of a difficult and delicate character withher, than with any other nation,-questionsthat affect the most acnte and excitable feel-ings: and as, in the adjustment of these onrnational measures must ultimately be deter-mined by national measures must ultimatelybe determined by popular sentiment, we cannotbe too anxiously attentive to purify it from alllatent passion or prepossession.

Opening, too, as we do, an asvlum forstrangers from every portion of the earth weshould receive all with impartiality. It shouldbe .our pride to exhibit an example of onenation, at least, destitute of national antipa-thies, and exercising, not merely the overtacts of hospitality, but those more rare andnoble courtesies which spring from liberalityof opinion.

~ha:t have we to do with national prej-udices? They are the inveterate diseases ofold countries, contracted in rude and ignorantages, when nations knew but little of eachother, and looked beyond their own boun-daries with distrust and hostility. We, on thecontrary, have sprung into national existencein an. enlightened and philosophic age, whenthe different parts of the habitable world andthe various branches of the human family,have been indefatigably studied and madeknown to each other: and we forego theadvantages of our birth, if we do not shake offthe national prejudices, as we would the localsupe-stitions, of the old world.

But above all let us not be influenced by anyangry feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to theperception of what is really excellent andamiable in the English character. We are ayoung people, necessarily an imitative one, andmust take our examples and models, in agreat degree, from the existing nations ofEurope. There is no country more worthy ofour study than England. The spirit of herconstitution is most analogous to ours. The

.manners of her people - their intellectualactivity - their freedom of opinion - theirhabits of thinking on those subjects which con-cern the dearest interests and most sacredcharities of private life, are all convenial tothe American character; and, in fact are allintrinsically excellent: for it is in the moralfeeling of .t~e people ~hat the deep founda-trons of British prospenty are laid; and how-ever the superstructure may be time-worn, oro~~rr,:,n by abu.ses, th~re mu~t be somethingsolid in the baSIS, admirable m the materialsand stable in the structure of an edifice that solong has towered unshaken amidst the temnestsof the world. •

Let it be the pride of onr writers thereforediscarding all feelings of irritatio~ and dis~daining to retaliate the illiberality 'of Britishauthors, to speak of the English nation with-out prejudice, and with determined candorWhile they rebuke the indiscriminatino- bigotrywith which some of our courrtryrrien admireand imitate everything English merelybecause it is English, let them fran'kly point

02 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 93out what is really worthy of approbation. Wemay thus place England before us as a per-petual volume of reference, wherein arerecorded sound deductions from ages of experi-ence; and while we avoid the errors andabsurdities which may have crept into thepage, we may draw thence golden maxims ofpractical wisdom, wherewith to strengthen andto embellish our national character.

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND.

Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man,Friendly to thought, to virtue and to peace,Domestic life in rural pleasures past!

-Cowper.

The stranger who would form a correctcpinion of the English character, must notconfine his observations to the metropolis. Hemust go forth into the country; he mustsojourn in villages and hamlets; he must visitcastles, villas, farm-houses, cottages; he mustwander through parks and gardens; alonghedges and green lanes: he must loiter aboutcountry churches; attend wakes and fairs, andother rural festivals; and cope with the peoplein all their conditions, and all their habits andhumors.

In some countries, the large cities absorb thewealth and fashion of the nation; they are theonly fixed abodes of elegant and intelligentsociety, and the country is inhabited almostentirely by boorish peasantry. In England, onthe contrary, the metropolis is a mere gather-ing-place. or general rendezvous, of the politeclasses, where they devote a small portion ofthe year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation,and, having indulged this kind of carnival,return again to the apparently more congenial

94 THE SKETCH BOOK. THZ SKETCH BOOK. 95

habits of rural life. The various orders ofsociety are therefore diffused over the wholesurface of the kingdom, and the more retiredneighborhoods afford specimens of the differ-ent ranks.

The English, in fact, are strongly giftedwith the rural feeling. They possess a quicksensibility to the beauties of nature, and akeen relish for the pleasures and employ-ments of the country. This passion seemsinherent in them. Even the inhabitants ofcities, born and brought up among brick wallsand bustling streets, enter with facility intorural habits, and evince a tact for rural occupa-tion. The merchant has his snug retreat in thevicinity of the metropolis, where he often dis-plays as much pride and zeal in the cultivationof his flower garden, and the maturing of hisfruits, as he does in the conduct of his busi-ness, and the success of a commercial enter-prise. Even those less fortunate individuals,who are doomed to pass their lives in themidst of din and traffic, contrive to have some-thing that shall remind them of the greenaspect of nature. In the most dark and dingyquarters of the city, the drawing-room-window resembles frequently a bank offlowers; every spot capable of vegetation hasits grass-plot and flower-bed; and every squareits mimic park. •

Those who see the Englishman only in town,are apt to form an unfavorable opinion of hissocial character. He is either absorbed inbusiness, or distracted by the thousand engag?-

ments that dissipate time, thought, and feel-ing, in 'this huge metropolis. He has, there-fore, too commonly, a look of hurry andabstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he ison the point of going somewhere else; at themoment he is talking on one subject, his mindis wandering to another; and while paying afriendly visit, he is calculating how he shalleconomize time so as to pay the other visitsallotted to the morning.. An immense metro-polis, like London, is calculated to make menselfish and uninteresting. In their casual andtransient meetings, they can but deal briefly incommonplaces. They present but the coldsnperfices of character-its rich and genialqualities have no time to be warmed into aflow.

It is in the country that the Englishmangives scope to his natural feelings. He breaksloose gladly from the cold formalities andnegative civilities of town; throws off his habitsof shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to collect round him allthe conveniences and elegancies of polite life,and to banish its restraints. His country-seatabounds with every requisite, either for studi-ous retirement, tasteful gratification, or ruralexercise. Books, paintings, music, horses,dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, areat hand. He puts no constraint, either uponhis guests or himself, but, in the true spirit ofhospitality, provides the means of enjoyment,and leaves everyone to partake according tohis inclination.

96 THE SKETCH BOOK.

The taste of the English in the cultivation of~and,. and i.n what is called landscape garden-mg, IS unrivaled. They have studied Natureintently, ~nd discovered an exquisite sense ofher beautiful forms and harmonious combina-tions. Those charms which, in other countriesshe lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembledround the haunts of domestic life. They seemto have caught ~er coy and furtive graces, andspread them, Iike witchery, about their ruralabodes.

Nothing can be more imposing than the mag-nificence of English park scener}', Vast lawnsthat extend like sheets of vivid green, wi th?ere an~ the~'e clumps of gigantic trees, heap-mg up nch plies of foliage. The solemn pompof groves and woodland glades with the deertrooping in silent herds across them' the harebounding away to the covert; or the' pheasant:suddenly bur~ting. upon the wing. The brook,taught to wmd III natural meanderings orexpan~ into a gla~sy l::ke-the sequestered pool,reflecting the qUlvermg trees, with the yellowleaf sleeping on its bosom and the trout roam-ing fearle?sly about its l'impid waters; whilesome rustic temple, or sylvan statue, growngree~ and dank with age, gives an air of classicsanctity to the seclusion.

These are but a few of the features of parkscene.ry; but w~at m~st delights me, is thecreative talent WIth which the English decoratethe unostentatious abodes of middle life. Therudest hab~tation, the. most unpromising andscanty portion of land, m the hands of an Eng-

THE SKETCH DOOK. 97

lishrnan of taste, becomes a little paradise.'With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes atonce upon its capabilities, and pictures in hismind the future landscape. The sterile spotgrows into loveliness under his hand; and yetthe operations of art which produce the effectare scarcely to be perceived. The cherishingand training of some trees; the cautious prun-ing of others; the nice distribution of flowersand plants of tender and graceful foliage; theintroduction of a green slope of velvet turf;the partial opening to a peep of blue distance,or silver gleam of water ;-all these are man-aged with a delicate tact, a pervading yet quietassiduity, like the magic touchings with whicha painter finishes up a favorite picture.

The residence of people of fortune and refine-ment in the country, has diffused a degree oftaste and elegance in rural economy thatdescends to the lowest class. The very laborer,with his thatched cottage and narrow slip ofground, attends to their embellishment. Thetrim hedge, the grass-plot before the door, thelittle flower-bed hordered with snug box, thewoodbine trained up against the wall, andhanging its blossoms about the lattice; the potof flowers in the window; the holly,provi.dently planted about the house, to cheat winterof its dreariness, and to throw in a semblanceof green summer to cheer the fireside; allthese bespeak the influence of taste, flowingdown from high sources, and pervading thelowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love,7 Sketch Hook

THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 99as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, itmust be the cottage of an English peasant.

The fondness for rural life among the higherclasses of the English has had a great andsalutary effect upon the national character. Ido not know a finer race of men than the Eng-lish gentleman. Instead of the softness andeffeminacy which characterize the men of rankin most countries, they exhibit a union of ele.gance and strength, a robustness of frame andfreshness of complexion, which I am inclin~c1to attribute to their living so much Inthe open air, and pursuing so eagerlythe invigorating recreations of the country.The hardy exercises produce also a health-ful tone of mind and spirits, and a manli-ness and simplicity of manners, which eventhe follies and dissipations of the town cannoteasily pervert, and can never entirely destroy.In the. country, too, the different orders ofsociety seem to approach more freely, to bemore disposed to blend and operate favorablyupon each other. The distinctions betweenthem do not appear to be so marked and impas-sable as in the cities. The manner in whichproperty has been distributed into small estatesand farms has established a regular gradationfrom the noblemen, through the classes ofgentry, small landed proprietors, ,and sub.stantial farmers, down to the labormg peas.antry ; and while it has thus ~anded .theextremes of society together, has infused intoeach intermediate rank a spirit of independ-ence. This, it must be confessed, is not so

universally the case at present as it wasformerly; the larger estates having, in la~eyears of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, insome parts of the country, almost annihilatedthe sturdy race of small farmers. These, how-ever, I believe, are but casual breaks in thezeneral system I have mentioned.'=' In rural occupation, there is nothing meanand debasing. It leads a man forth amon.gscenes of natural grandeur and beauty; Itleaves him to the workings of his own mind.operated upon by the purest and most elevat-ing of external influences. Such a man maybe simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar.The man of refinement, therefore, finds noth-ing revolting in an intercourse with the lowerorders in rural life as he does when he casu-ally mingles with the lower orders of citie~.He lays aside his distance and reserve, and isglad to waive the distinctions of r.ank, and toenter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments ofcommon life. Indeed, the very amusementsof the country bring men more and moretogether; and the sound of hound and ~ornblend all feelings into harmony. I believethis is one great reason why the nobility andgentry are more popular among the inferiororders in England than they are in any othercountry; and why the latter have endur~~ somany excessive pressures and extremities,without repining more generally at the unequaldistribution of fortune and privilege.

To this mingling of cultivated and ru~ticsociety may also be attributed the rural feeling

100 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK.

that runs through British literature; the fre.quent use of illustrations from rural life ; thoseincom para ble descriptions of Nature, thatabound in the British poets-that have contin-ued down from "The Flower and the Leaf,"of Chaucer, and have brought into our closetsall the freshness and fragrance of the dewylandscape. The pastoral writers of other coun-tries appear as if they had paid Nature an occa-sional visit, and become acquainted with hergeneral charms; but the British poets havelived and reveled with her-they have wooedher in her most secret haunts-the havewatched her minutest caprices. A spray couldnot tremble in the breeze-a leaf could notrustle to the ground-a d iamond drop couldnot patter in the stream-a fragrance couldnot exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisyunfold its crimson tints to the morning, but ithas been noticed by these impassioned and del-icate observers, and wrought up into somebeautiful morality.

The effect of this devotion of elegant mindsto rural occupations has been wonderful on theface of the country. A great part of the islandis rather level, and would be monotonous,were it not for the charms of culture; but it isstudded and gemmed, as it were, with castles::mc1 palaces, and embroidered with parks andgardens. It does not abound in grand andsublime prospects, but rather in little homescenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet.Every antique fr.rm-house and moss-grown eot-tage is a picture; and as the roads are contin-

uallv winding, and the view is shut in by groveland- hedges, the eye is delighted by a co~tin.'10.1 succession of small landscapes of captivat-ing loveliness. .

The great charm, however, of English seen-.-,ry, is the moral feeling that seems to pervadeit. It is associated in the mind with ideas oforder, of quiet, of sober well-established principles, of hoary usage and reverend. custom,.Everything seems to be the grov!th or ages ofrez ular and peaceful existence. The oldchurch of remote architecture, with its low,massive portal; its Gothic tower; its windowsrich with tracery and painted gbss, in scrupu-lous preservation; its stately monuments ofwarriors and worthies of the olden time, ances-tors of the present lords of the soil; its tomb-stones, recording successive generations ofsturdy yeomanry, whose progeLy still ploughthe same fields, and kneel at the same altar;-the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile,. partlyantiquated, but repaired and altered 111 t!~etastes of various ages and occupants ;-the stileand foot-path leading from the church-yard,across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge-rows according to an immemorial right ofway :~the neighboring village, with its vener-able cottages, its public green sheltered bytrees, under which the forefathers of the pres-ent race have sported ;-the antique familvmansion, standing apart in some little r~raldomain, but looking down with a protectmgair on the surrounding scene ;-0.11 these com-mon features of English landscape evince a

II

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calm and settled security, a hereditary trans,mission of homebred virtues and local attach,ments, that speak deeply and touchingly forthe moral character of the nation.

It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning,when the bell is sending its sober melodyacross the quiet fields, to behold the peasantryin their best finery, with ruddy faces, and mod,est cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along'the green lanes to church; but it is still morepleasing to see them in the evenings, gather-ing about their cottage doors, and appearingto exult in the humble comforts and embellish-ments which their own hands have spreadaround them. .

It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled re-pose of affection in the domestic scene, that is,after all, the parent of the steadiest virtuesand purest enjoyments; and I cannot closethese desultory remarks better, than by quot-ing the words of a modern English poet, whohas depicted it with remarkable felicity:

But its own sharers, and approving Hea;'"cn;Th t like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft,Sm~l~s,though 'tis looking only at the sky.*

'qrom a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte,by the Reverend Rann Kennedy, A.M.

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-roofd shed;This western isle has long been famed for scenesWhere 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 nestAll that desire would fly for through the earth;That can, the world eluding, be itselfA world enjoyed; that wants no witnesses

104 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 105

THE BROKEN HEART.

Man is the creature of interest and ambition .. His nature leads him forth into the struggleand bustle of the world. Love is but the em-bellishment of his early life, or a song pipedin the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame,for fortune, for space in the world's thought,and dominion over his fellow-men. But awoman's whole life is a history of the affec-tions. The heart is her world; it is there herambition strives for empire-it is there heravarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sendsforth her sympathies on adventure; she em-barks her whole soul in the traffic of affection;and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless-forit is a bankruptcy of the heart.

To a man, the disappointment of love mayoccasion some bitter pangs; it wounds somefeelings of tenderness-it blasts some prospectsof felicity; but he is an active being-he maydissipate his thoughts in the whirl of variedoccupation, or may plunge into the tide ofpleasure; or, if the scene of disappointmentbe too full of painful associations, he can shifthis abode at will, and taking, as it were, thewings of the morning, can "fly to the utter-most parts of the earth, and be at rest."

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a se-cluded, and meditative life. She is more thecompanion of her own thoughts and feelings;and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow,where shall she look for consolation? Her lotis to be wooed and won; and if unhappy in herlove, her heart is like some fortress that has8 Sketch Book

1 never heardOf any true affection, but 'twas niptWith care, that, like the caterpillar, eatsThe leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose.

-Middleton.It is a common practice with those who have

outlived the susceptibility of early feeling, orhave been brought up in the gay heartlessnessof dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories,and to treat the tales of romantic passion asmere fictions of novelists and poets. My ob-servations on human nature have induced meto think otherwise. They have convinced methat, however the surface of the character maybe chilled and frozen by the cares of theworld, or cultivated into mere smiles by thearts of society, still there are dormant fireslurking in the depths of the coldest bosom,which, when once enkindled,' become impet-uous, and are sometimes desolating in theireffects. Indeed, I am a true believer in theblind deity, ancl go to the full extent of hiscloctrines. Shall I confess it?-I believe inbroken hearts, and the possibility of dying ofdisappointed love! I do not, however, con-sider it a malady often fatal to my own sex;but I firmly believe that it withers down manya lovely woman into an early grave.

106 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 107

been captured, and sacked, and abandoned,and left desolate.How many bright eyes grow dim-how

many soft cheeks grow pale-how many lovelyforms fade away into the tomb, and none cantell the cause that blighted their loveliness!As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and~ove~ and con.ce~l the arrow that is preying onIts vItals-so IS It the nature of woman to hidef~om the world the pangs of wounded affec-tion. The. love of a delicate female is alwaysshy and SIlent. Even when fortunate shesc~rcely breathes it to herself; but when other-wise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosoman? there lets it cower and brood among th~rums of her peace. With her, the desire of her~eart has failed-the great charm of existenceIS at an end. She neglects all the cheerful ex-ercises which gladden the spirits, quicken thepulses, and send the tide of life in healthfulcurrents through the veins. Her rest is broken-the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisonedby melancholy dreams-"dry sorrow drinksher blood," until her enfeebled frame sinksu~r the slightest external injury. Look forher, after .a little while, and you find friend-shi p w~eplllg over her untimely grave, andwondenng that one, who but lately glowedwith all the radiance of health and beautyshould so speedily be brought down to "dark:ness and the worm. " You will be told of somewintry chill, some casual indisposition thatlaid her low;-but no one knows of the mental

malady which previously sapped her strength,and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler.She is like some tender tree, the pride and

beauty of the grove; graceful in its form,bright in its foliage, but w~th the worm prey-ing at its heart. We find It suddenly wIthe~-ing when it should be most fresh and Iuxuri-ant: We see it drooping its branches to theearth and shedding leaf by leaf, until, 'wastedand perished away, it falls even in the sti1lne~sof the forest; and as we muse over the beauti-ful ruin we strive in vain to recollect the blastor thunderbolt that could have smitten it withdecay.I have seen many instances of women run-

nin z to waste and self-neglect, and disappear-ing ~I;radually from the earth, almost as if theyhad been exhaled to heaven; and have repeat-edly fancied that I could trace their deathsthrough the various declensions of consum~-tion cold debility, languor, melancholy, untilI re~ched the first symptom of disappointedlove. But an instance of the kind was latelytold to me; the circumstances are well knownin the country where they happened, and Ishall but give them in the manner in whichthey were related.Everyone must recollect the tragical story

of young E-, the Irish patriot; it ',Vas tootouching to be soon forgotten. Dunng thetroubles in Ireland, he was tried, condemned,and executed, on a charge of treason. Hisfate made a deep impression on public sympa-thy. He was so young-so intelligent·-so gen-

108 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 109

erous-so brave-so everything that we are aptto like in a young man. His conduct undertrial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. Thenoble indignation with which he rebelled thecharge of treason against his country - theeloquent vindication of his name-and his pa-thetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hourof condemnation,-all these entered deeplyinto every generous bosom, and even his ene-mies lamented the stern policy that dictatedhis execution.

But there was one heart whose anguish itwould be impossible to describe. In happierdays and fairer fortunes, h~ had w.on th~ affec-tions of a beautiful and interesting girl, thedaughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister.She loved him with the disinterested fervor ofa woman's first and early love.· When everyworldly maxim arrayed itself against him; whenblasted in fortune, and disgrace and dangerdarkerted around his name, she loved him themore ardently for his very sufferings. If,then his fate could awaken the sympathy evenof hi's foes what must have been the agony ofher, whose whole soul was occupied by his im-age? Let those tell who have had the portalsof the tomb suddenly closed between them andthe being they most loved on earth-v:rho havesat at its threshold, as one shut out m a coldand lonely world, whence all that was mostlovely and loving had departed.

But then the horrors of such a grave !-sofrightful, so dishonored! There was nothingfo; memory to dwell on that could soothe the

pang of separation-none of those tender,though melancholy circumstances which en-dear the parting scene-nothing to melt sorrowinto those blessed tears, sent like the dews ofheaven, to revive the heart in the parting hourof anguish.

To render her widowed situation more deso-late, she had incurred her father's displeasureby her unfortunate attachment, and was anexile from the parental roof. But could thesympathy and kind offices of friends havereached a spirit so shocked and driven in byhorror, she would have experienced no wantof consolation, for the Irish are a people ofquick and generous sensibilities. The mostdelicate and cherishing attentions were paidher by families of wealth and distinction. Shewas led into society, and they tried by all kindsof occupation and amusement to dissipate hergrief, and wean her from the tragical story ofher loves. But it was all in vain. There aresome strokes of calamity that scathe and scorchthe soul-which penetrate to the vital seat ofhappiness-and blast it, never again to putforth bud or blossom. She never objected tofrequent the haunts of pleasure, but was asmuch alone there as in the depths of solitude;walking about in a sad revery, apparently un-conscious of the world around her. She carriedwith her an inward woe that mocked at all theblandishments of friendship, and "heeded notthe song of the charmer, charm he never 5'0wisely. "

The person who told me her sto ry had seen

110 THE SKETCH BOOK:.

her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibi-tion of far-gone wretchedness more striking andpainful than to meet it in such a scene. Tofind it wandering like a spectre, lonely andjoyless, where all around is gay-to see itdressed out in the trappings of mirth, and look-ing so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried invain to cheat the poor heart into momentaryforgetfulness of sorrow. After strollingthrough the splendid rooms and giddy crowdwith an air of utter abstraction, she sat herselfdown on the steps of an orchestra, and, lookingabout for some time with a vacant air, thatshowed her insensibility to the garish scene,she began, with the capriciousness of a sicklyheart, to warble a little plaintive air. She hadan exquisite voice; but on this occasion it wasso simple, so touching, it breathed forth sucha soul of wretchedness- that she drew a crowd,mute, and silent, around her and melted everyone into tears.

The story of one so true and tender could notbut excite great interest in a country remark-ahle for enthusiasm. It completely won theheart of a brave officer, who paid his addressesto her, and thought that one so true to thedead, could not but prove affectionate to theliving. She declined his attentions, for herthoughts were irrevocably engrossed by thememory of her former lover. He, however,persisted in his suit. He solicited not her ten-derness, but her esteem. He was assisted byher conviction of his worth, and her sense ofher own destitute and dependent situation, for

THE SKETCH BOOK. 111

she was existing on the kindness of friends.In a word, he at length succeeded in gainingher hand, though with the solemn assurance,that her heart was unalterably another's.

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping thata change of scene might wear out the remem-brance of early woes. She was an amiableand exemplary wife, and made an effort to bea happy one; but nothing could cure the silentand devouring melancholy that had enteredinto her very soul. She wasted away in aslow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunkinto the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

It was on her that Moore, the distinguishedIrish poet, com posed the following lines:

iI

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,And lovers around her are sighing:

Yet coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,Every note which he loved awakening-

Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!

He had lived for his love-for his country he died,They were all that to life had entwined him-

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,Nor long will his love stay behind him!

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,From her own loved island of sorrow:!

112 THE SKETCH BOOK.

THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING.If that severe doom of Synesius be true,-"It is a

greater offence to steal dead men's labor, than theirclothes," -what shall become of most writers?

-Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy.I have often wondered at the extreme fecund-

ity of the press, and how it comes to pass thatso many heads, Onwhich Nature seems to haveinflicted the curse of barrenness should teemwith voluminous productions. ' As a mantr~vels on, however, in the journey of life, hisobJe~ts of wonder daily diminish, and he iscontinually finding out some very simple causefor some great matter of marvel. Thus haveI chanced, in my peregrinations about thisgreat metropolis, to blunder upon a scenewhich unfolded to me some of the mysteries ofthe book-making craft, and at once put an endto my astonishment.

I was one summer's day loitering throughthe great saloons of the British Museum, withthat listlessness with which one is apt to saun-ter about a museum in warm weather' some-times .lolling over the glass cases of minerals,sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on anEgyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, withnearly equal success, to comprehend the alle-gorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. WhilstI was gazing about in this idle way, my atten-

THE SKETCH BOOK. 11:3

tion .was attracted to a distant door, at the endof a suite of apartments. It was closed, butevery now and then it would open, and somestrange-favored being, generally clothed inblack, would steal forth, and glide through therooms, without noticing any of the surroundingobjects. There was an air of mystery aboutthis that piqued my languid curiosity, and Idetermined to -attempt the passage of thatstrait, and to explore the unknown regionsbeyond. The door yielded to my hand, withall that facility with which the portals ofenchanted castles yield to the. adventurousknight-errant. I found myself in a spaciouschamber, surrounded with great cases of ven-erable books. Above the cases, and just underthe cornice, were arranged a great number ofblack-looking portraits of ancient authors.About the room were placed long tables, withstands for reading and writing, at which satmany pale, studious personages, poring intentlyover dusty volumes, rum aging among mouldymanuscripts, and taking copious notes of theircontents. A hushed stillness reigned throughthis mysterious apartment, excepting that youmight hear the racing of pens over sheets ofpaper, and occasionally the deep sigh of one ofthese sages, as he shifted his position to turnover the page of an old folio; doubtless arisingfrom that hollowness and flatulency incident tolearned research.

Now and then one of these personageswould write something on a small slip of paper,and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar would

114 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 115

a~pear, take the paper in profound silence;glide au! of the room, and return shortlyloaded with ponderous tomes, upon which theother would fall, tooth and nail with famishedvoracity. I had no longer a doubt that I had~appened upon a body of magi, deeply engagedm the study of occult sciences. The scenereminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a phi-losopher shut up in an enchanted library, in thebosom of a mountain, which opened only oncea year; where he made the spirits of the placebring him books of all kinds of dark knowledgeso that at the end of the year, when the magicportal once more swung open on its hinges, heissued forth so versed in forbidden lore as tobe able to soar above the heads of the multi-tude, and to control the powers of Nature.

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whis-pered to one of the familiars, as he was aboutto leave the room, and begged an interpreta-tion of the strange scene before me. A fewwords were sufficient for the purpose. I foundthat these mysterious personages, whom I hadmistaken f<;>rmagi, were principally authors,and were in the very act of manufacturingbooks: I was, in fact, in the reading-room ofthe great British Library, an immense collec-tion of volumes of all ages and languagesmany of which are now forgotten, and mo~ ofwhich are seldom read: one of these seques-tered pools of obsolete literature to which mod-ern authors repair, and draw buckets full ofclassic lore, or "pure English undefiled,"

wherewith to swell their own scanty rills ofthought.

Being now in possession of the secret, I satdown in a corner, and watched the process ofthis book manufactory. I noticed one lean,bilious-looking wight, who sought none but themost worm-eaten volumes, printed in blackletter. He was evidently constructing somawork of profound erudition, that would be pur-chased by every man who wished to be thoughtlearned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf of hi,hbrary, or laid open upon his table-but neverread. I observed him, now and then, draw alarge fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, andgnaw; whether it was his dinner, or whetherhe was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustionof the stomach, produced by much ponderingover dry works, I leave to harder students thanmyself to determine.

There was one dapper little gentleman in?right-colo~ed clothes, with a chirping, gossip-mg expression of countenance, who had all theappearance of an author on good terms withhis bookseller. After considering him atten-tively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-upof miscellaneous works, which bustled off wellwith the trade. I was curious to see how hemanufactured his wares. He made more stirand show of business than any of the others'dipping into various books, fluttering over theleaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out ofone, a morsel out of another, "line upon line,precept upon precept, here a little and there alittle. .. The contents of his book seemed to

116 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 11~..be as heterogeneous as those of the witches'cauldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger andthere a thumb, toe of frog and blind worm'ssting, with his own gossip poured in like"baboon's blood," to make the medley "slaband good."

After all, thought I, may not this pilferingdisposition be implanted in authors for wisepurposes? may it not be the way in whichProvidence has taken care that the seeds ofknowledge and wisdom shall be preserved fromage to age, in spite of the inevitable decay ofthe works in which they were first produced?We see that Nature has wisely, though whim-sically provided for the conveyance of seedsfrom clime to clime, in the maws of certainbirds; so that animals, which, in themselves,are little better than carrion, and apparentlythe lawless plunderers of the orchard and thecorn-field, are, in fact, Nature's carriers to dis-perse and perpetuate her blessings. In likemanner, the beauties and fine thoughts ofancient and obsolete authors are caught up bythese flights of predatory writers, and castforth, again to flourish and bear fruit in 2-

remote and distant tract of time. Many oftheir works, also, undergo a kind of metempsy-chosis, and spring up under new forms. Whatwas formerly a ponderous history, revives inthe shape of a romance-an old legend changesinto a modern play-and a sober philosophicaltreatise furnishes the body for a whole seriesof bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it isin the clearing of our American woodlands:

where we burn down a forest of stately pines,a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in their place;and we never see the prostrate trunk of a treemouldering into soil, but it gives birth to awhole tribe of fungi.

Let us not then, lament over the decay andoblivion into which ancient writers descend;they do not submit to the great law of Nature,which declares that all sublunary shapes ofmatter shall be limited in their duration, butwhich decrees, also, that their element shallnever perish. Generation after generation,both in animal and vegetable life, passes away,but the vital principle is transmitted to poster-itv and the species continue to flourish.Th'us, also, do authors beget authors, and hav-ing produced a numerous progeny, in a goodold age they sleep with their fathers, that is tosav with the authors who preceded them-and from whom they had stolen.

Whilst I was indulging in these ramblingfancies I had leaned my head against a pile ofreverend folios. Whether it was owing to thesoporific emanations for these works; or t? theprofound quiet of the room; or.to the lassitudearisinv from much wandermg; or to an

b •••unluckv habit of napping at lmproper timesand places, with which I am grievously ~ffiicted,so it was that I fell into a doze. Still, how-ever my imagination continued busy, andindeed the same scene continued before mymind's eye, only a little changed in some ofthe details. I dreamt that the chamber wasstill decorated with the portraits of ancient

118 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. llS

authors, but that the number was increased.The long tables had disappeared, and, in placeof the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, thread-bare throng, suc? as may be seen plying aboutthe great repository of cast-off clothes, Mon-mouth Street. Whenever they seized upon abook, by one of those incongruities common todreams, methought it turned into a zarrnentof foreign or antique fashion with which theyproceeded to equip themsdlves. I noticed,however, that no one pretended to clothe him-self from any particular suit, but took a sleevefrom one, a cape from another a skirt from athird, thus decking himself out piecemeal,while some of his original rags would peep outfrom among his borrowed finery.

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson,:vhom I. observed ogling several mouldy polem-ical writers through an eyeglass. He sooncontrived to slip on the voluminous mantle ofone of the old fathers, and having purloinedthe gray beard of another, endeavored to lookexceedingly wise; but the smirking common-place of his countenance set at naught all thetrappings of wi~dom. 0r:e sickly-looking gen.tlernan was busied embrOldermg a very flimsygarment with gold thread drawn out of severalold court-dresses of the reign of Queen Eliza-beth. Another ~ad trimmed himself magnifi-cently from an lllummated manuscript, hadstuck a nosegay in his bosom culled from"Th~:rara~i~e of pain~y Devices:" and havingput :::ill' Philip SIdney s hat on one side of hi ••head, strutted off with an exquisite air of v ul

gar elegance. A third, who was but of punydimensions, had bolstered himself out bravelywith the spoils from several obscure tracts ofphilosophy, so that he had a very imposingfront, but he was lamentably tattered in rear,and I perceived that he had patched his small-clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latinauthor.

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, itis true, who only helped themselves to a gemor so, which sparkled among their own orna-ments, without eclipsing them. Some, too,seemed to contemplate the costumes of the oldwriters, merely to imbibe their principles oftaste, and to catch their air and spirit; but Igrieve to say, that too many were apt to arraythemselves, from top to toe, in the patchworkmanner I have mentioned. I shall not omitto speak of one genius, in drab breeches andgaiters, and an Arcadian hat, who had a vio-lent propensity to the pastoral, but whose ruralwanderings had been confined to the classichaunts of Primrose Hill, and the soltitudes ofthe Regent's Park. He had decked himselfin wreaths and rib bans from all the old pasto-ral poets, and, hanging his head on one side,went about with a fantastical, lack-a-daisicalair, "babbling about green fields." . But thepersonage that most struck my attention was apragmatical old gentleman in clerical robes,with a remarkably large and square but baldhead. He entered the room wheezing andpuffing, elbowed his way through the throngwith a look of sturdy self-confidence, and,

120 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 121

having l~id hands .upon a thick Greek quarto,clapped It ?pon hIS .head, and swept majesti.cally away In a formIdable frizzled wig.

In the height of this literary masquerade, acry suddenly resounded from every side of"Thieyes! thieves!" I looked, and lo ! theportraits about the walls became animated I

The old authors thrust out, first a head, the~a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curi-ously for an instant ~pon the. motley throng,and then descended, WIth fury in their eyes toclaim t?eir rifled property. The scene' ofscampermg and hubbub that ensued baffles alldescription, The unhappy culprits endeavoredin vam to escape with their plunder. On oneside might be seen half a dozen old monksstripping a modern professor' on another therewas sad devastation carried into the ra~ks ofmodern dramatic writers. Beaumont andI;letcher, side by side, raged round the fieldlike Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonsonenacted more wonders than when a volunteer"Yith the ar~y in Flanders. As to the dapperl~ttle compiler of farragos mentioned sometime since, he had arrayed himself in as manypatches and colors. as harlequin, and there wasas fierce a contentIon of claimants about himas.about the dead body of Patroclus. I wa~grieved to see many men, to whom I had beenac.customed to loo~ up with awe and reverence,fain to steal off WIth scarce a rag to cover theirnakedness. \ .Just then my eye was caught bythe pragmatlcal old gentleman in the Greekgrizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sor

affright with half a score of authors in full cryafter him. They were close upon his haunches;in a twinkling off went his wig; at every turnsome strip of raiment was peeled away, until ina few moments, from his domineering pomp,he shrunk into a little, pursy, "chopp'd baldshot," and made his exit with only a few tagsand rags fluttering at his back.

There was something so ludicrous in the ca-tastrophe of this learned Theban that I burstinto an immoderate fit of laughter, whichbroke the whole illusion. The tumult and thescuffle were at an end. The chamber resumedits usual appearance. The old authors shrunkback into their picture-frames, and hung inshadowy solemnity along the walls. In short,I found myself wide awake in my corner, withthe whole assemblage of bookworms gazing atme with astonishment. Nothing of the dreamhad been real but my burst of laughter, a soundnever before heard in that grave sanctuary,and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as toelectrify the fraternity.

The librarian now stepped up to me anddemanded whether I had a card of admission.At first I did not comprehend him, but I soonfound that the library was a kind of literary"preserve," subject to game-laws, and that noone must presume to hunt there without spe-cial license and permission. In a word, I stoodconvicted of being an arrant poacher, and wasglad to make a precipitate retreat, lest I shouldhave a whole pack of authors let loose uponme.

122 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK, 123

A ROYAL POET.

Ithe Second; and as I gazed upon them, de-picted with amorous, half-disheveled tresses,and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pen-cil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus enabledme to bask in the reflected rays of beauty. Intraversing also the "large green courts," withsunshine beaming on the gray walls and glanc-ing along the velvet turf, my mind was en-grossed with the image of the tender, the gal-lant, but hapless Surrey, and his account of hisloiterings about them in his stripling days,when enamoured of the Lady Geraldine-

Though your body be confinedAnd soft love a prisoner bound, .

Yet the beauty of your mindNeither check nor chain hath found.

Look out nobly, then, and dareEven the fetters that you wear.

-Fletcher.

On a soft sunny morning in the genialmonth of May I made an excursion to WindsorCastle. It is a place full of storied and poeti-cal associations. The very external aspect ofthe proud old pile is enough to inspire highthought. It rears its irregular walls and mas-sive towers, like a mural crown around thebrow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal bannerin the clouds, and looks down with a lordly airupon the surrounding world.

On this morning, the weather was of thatvoluptuous vernal kind which calls forth all thel~tent .roma~ce of a t?an's tem1?erament, fillinghIS mind with music, and disposing him toquote poetry and dream of beauty. In wan-dering through the magnificent saloons andlo?g .ech,oing galleries of the castle, I passedwith ,mdlfference by whole rows of portraits ofwarrrors and statesmen, but lingered in thechamber where hang the likenesses of thebeauties which graced the gay court of Charles

"With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower,With easie sighs, such as men draw in love."

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, Ivisited the ancient keep of the castle, whereJ ames the First of Scotland, the pride andtheme of Scottish poets and historians, was formany years of his youth detained a prisoner ofstate. It is a large gray tower, that has stoodthe brunt of ages, and is still in good preserva-tion. It stands on a mound which elevates itabove the other parts of the castle, and agreat flight of steps leads to the interior. Inthe armory, a Gothic hall furnished with wea-pons of various kinds and ages, I was shown acoat of armor hanging against the wall, whichhad once belonged to James. Hence I wasconducted up a staircase to a suite of apart-ments, of faded magnificence, hung with stor-ied tapestry, which formed his prison, and thescene of that passionate and fanciful armor,

THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 125

whic,h has woven into the web of his story themagical hues of poetry and fiction.

The whole history of this amiable but unfor-tunate prince is highly romantic. At the ten-d~r age of eleven, he was sent from home byhIS father, Robert III., and destined for theFrench court, to be reared under the eye ofthe French monarch, secure from the treacheryand danger that surrounded the royal house ofS~otland. It was his mishap, in the course of~IS voyage, to fall into the hands of the Eng-lish, and ~e was ,detained prisoner by HenryIV., notwithstanding that a truce existed be-tween the two countries.

~he intelligence of his capture, coming in thetram of many sorrows and disasters provedfatal to his unhappy father. "The ne~vs," weare tol.d, "was brought to him while at supperand did so overwhelm him with grief that hewas almost ready to give up the ghost into thehands of the servants that attended him, Butbeing carried to his bed-chamber he abstainedfrom all food, and in three days died of hungerand grief at Rothsay. ,,*

James was detained in captivity above eight-een years; but, though deprived of personalli?erty, he was treated with the respect due tohIS rank. Care was taken to instruct him inall the branches of useful knowledge cultivatedat that period, and to give him those mental~nd per~onal accomplishments deemed properfor a pnnce. Perhaps in this respect his im-

prisonment was an advantage, as it enabledhim to apply himself the more exclusively tohis improvement, and quietly to imbibe thatrich fund of knowledge and to cherish thoseelezant tastes which have given such a lustreto "his memory. The picture drawn of him inearly life by the Scottish historians is l~ig?lycaptivating, and seems rather the desc~IptlOnof a hero of romance than of a character 111 realhistory. He was well learnt, we are told, "tofight with the sword, to joust, to tourney, towrestle to sinz and dance; he was an expertmedici~er riaht crafty in playing both of luteand harp,' a~d sundry other instruments ofmusic, and was expert in grammar, oratory,and poetry."* .

With this combination of manly and delicateaccomplishments, fitting him to shine both. inactive and elegant life, and calculated to gIvehim an intense relish for joyous existence, itmust have been a severe trial, in an age ofbustle and chivalry, to pass the spring-time ofhis years in monotonous captivity. It was thegood fortune of Jan;-es, however, to be &i~tedwith a powerful poetic fancy, and to be VISItedin his prison, by the choicest inspirations. ofthe muse. Some minds corrode, and grow 111-

active, under the loss of personal liberty;others grow morbid and irritable; but it is thenature of the poet to become tender and im-azinative in the loneliness of confinement. Heb~nquets upon the honey of his own thoughts,

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*Buchanan. *Ballenden's translation of Hector Boyce.

126 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 127

and, like the captive bird, pours forth his soulin melody.

and the story of his real loves and fortunes.It is not often that sovereigns write poetry orthat poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to thepride of a common man, to find a monarchthus suing, as it were, for admission into hi:closet, and seeking to win his favor by adrnin-istering to his pleasures. It is a proof of thehonest equality of intellectual competition,which strips off all the trappings of factitiousdignity, brings the candidate down to a levelwith his fellow-men, and obliges him to dependon his own native powers for distinction. It iscurious, too, to get at the history of a mon-arch's heart, and to find the simple affectionsof human nature throbbing under the ermine.But James had learnt to be a poet before he wasa king; he was schooled in adversity, and rearedin the company of his own thoughts. Mon-archs have seldom time to parley with theirhearts or to meditate their minds into poetry;and had James been brought up amidst theadulation and gayety of a court, we shouldnever, in all probability, have had such a poemas the "Quair."

I have been particularly interested by thoseparts of the poem which breathe his immediatethoughts concerning his situation, or whichare connected with the apartment in theTower. They have thus a personal and localcharm, and are given with such circumstantialtruth as to make the reader present with thecaptive in his prison and the companion of hismeditations.

Such is the account which he gives of his

III1:III

Have .you not seen the nightingale,A pilgrim coop'd into a cage.

How doth she chant her wonted tale,In that her lonely hermitage'

Even there her charming melody doth proveThat all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove. *

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the im-agination, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable-that when the real world is shut out it cancreate a world for itself and with a necroman-tic power, can conjure ~p gl~rious shapes andforms and brilliant visions, to make solitudepopulous, and irradiate the gloom of the dun-geon. Suc~ was the world of pomp and pa-geant that lived round Tasso in his dismal cellat Ferrara: when he conceived the splendidscenes of hIS Jerusalem; and we may consider"T~e Ki?g's qu.air, "t composed by Jamesdunng hIS captivity at 'Windsor as another ofthose beautiful breakings forth of the soulfrom the restraint and gloom of the prison-house.

The subject of the poem is his love for thelady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl ofSomerset, and a princess of the blood-royal ofEngland, of whom he became enamoured inthe course of his captivity. What gives it apeculiar value, is, that it may be considered atranscript of the royal bard's true feelings,

*Roger L'Estrange.tQuair. an old term for book.

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128 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 12~

weariness of spirit, and of the incident whichfirst suggest.ed t~e idea of writing the poem.I~ was the still mid-watch of a clear moonlightll1g~t; the ~tars, he says, were twinkling asfi.re !n the high vault of heaven, and "Cynthiarmsmg her golden locks in Aquarius." He layin bed wakeful and restless and took a book tobeguile the tedious hours. ' The book he chosewas Boetius' "Consolations of Philosophy," awork P?pular among the writers of that day,and which had been translated by his greatproto~ype, <=:haucer. From the high eulogiumin which he indulges, it is evident this was one?f his f.av.orite VOI\lmeSwhile in prison; and,indeed, It IS an admirable text-book for medi-tation under adversity. It is the legacy of anoble and enduring spirit, purified by sorrowand suffering, bequeathing to its successors incalamity the maxims of sweet morality, andthe tr~ms. of eloquent but simple reasoning,by :vhIC? It wa~ enable? to bear up against thevarious I11sof Iife. It IS a talisman, which theunfortunate may treasure up in his bosom orli~e the good King James, lay upon his nig'htlypillow,

After closing the volume he turns its con-tents over in his mind, and gradually falls intoa fit of musing on the fickleness of fortunethe vicissitudes of his own life and the evilsthat had overtaken him even 'in his tenderyou~h. SU~denly he hears the bell ringing tomatins, but Its sound, chiming in with his mel-ancholy fancies, seems to him like a voice ex-horting him to write his story. In the spirit

of poetic errantry he determines to complywith this intimation; he, therefore, takes penin hand makes with it a sign of the cross toimplore' a benediction, and sallie~ forth i?-tothe fairy-land of poetry. There IS somethingextremely fanciful in all this, and it is inter-estin z as furnishing a striking and beautifulinst ance of the simple manner in which wholetrains of poetical thought are sometimesawakened and literary enterprises suggestedto the mind.

In the course of his poem, he more thanonce bewails the peculiar hardness of his fate,thus doomed to lonely and inactive life, andshut up from the freedom and.pleasure of theworld in which the meanest animal indulgesunrestrained. There is a sweetness, however,in his very complaints; they are the lamenta-tions of an amiable and social spirit at beingdenied the indulzence of its kind and gener-ous propensities;'" there is nothing in themharsh nor exaggerated; they flow with a nat-ural and touching pathos, and are perhaps ren-dered more touching by their simple brevity.They contrast finely with those elaborate anditerated repinings which we sometimes meetwith in poetry, the effusions of morbid m~ndssickening under miseries of their own creating,and venting their bitterness upon an unoffend-ing world. James speaks of his priv~tionswith acute sensibility, but having mentionedthem passes on, as if his manly mind disdainedto brood over unavoidable calamities. Whensuch a spirit breaks forth into complaint, h,/w-

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130 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 131

ever brief, we are aware how great must bethe suffering that extorts the murmur. Wesympathize with James, a romantic, active,and accomplished prince, cut off in the lusti-hood of youth from all the enterprise, the no-ble uses, and vigorous delights of life, as we dowith Milton, alive to all the beauties of natureand glories of art, when he breathes forth briefbut deep-toned lamentations over his perpetualblindness.

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poeticartifice, we might almost have suspected thatthese lowerings of gloomy reflections weremeant as preparative to the brightest scene ofhis story, and. to contrast with that refulgenceof light and loveliness, that exhilarating ac-companiment of bird and song, and foliageand flower, and all the revel of the year, withwhich he ushers in the lady of his heart. It isthis scene, in particular, which throws all themagic of romance about the old castle keep.He had risen, he says, at daybreak, accordingto custom, to escape from the dreary medita-tions of a sleepless pillow. "Bewailing in hischamber thus alone," despairing of all joy andremedy, "for, tired of thought, and woe-be-gone," he had wandered to the window to in-dulge the captive's miserable solace, of gazingwistfu11y upon the world from which he is ex-cluded. The window looked forth upon asmall garden which lay at the foot of thetower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adornedwith arbors and green »Ileys, and protected

from the passing gaze by trees and hawthornhedges.

Now was there made fast by the tower's wall,A Rarden faire, and in the corners set

An arbour green with wandis long and smallRailed ~about,and so with leaves beset

Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet,That 1yf* was none, walkyng th~re forbyeThat might within scarce any WIghtespye.

So thick the branches and the 1evesgrene,Beshaded all the alleys that there were,

And midst of every arbour might be seen,The sharpe, grene, swete juniper.

Growing so fair with branches here and there.That as it seemed to a lyf without,The boughs did spread the arbour all about.

And on the small grene twistis t setThe lytel swete nightingales, and sung

So loud and clear the hvrnnis consecrateOf lovis use. now soft. now loud among,

That all the garden and the wallis rungRight of their song-It was the month of May, when everything

was in bloom, and he interprets the song ofthe nightingale into the language of his enarn-ored feeling:

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May;For of your bliss the kalends are begun,

And sing with us, Away, winter, away,Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun.

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to thenotes of the birds, he gradua11y relapses intoone of those tender and undefinable reveries,

" Lyf, person. t Twistis, small boughs or twigs.Note.-The language of the quotations is generally

modernized.

i32 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 133

which fill the youthful bosom in this deliciousseason. He wonders what this love may beof which he has so often read, and which thusseems breathed forth in the quickening breathof May, and melting all nature into ecstasyand song. If it really be so great a felicity,and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed tothe most insignificant beings, why is he alonecut off from its enjoyments?

Oft would I think, 0 Lord, what may this be,That love is of such noble myght and kynde?

Loving his folke, and such prosperi tee,Is it of him, as we in books do find;May he oure hertes setten " and unbynd:

Hath he upon oure hertes such maistrye?Or is all this but feynit fantasye?

For giff he be of so grete excellenceThat he of every wight hath care and charge,

What have I gilt t to him, or done offense,That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large?

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye...downward, he beholds "the fairest and thetre~hest young floure " that ever he had seen.It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the gar-den to enjoy the beauty of that "fresh Maymorrowe." Breaking thus suddenly upon hissight in a moment of loneliness and excitedsusceptibility, she at once captivates the fancyof the romantic prince, and becomes the objectof his wandering- wishes, the sovereign of hisideal world.There is, in this charming scene, an evident,. Setten, incline.t Gilt, what injury have I done, etc.

resemblance to the early part of Chaucer'sKnight's Tale, where Palamon and Arcite ~allin love with Emilia, whom they see walkingin the garden of their prison. Perhaps thesimilarity of the actual fact to the incid~ntwhich he had read in Chaucer may have Ill-

duced James to dwell on it in h,is p.oem.. Hisdescription of the Lady Jane IS gIven III thepicturesque and minute manner of his ~as~er,and, being doubtless taken from the life, IS aperfect portrait of a beauty of that day. Hedwells with the fondness of a lover on everyarticle of her apparel, from the net of pearl,splendent with emeralds and sapphires, thatconfined her golden hair, even to the "goodlychaine of small orfeverye"* about her neckwhereby there hung a ruby in shape of aheart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of fireburning upon her white bosom. Her dress ofwhite tissue was looped up to enable her towalk with more freedom. She was accom-panied by two female attendants, and abouther sported a little hound decorated with bells,probably the small Italian hound of exquisitesymmetry which was a parlor favorite and petamong the fashionable dames of ancient times.J ames closes his description by a burst of gen-eral eulogium:In her was youth, beauty, with humble port,

Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature:God better knows than my pen can report,

Wisdom, largesse, t estate.j and cunning § sure.

,. Wrought gold. t Largesse, bounty.:I: Estate, dignity. § Cunning, discretion.

134 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 13[j

In every point so guided her measure,In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance,That nature might DO more her child advance.

The departure of the Lady Jane from the gar-den puts an end to this transient riot of theheart. With her departs the amorous illusionthat had shed a temporary charm over thescene of his captivity, and he relapses intoloneliness, now rendered tenfold more intoler-able by this passing- beam of unattainablebeauty. Through the long and weary day herepines at his unhappy lot, and when eveningapproaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifullyexpresses it, had "bade farewell to every leafand flower," he still lingers at the window,and, laying his head upon the cold stone, givesvent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, un-til, gradually lulled by the mute melancholyof the twilight hour, he lapses "half-sleeping,half swoon," into a vision, which occupies theremainder of the poem, and in which is allegori-cal1y shadowed out the history of his passion.

When he wakes from his trance, he risesfrom his stony pilJow, and, pacing his apart-ment, full of dreary reflections, questions hisspirit, whetherit has been wandering; whetherindeed, all that has passed before his dreamingfancy has been conjured up by preceding cir-cumstances, or whether it is a vision intendedto comfort and assure him in his despondency.If the latter, he prays that some token may besent to confirm the promise of happier days,given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, a turtle-dove of the purest whiteness comes flying in

at the window, and alights upon ~i~ hand,bearing in her bill a branch of red gllhflower,on the leaves of which is written, in letters ofgold, the following sentence:

Awake! awake! I bring, lover, I ?ringThe newis glad, that blissful is and sur~

Of thy comfort; now laugh, ~n~ play, and sing,For in the heaven decretit IS thy cure.

He receives the branch with mingled ~opeand dread: reads it with rapture; an~ this hesays was the first token of his succeeding ~ap-piness. 'Whether this is a mere poetic fiction,or whether the Lady Jane did actual~y sendhim a token of her favor in this roman tic way,remains to be determined according to ~he fateor fancy of the reader. He c()n~ludes his poe~by intimating that the pron:lls~ conveyed 1.nthe vision and by the flower, IS tulfilled by h:sbeing restored to liberty, a?d mad~ happy III

the possession of t~e soverelgn o.f his heart.Such is the poet.ical account glVen by James

of his love adventures in Windsor Castle.How much of it is absolute fact, ~n.d h~wmuch the embellishment of fancy, it IS fr:llt-less to conjecture; let us no~, howev:r,re)~cteverv romantic incident as incompatible WIthreal J life but let us sometimes take a poet athis word. I have noticed merely thos~ partsof the poem immediately connected wifh ~hctower and have passed over a large part :VhIChwas in the allegorical vein, so much cultivatedat that dav. The language, of course, ISquaint and' antiquated, so that the beautv of

136 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 137

many of its golden phrases will ~c~r~ely beperceived at the present ~ay, but It IS.Impos-sible not to be charmed -with the genume sen-timent, the delightful artless~ess and urbani~y,which prevail throughout It. The descrip-tions of Nature too with which it is embel-lished are given with a truth, a discriminationand a 'freshness, worthy of the most cultivatedperiods of the art.As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in these

days of coarser thinking, to notice the nature,refinement, and exquisite delicacy which ~er-vade it; banishing every gross .thought, or 110-

modest expression, an~ pres~ntmg femal~ love-liness, clothed in all ItS chivalrous attnbutesof almost supernatural purity and grace:James flourished nearly about the time of

Chaucer and Gower and was evidently an ad-mirer andstudier ot' their writings. Indeed inone of his stanzas he acknowledges them ashis masters; and in some parts of his poe~ wefind traces of similarity to their productlOns,more especially to those of Chaucer. Thereare always, however, general features ofresemblance in the works of contemporaryauthors which are not so much borrowed fromeach other as from the times. Writers, likebees toll their sweets in the wide world; theyinco;porate with their own conceptions,. theanecdotes and thoughts current m socIety;and thus each generation has some ~eatu~es I?common, characteristic of the age in WhICh Itlives.James belongs to one of the most brilliant

eras of our literary history, and establishes theclaims of his country to a participation in itsprimitive honors. Whilst a small cluster ofEnglish writers are constantly cited as thefathers of our verse, the name of their greatScottish compeer is apt to be passed over insilence ;~)llt he is evidently worthy of being en-rolled in that little constellation of remote butnever-failing luminaries who shine in the high-est firmament of literature, and who, likemorning stars, sang together at the brightdawning of British poesy'.Such of my readers as may not be familiar

with Scottish history (though the manner inwhich it has of late been woven with captivat-ing fiction has made it a universal study) maybe curious to learn something of the subse-quent history of James and the fortunes of hislove. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it wasthe solace of his captivity, so it facilitated hisrelease, it being imagined by the Court that aconnection with the blood-royal of Englandwould attach him to its own interests. Hewas ultimately restored to his liberty andcrown, having previously espoused the LadyJane, who accompanied him to Scotland, andmade him a most tender and devoted wife.He found his kingdom in great confusion,

the feudal chieftains having taken advantageof the troubles and irregularities of a longinterregnum, to strengthen themselves in theirpossessions, and place themselves above thepower of the laws. J arnee sought to foundthe basis of his power in the affections of his10 Sketch Book

138 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK.. 139

people. He attached the lower orders to hirrby the reformation of abuses, the tempera!"and equable administration of justice the CL

courag~ment of the arts of peace, ~nd thepromotion of everything that could diffuse com-fort, competency, and innocent enjoymentthrough the humblest ranks of society. Hemingled occasionally among the commonpeople in disguise; visited their firesides' en-tered into their. cares, their pursuits, and'theiramusements; informed himself of the me-chanical arts, and how they could best be pat-ronized and improved; and was thus an all-pervading spirit, watching with a benevolent~ye o.ver the meanest of his subjects. Havingin this generous manner made himself strongi~ the hearts of the common people, he turnedhimself to curb the power of the factiousnobi~i~y; to ~trip them of those dangerous irn-munities which they had usurped; to punishsuch as had been guilty of flagrant offences'and to bring the whole into proper obedienceto. the Crown. Fo~ s?me time they bore thiswith outward submission, but with secret im-patience and brooding resentment. A conspir-acy was at length formed against his life atthe head of which was his own uncle RobertS~ewart, Earl of Athol, who, being' too oldhimself for the perpetration of the deed ofblood, instigated his grandson, Sir RobertStewart, together with Sir Robert Grahamand others of less note, to commit the deed:They broke into his bedchamber at theDominican convent near Perth, where :.le was

residing and barbarously murdered him byoft-repe~ted wounds. His faithful que~n,rushing to throw her tender body bet'Yeen h~mand the sword was twice wounded in the in-effectual atternpt to shield him from theassassin' and it was not until she had beenforcibly 'torn from his person, that the murderwas accomplished. . .

It was the recollection of this romantic taleof former times, and of the golden little poem,which had its birthplace in this tower, thatmade me visit the old pile with more tha~ com-mon interest. The suit of armor hangmg upin the hall, richly gilt and ernbel lished, as ifto figure in the tourney, brought the image ofthe gallant and romantic prince vividly beforemy imagination. I paced the. desertedchambers where he had composed his poem; Ileaned upon the window, and endeavored topersuade my~elf it was. the .v~ry one where hehad been visited by his V1SlOn; I looked outupon the spot where he had first seen the LadyJane. It was the same ~enia~ and. joyousmonth; the birds were agam vymg with e~chother in strains of liquid melody; everyth~ngwas bursting into vegetation, and bud?mgforth the tender promise of the year. 'I'irne,which delights to obliterate the sterner memo-rials of human pride, seems to have passedlightly over this little scen~ of poetr~ and love,and to have withheld his desolating hand.Several centuries have gone by, yet the gar-den still-flourishes at the foot of the tower. Itoccupies what was once the moat of the keep;

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and, .t~01;1ghsome parts have been separatedby dividing walls, yet others have still theirarbors and shaded wal~s, as in the days ofJ ames, and the whole IS sheltered bloomingand retired. There is a charm ab~ut the spotthat has been printed by the footsteps of de-~arted beauty, and consecrated by the inspira-tions ?f th~ poet, which is heightened, ratherthan impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is in-deed, the gift of poetry, to hallow every placein which it moves; to breathe around naturean odor more exquisite than the perfume ofthe rose, and to shed over it a tint more magi-cal than the blush of morning.

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds ofJames a~ a warrior. and a legislator; but Ihave dehghted to VIew him merely as thecompanion of his fellow-men, the benefactor ofthe human heart, stooping from his highestate .to sow the sweet flowers of poetry andsong m the paths of common life. He wasthe first to cultivate the vigorous and hardyplant of Scottish genius, which has since be-come so prolific of the most wholesome and~ighly flavored fruit. He carried with himinto the sterner regions of the north all thefertilizing arts of southern refineme~t. Hedid everything in his power to win his country-me? to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts,WhICh soften and refine the character of apeople, and wreathe a grace round the lofti-ness of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrotemany poems, which, unfortunately for the full-ness of his fame, are now lost to the world;

one, which is still preserved, called "Christ'sKirk of the Green," shows how diligently hehad made himself acquainted with the rusticsports and pastimes, which constitute such asource of kind and social feeding among theScottish peasantry; and with what simple andhappy humor he could enter into their enjoy-ments. He contributed greatly to improvethe national music; and traces of his tendersentiment and elegant taste are said to exist inthose witching airs, still piped among the wildmountains and lonely glens of Scotland. Hehas thus connected his image with whatever ismost graCIOUSand endearing in the nationalcharacter; he has embalmed his memory insong, and floated his name to after-ages in therich streams of Scottish melody. The recol-lection of these things was kindling at myheart, as I paced the silent scene of his impris-onment. I have visited Vaucluse with asmuch enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit theshrine at Loretto; but I have never felt morepoetical devotion than when contemplatingthe old tower and the little garden at Windsor,and musing over the romantic loves of theLady Jane, and the Royal Poet of Scotland.

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THE COUNTRY CHURCH.

dust in this temple of the most humble of allreligions.

The congregation was composed of theneighboring people of rank, who sat in pewssumptuously lined and cushioned, furnishedwith richly-gilded prayer-books, and decoratedwith their arms upon the pew doors; of thevillagers and peasantry, who ~lled the backseats and a small gallery beside the organ;and of the poor of the parish, who were rangedon benches in the aisles.

The service was performed by a snuffling,well-fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling nearthe church. He was a privileged guest at allthe tables of the neighborhood, and had beenthe keenest fox-hunter in the country, untilage and good living had disabled him fromdoinz anything more than ride to see the houndsthrow off, and make one at the hunting dinner.

Under the ministry of such a pastor, I foundit impossible to get into the train of thoughtsuitable to the time and place; so, having, likemany other feeble Christians, compromisedwith my conscience, by laying the sin of myown delinquency at another person's threshold,I occupied my se 1£ by making observations onmy neighbors.

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curi-ous to notice the manners of its fashionableclasses. I found, as usual, that there was theleast pretension where there was the mostacknowledged title to respect. I was particu-larly struck, for instance, with the family of anobleman of high rank, consisting of several

A gentleman!What 0' the woolpack? or the sugar-chest?Or lists of velvet? which is 't, pound, or yard,You vend your gentry by?

Beggar's Bush.

. There are few places more favorable to thestudy of character than an English countrychurch. I was once passing a few weeks atthe seat of a friend who resided in the vicinityof one the appearance of which particularlystruck my fancy. It was one of those richmorsels of quaint antiquity, which givcs sucha peculiar charm to English landscape. Itstood in the midst of a country filled withancient families, and contained within its coldand silent aisles the congregated dust of manynoble generations. The interior walls wereencrusted with monuments of every age andstyle. The light streamed through windowsdimmed with armorial bearings, richly em bla-zoned in stained glass. In various parts of thechurch were tombs of knights, and high-borndames, of gorgeous workmanship, with theireffigies in colored marble. On every side, theeye was struck with some instance of aspiringmortality, some haughty memorial whichhuman pride had erected over its kindred

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s~>nsand daughters. Nothing could be moresimple and unassuming than their appearance.The'y generally _came to church in the plainestequipage, and otten on foot. The young ladieswould stop and converse in the kindest man-l~er with the peasantry, caress the children, andlisten to the stories of the humble cottazers,T~eir ~ountellances ~vere open and beautifullyfall', with an expression of high refinement butat the same time a frank cheerfulness' andengaging affability. Their brothers were talland elegantly formed. They were dressedfashionably, but simple-with strict neatnessand propriety, but without any mannerism orfoppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy~nd natural, :with that lofty grace and noblefrankness which bespeak free-born souls that~av~ neve_r. been checked in their growth byteelmgs ot mferioritv. There is a healthfulhardiness about real dignity, that never dreadscontact and communion with others howeverhumble. It is only spurious pride that is mor-bid and sensitive, and shrinks from everytouch. I was pleased to see the manner inwhich they would converse with the peasantryabout those rural concerns and field-sports inwh~ch the gentlemen of the country so muchdehght. In these conversations there wasn~~ther haughtiness on the one part, nor ser-vility on the other, and you were only remindedof the difference of rank by the habitual respectof the peasant.

In contrast to these was the family of awealthy citizen, who had amassed a vast for-

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tune, and, having purchased the estate andmansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighbor-hood, was endeavoring to assume all the styleand dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil.The family always came to church ct: prince.~hey were rolled majestically along in a car-nage emblazoned with arms. The crest glit-tered in silver radiance from every part of theharness where a crest could possibly be placed.A fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat richlylaced and a flaxen wig cur lin r v close round hisrosy face, was seated 'on the box with a sleekDanish dog beside him. Two foo'tmen in "01'-

geous liveries, with huge bouquets, and g~ld-headed canes, lolled behind. The carriager?se and s"?nk on its long springs, with a pecu-liar stateliness of motion. The very horseschamped their bits, arched their necks andglanced their eyes more proudly than commonhorses; either because they had caught a littleof the family feeling, or were reined up moretightly than ordinary.

I could not but admire the style with whichthis splendid pageant was brought up to thegate of the churchyard. There was a vasteffect produced at the turning of an angle of~he wall-a great smacking of the whip, strain-mg and scrambling of the horses "listenin" ofhar.ness, and flashing of w~eels tl;r~ugh gra~e1.ThIS was the moment of triumph and vain gloryto the coachman. The horses were urged andchecked, until they were fretted into a foam.;'heJ:" threw out their feet in a prancing trot,dashing about pebbles at every step. The

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146 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 147

crowd of villagers sauntering quietly to church<:pen~d precipitately to the right and left, gap-lUg in vacant admiration. On reaching thegate, the horses were pulled up with a sudden-ness that produced an immediate stop, andalmost threw them on their haunches.

There was an extraordinary hurrv of thefootmen to alight, pull down the steps, andprepare everything for the descent on earth ofthis august family. The old citizen firstemerged his round red face from out the door,looking about him with the pompous air of aman accustomed to rule on 'Change, and shakethe Stock Market, with a nod. His consort, afine, fleshy, comfortable dame, followed him.There seemed, I must confess, but little pridein her composition. She was the picture ofbroad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The worldwent well with her; and she liked the world.She had fine. clothes, a fine house a fine car-riage, fine children-everything w~s fine abouther: it was nothing but driving about and visit-ing and feasting. Life was to her a per-petual revel; it was one long Lord Mayor's Day.

Two daughters succeeded to this goodlycouple. They certainly were handsome, buthad a supercilious air that chilled admirationand disposed the spectator to be critical.They were ultra-fashionable in dress andthough no one could deny the richness o'f thei~decorations, yet their appropriateness might bequestioned amidst the simplicity of a countrychurch. They descended loftily from the car-riage, 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, thatpassed coldly over the burly faces of thepeasantry, until they met the eyes of the noble-man's family, when their countenances imme-diately brightened into smiles, and they madethe most profound and elegant courtesies,which were returned in a manner that showedthey were but slight acquaintances.

I must not forget the two sons of this inspir-ing citizen, who came to church in a dashinzcurricle with outriders. They were arrayed i~the extremity of the mode, with all that ped-antry of dress which marks the man of ques-tionable pretensions to style. They kept en-tirely by themselves, eyeing everyone askancethat came near them, as if measurinz hisclaims to respectability; yet they were withoutconversation, except the exchan ze of an occa-sional cant phrase. They eve~ moved arti-ficially, for their bodies, in compliance withthe caprice of the day, had been disciplinedinto the absence of all ease and freedom. Arthad done everything to accomplish them asmen of fashion, but Nature had denied themthe nameless grace. They were vulgarlyshaped, like men formed for the common bpur-poses of life, and had that air of superciliousassumption which is never seen in the truegentleman .

. I have been rather minute in drawing thepictures of these two families, because I con-sidered them specimens of what is often to bemet with in this country-the unpretending

I

148 THE SKETCH BOOK.

great, and the arrogant little. I have norespect for titled rank. unless it be accom-panied wit.h true nobility of soul; but I haveremarked, in all countries where artificial dis-tinctions exist, that the very highest classesare alwavs the most courteous and unassuming.Those who are well assured o·f their own stand-ing are least apt to trespass on that of others;whereas, nothing is so offensive as the aspir-ings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itselfby humiliating its neighbor.

As I have brought these families into con-trast, I must notice their behavior in church.That of the nobleman's family was quiet , seri-ous, and attentive. Not that they appeared tohave any fervor of devotion. but rather arespect for sacred things, and sacred places,inseparable from good-breeding. The others,on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutterand whisper ; they betrayed a continual con-sciousness of finery, and the sorry ambition ofbeing the wonders of a rural congregation.

The old gentleman was the only one reallyattentive to the service. He took the wholeburden of family devotion upon himself; stand-ing bolt upright, and uttering the responseswith a loud voice that might be heard all overthe church. It was evident that he was one ofthese thorough Church-and-king- men, whoconnect the idea of devotion and loyalty; whoconsider the Deity, somehow or other, of thegovernment party, and religion" a very excel-lent sort of thing, that ought to be counte-nanced and kept up. "

THE SKETCH BOOK. 149

When he joined so loudly in the service, itseemed more by way of example to the lowerorders, to show them that, though so great andwealthy, he was not above being religious; asI have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow pub-licly a basin of charity soup, smacking his lipsat every mouthful and pronouncing it "excel-lent food for the poor. "

When the service was at an end, I was curi-ous to witness the several exits of my groups.The young noblemen and their sisters, as theday was fine, preferred strolling home acrossthe fields, chatting with the country people asthey went. The others departed as they came,in errand parade. Again were the equipageswh~eled up to the gate. There was again thesmacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, andthe erlittering of harness. The horses startedoff almost at a bound; the villagers again hur-ried to right and left; the wheels threw up acloud of dust, and the aspiring family was raptout of sight in a whirlwind.

~--_~~~~~__~_----_.__~_---_~~-_'I,

150 THE SKETCH BOOK.

THE WIDOW AND HER SON.Pittie olde age, within whose silver hairesHonour and reverence evermore have rain'd.

-Marlowe's Tamburlaine.

Those who are in the habit of remarking suchmatters must have noticed the passive quiet ofan English landscape on Sunday. The clack-ing of the mill, the regularly recurring strokeof the flail, the din of the blacksmith's ham-mer, the whistling of the ploughman, therattling of the cart, and all other sounds ofrural labor are suspended. The very farm-clogs bark less frequently, being less disturbedby passing travelers. At such times I havealmost fancied the wind sunk into quiet, andthat the sunny landscape, with its fresh greentints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hal-lowed calm ..

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so brght,The bridal of the earth and sky.

Well was it ordained that the day of devotionshould be a day of rest. The holy reposewhich reigns over the face of nature has itsmoral influence; every restless passion ischarmed down, and we feel the natural religionof the soul gently springing up within us.For my part, there are feelings that visit me,

THE SKETCH BOOK. 151

in a country church, amid the beautiful seren-ity of nature, which I experience nowhere else;and if not a more religious, I think I am abetter man on Sunday than on any other dayof the seven.

During my recent residence in the country,I used frequently to attend at the old villagechurch. Its shadowy aisles, its moulderingmonuments, its dark oaken paneling, all rev-erend with the gloom of departed years, seemedto fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation;but, being in a wealthy, aristocratic neighbor-hood, the glitter of fashion penetrated eveninto the sanctuary; and I felt myself continu-ally thrown back upon the world, by the fri-gidity and pomp of the poor worms around me.The only being in the whole congregation whoappeared thoroughly to feel the humble andprostrate piety of a true Christian was a poordecrepit old woman, bending under the weightof years and infirmities. She bore the tracesof something better than abject poverty. Thelingerings of descent pride were visible in herappearance. Her dress. though humble in theextreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivialrespect, too, had been awarded her, for she didnot take her seat among the village poor, butsat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemedto have survived all love, all friendship, allsociety, and to have nothing left her but thehopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly ris-ing and bending her aged form in prayer;habitually conning her prayer-book, which herpalsied hand and failing eyes could not permit

152 THE SKETCH BOOK.

her to read, but which she evidently knew byheart, I felt persuaded that the faltering voiceof that poor woman arose to heaven far beforethe responses of the clerk, the swell of theorgan, or the chanting of the choir.

I am fond of loitering about countrychurches, aud this was so delightfully situated,that it frequently attracted me. It stood on aknoll, round which a small stream made abeautiful bend and then wound its waythrough a long reach of soft meadow scenery.The church was surrounded by yew trees,which seemed almost coeval with itself. Itstall gothic spire shot up lightly from amongthem, with rooks and crows generally wheel-ing about it. I was seated there one stillsunny morning watching two laborers whowere digging a grave. They had chosen oneof the most remote and neglected corners ofthe churchyard, where, from the number ofnameless graves around, it would appear thatthe indigent and friendless were huddled intothe earth. I was told that the new-madsgrave was for the only son of a poor widow.While I was meditating on the distinctions ofworldly rank, which extend thus down intothe very dust, the toll of the bell announcedthe approach of the funeral. They were theobsequies of poverty, with which pride hadnothing to do. A coffin of the plainest mate.rials, without pall or other covering, was borneby some of the villagers. The sexton walkedbefore with an air of cold indifference. Therewere no mock mourners in the trappings of

THE SKETCH BOOK. 153

affected woe, but there was one real mournerwho feebly tottered after the corpse. It wasthe aged mother of the deceased, the poor oldwoman whom I had seen seated on the stepsof. the altar. She was supported by a humblefriend, who was. ende~voring to comfort her.A ~ew of the netgh ~onng poor had joined thetram: and so~e children of the village wererU~ll1?g ha;nd m hand, now shouting 'with un-th~nk.mg ml~th,. and now pausing to gaze, withchildish currosity on the grief of the mourn.er. .

As the funeral train approached the grave~heparson is~ued from the church- porch, arravedm the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, andattended by the clerk. The service howeverwas a me~e act of charity. The de~eased hadbeen destitute, and the survivor was penniless.It was shuffled thr~)Ugh, therefore, in form, butcoldly and unfeehngly. The well-fed priest~ove~ but a few steps from the church-door;hIS voice co~ld scarcely be heard at the grave;and ~ever did I he,:r the funeral service, thatsublime and touchmg ceremony turned intosuch a frigid mummery of words.'

I approached the grave. The coffin wasplaced on the ground. On it were inscribedthe name and age of the deceased-"GeorgeSomers, ~ged 26 years." The poor mother hadbeen aS~lsted to kneel down at the head of it.Her WIthered hands were clasped, as if inprayer; but I could perceive, by a feeble rock.mg o.f the body, and a convulsive motion ofthe Iips, that she was gazing on the last relics

.54 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 155

of her son with the yearnings of a mother',.heart., Preparations were made to deposit the coffinin ,the earth. There was that bustling stir,w~ICh breaks ,so ha:-shly on the feelings ofgnef and affection: directions given in the coldtones of business; the striking of spades intosand and ~ravel; which, at the grave of thosewe love, IS of all sounds the most withering.The bustle around seemed to waken themother from a wretched revery. She raisedher glazed eyes, and looked about with a faintwildness. As the men approached with cordsto lower the coffin into the grave, she wrungher hands, and broke into an agony of grief.The poor woman who attended her took her bythe arm endeavoring to raise her from theearth, and to whisper something like consola-tion: "Nay, now-nay, now-don't take it sosorely to heart. "-She could only shake herhead, and wring her hands, as one not to becomforted.

As ~hey lowered the body into the earth, thecreak ing of the cords seemed to agonize her;but when, on some accidental obstructionthere was a jostling of the coffin, all the ten-derness of the mother burst forth, as if anyharm could come to him who was far beyondthe reach of worldly suffering.

I could see no more-my heart swelled intomy throat-my eyes filled with tears' I felt~s if I were acting a barbarous part id stand-mg by and gazing idly on this scene of mater-nal anguish. I wandered to another part of

the churchyard, where I remained until thefuneral train had dispersed.

When I saw the mother slowly and painfullyquitting the grave, leaving behind her theremains of all that was dear to her on earth,and returning- to silence and destitution, myheart ached for her. What, thought I, arethe distresses of the rich? They have friendsto soothe-pleasures to beguile-a world todivert and dissipate their griefs. What arethe sorrows of the young? Their growingminds soon close above the wound-their elas-tic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure-theirgreen and ductile affections soon twine roundnew objects. But the sorrows of the poor, whohave no outward appliances to soothe-the sor-row of the aged, with whom life at best is buta wintry day, and who can look for noafter-growth of joy-the sorrows of a widow,aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over anonly son, the last solace of her years,-theseare indeed sorrows which make us feel theimpotency of consolation.

It was some time before I left the church-yard. On my way homeward, I met with thewoman who had acted as comforter: she wasjust returning from accompanying the motherto her lonely habitation, and I drew from hersome particulars connected with the affectingscene I had witnessed.

The parents of the deceased had resided inthe village from childhood. They had inhab-ited one of the neatest cottages, and by variousrural occupations, and the assistance of a small

156 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 157garden, had supported themselves creditablyand c?mfortably, and led a happy and a blame-less life, They had one son, who had grownup to be the staff and pride of their aze. "Oh. I" id h b,sir : sal t e good woman, "he was such a

comely lad, s~ sweet-tempered, so kind to everyo~e aro~nd hl111,so dutiful to ?is parents! Itdid one s .hear~ good to see hirn of a Sunday,drest out in hIS best, so tall, so straight, socheery, supporting his old mother to church'for sh~ was always fonder of leaning o~George s arm than on her good man's; and,poor soul, she might well he proud of him for afinet lad there was not in the country ro~nd."

"C nfortunatelf, the son was tempted. during-a year of. scarcrty and agricultural hardship,to enter into the service of one of the smallcraft that plied on a neighboring river. Hehad not been long in this employ, when he wasentrapped by a press-gang, and carried off tosea. His parents received tidings of his seiz-ure, but beyond that they could learn nothinc-.It was the loss of their main prop. Thefather, who was already infirm, grew heartlessand n:elancholy, and sunk into his grave.The widow, left lonely in her age and feeble-ness, could no longer support herself andcam.e upon the parish. Still there was ~ kindfeelIng to~ards her throughout the village,~nd a .certam respect as being one of the oldest~nhab:tants. As no one applied for the cottage111which she h.ad passed so many happy days,she was permitted to remain in it where shelived solitary and almost helples;. The few

wants of nature were chiefly supplied from thescanty productions of her little garden, whichthe neighbors would now and then cultivatefor her. It was but a few days before the timeat which these circumstances were told me,that she was gathering some vegetables for herrepast, when she heard the cottage-door whichfaced the garden, suddenly opened. Astranger came out, and seemed to be lookingeagerly and wildly around. He was dressedin seamen's clothes, was emaciated andghastly pale, and bore the air of one brokenby sickness and hardships. He saw her andhastened towards her, but his steps were faintand faltering; he sank on his knees before herand sobbed like a child. The poor womangazed upon him with a vacant and wanderingeye. "Oh, my dear, dear mother! don't youknow your son? your poor boy George?" Itwas, indeed, the wreck of her onc~ noble lad;who, shattered by wounds, by sickness andforeign imprisonment, had, at length, draggedhis wasted limbs homeward, to repose amongthe scenes of his childhood.

I will not attempt to detail the particularsof such a meeting, where sorrow and joy wereso completely blended: still, he was alive! hewas come ho-ne! he might yet live to comfortand cherish her old age! Natnre, however,was exhausted in him; and if anything hadbeen wanting to finish the work of fate, thedesolation of his native cottage would havebeen sufficient. He stretched himself on thepallet on which his widowed mother had passed

158 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH COOK. 159

:nany.a sleepless night, and he never rose fromIt again.

The villagers, when they heard that GeorgeSomers had returned crowded to see himoffering every comfort' and assistance that thei~humble means afforded. He was too weak,however, t~ talk-he could only look histhanks. HIS mother was his constant atten-dant, and he seemed unwilling to be helpedby any other hand.

There is something in sickness that breaksdown the pnde of manhood, that softens the~eart, and brings it back to the feelings ofinfancy, Who that has languished, even inadvanced life, ,in sickness and despondency,who that has pined on a weary bed in the ne-glect and loneliness of a foreign land, but hasthought on the mother "that looked on hischil~h?od, ,. that smoothed his pillow. andadtll1ll1st~red to his helplessness? Oh, there isan endunng tenderness in the love of a motherto a son, that transcends all other affectionsof the heart. It is neither to be chilled byselfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weak-ened by wort~lessne~s, nor stifled by ingrati-tude. She WIll sacnfice every comfort to hisconv~nier:-ce: she will surrender every pleasureto hIS enJ<?ym~nt; she will glory in his fameand exult 1r:-hIS prosperity; and, if misfortuneovertake hirn, he will be the dearer to herf~om misfortune.; and if disgrace settle uponhIS name, she WIll still love and cherish himin spite of his disgrace; and if all the world

beside cast him off, she will be all the worldto him.

Poor George Somers had known what it wasto be in sickness, and none to soothe-lonelyand in prison, and none to visit hit? . Hecould not endure his mother from hIS sight :if she moved away, his eye w.ould follow b;er.She would sit for hours by hIS bed watchinghim as he slept. Sometimes he wo~ld startfrom a feverish dream, and look anxiously upuntil he saw her bending over him; when hewould take her hand, lay it on his bosom, andfall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. Inthis way he died. ..

My first impulse on h~a.nng this humbletale of affliction was to VISIt the cottage ofthe mourner, and administer pecuniary assist-ance, and. if possible, comfort. I f<;>und,how-ever, on inquiry, that the good feelings of ~hevillagers had prompted them to do everythingthat the case admitted; and as the poor knowbest how to console each other's sorrows, Idid not venture to intrude

The next Sundav I was at the village church,when to my surprise. I saw the poor oldwoman tottering down the aisle to her accus-tomed seat on the steps of the altar.

She had made an effort to put on somethinglike mourning for her son; and nothing couldbe more touching than this struggle betweenpious affection and utter poverty-a black rib-bon or so, a faded black handkerchief, and oneor two more such humble attempts to expressby outward signs that grief which passes show.

160 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 16J

When I looked round upon the storied moriu-ments, the stately hatchments the cold marblepomp with which grand~ur ~ourned magnifi-cently ~ver departed pride, and turned to thispoor widow, bowed down by age and sorrowat the altar of her God, and offerins- up theprayers and praises of a pious though :brokenhe~rt, I felt that this living monument of realgnef was worth them all.

I related her story to some of the wealthymembers of. the congregation, and they weremoved by It. They exerted themselves tor.ender her situation more comfortable and tolighten. her afflictions. It was, howe~er, butsmoothing a few steps to the grave. In thecourse of a Sunday or two after, she was missedfrom her ~sual seat at church, and before Ileft t~e ne~ghborhood I heard, with a feelingof satisfaction, that she had quietly breathedher las~, .and had gone to rejoin those sheloved, in that world where sorrow is neverknown and friends are never parted.

A SUNDAY IN LONDON. *In a preceding paper I have spoken of an

English Sunday in the country and its tran-quillizing effect upon the landscape; but whereis its sacred influence more strikingly appar-ent than in the very heart of that great Babel,London? On this sacred day the giganticmonster is charmed into repose. The intoler-able din and struggle of the week are at anend. The shops are shut. The fires of forgesand manufactories are extinguished, and thesun, no longer obscured by murky clouds ofsmoke, pours down a sober yellow radianceinto the quiet streets. The few pedestrianswe meet, instead of hurrying forward withanxious countenances, move leisurely along;their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles ofbusiness and care; they have put on their Sun-day looks and Sunday manners with theirSunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind aswell as in person.

And now the melodious c1angorof bells fromchurch towers summons their several flocks tothe fold. Forth issues from his mansion thefamily of the decent tradesman, the small chil-dren in the advance; then the citizen and hiscomely spouse, followed by the grown-up

*Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions.11 Sketch Book

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162 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 163

daughte~s,.With small morocco-bound prayerbooks laid III the folds of their pocket handker-chiefs. The housemaid looks after them fromthe \'lind~w.' admiring the finery of the family,and recerving, perhaps, a nod and smile fromher young mistresses, at whose toilet she hasassisted.

Now rumbles along the carriage of somemagnate of the city, peradventure an alder-man or a sheriff, and now the patter of many~eet a~nounces a procession of charity scholarsIII uniforms of antIque cut, and each with aprayer-book under his arm.

The ringing of bells is at an end, the rumb-ling of ~he carriage has ceased; the patteringof feet IS heard no more; the flocks are foldedin ancient Churches, cramped up in by-lanesa~~ corners of the crowded city, where thevigilant beadle keeps watch like the shep-herd's dog, round the threshold of the sanctu-~ry. For a time everything is hushed, but soonIS heard the deep, pervading sound of the or-gan, rolling and vibrating through the emptylanes aJ:!d cou:-ts, and the sweet chanting ofthe cho~r making them resound with melodyand praise. Never have I been more sensibleof the sanctifying effect of church music thanwhen I have heard it thus poured forth likea river of joy, through the inmost recesses ofthis great metropolis, elevating it, as it were,from all the sordid pollutions of the week andbearing the poor world-worn soul on a tide oftriumphant harmony to heaven.

The morning service is at an end. The

streets are again alive with the congregationsreturning to their homes, but soon again re-lapse into silence. Now comes on the Sundaydinner, which, to the city tradesman, is a mealof some importance. There is more leisurefor social enjoyment at the board. Membersof the family can now gather together, who areseparated by the laborious occupations of theweek. A school boy may be permitted on thatday to come to the paternal home; an oldfriend of the family takes his accustomed Sun-day seat at the board, tells over his well-knownstories, and rejoices young and old with hiswell-known jokes

On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth itslegions to breathe the fresh air and enjoy thesunshine of the parks and rural environs.Satirists may say what they please about therural enjoyments of a London citizen on Sun-day but to me there is something delightful inbeholding' the poor prisoner of the crowdedand dusty city enabled thus to come forth oncea week and throw himse 1£upon the green bos-om of nature. He is like a child restored tothe mother's breast; and they who first spreadout these noble parks and magnificent pleasuregrounds which surround this huge metropolishave done at least as much for its health andmorality as if they had expended the amountof cost in hospitals, prisons and penitentiaries.

'I164 THE SKETCH BOOK.

THE SKETCH BOOK. l6~

A SHAKESPEARIAN RESEARCH.

smoked out of countenance by the officiousnessof his followers.In like manner has it fared with the immor-

tal Shakespeare. Every writer considers it hisbounden duty to light up some portion of h~scharacter or works, and to rescue some merrtfrom oblivion. The commentator, opulent inwords, produces vast tomes of dissertations;the common herd of editors send up mists ofobscurity from their notes at the bottom ofeach pacre' and every casual scribbler bringshis farthing rushlight of eulogy or research toswell the cloud of incense and of smoke.As I honor all established usages of my

brethren of the quill, I thought it but properto contribute my mite of homage to the mem-ory of the illustrious bard., I .was for sometime, however, sorely puzz.led III what way Ishould discharge this duty. I found nly:selfanticipated in every attempt at a new reading':every doubtful line had been explained a dozendifferent ways, and perplexed beyond the reachof elucidation' and as to fine passages, theyhad all been a~ply praised by previous admir-ers; nay, so completely had th~ bard, of late.been overlarded with panegync by a greatGerman critic that it was difficult now to findeven a fault that had not been argued into abeauty.In this perplexity I was one morning turn-

ing over his pages when I casually openedupon the comic scenes of" Henry IV.," andwas, in a moment, completely lost in the mad-cap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So

I

II

THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN,EASTCHEAP.

I ~

"!

"A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the stapleof good fellows. I have heard my great-grandfathertell, how his great-great-grandfather should say, that itwas an old proverb when his great-grandfather was achild, that 'it was a good wind that blew a man to thewine.' "-Mother Bombie.

I t is a pious custom in some Catholic coun-tries to honor the memory of saints by votivelights burnt before their pictures. The pop-ularity of a saint, therefore, may be known bythe number of these offerings. Oue, perhaps,is left to moulder in the darkness of his littlechapel; another may have a solitary lamp tothrow its blinking rays athwart his effigy;while the whole blaze of adoration is lavishedat the shrine of some beatified father of re-nown. The wealthy devotee brings his hugeluminary of wax, the eager zealot, his seven-branched candlestick; and even the mendicantpilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficientlight is thrown upon the deceased unless hehangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. Theconsequence is, that in the eagerness to en-lighten, they are often apt to obscure; and Ihave occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost

166 THE :::,KETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 161

t

Ir

vividly and naturally are these scenes of hu-mor depicted, and with such force and consis-tency are. the char~cters sustained, that theybecome mingled up In the mind with the factsand ~ersonages of :real life. To few readersdoes It occur that these are all ideal creationsof a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth nosuch knot of merry roisterers ever enlive'nedthe dull neighborhood of Eastcheap.. F~r my part, I love to give myself up to theillusions of poetry. A hero of fiction thatnever exis.ted is just as valuable to me as ah.ero of hl~tory that existed a thousand yearssI.n~e; and, If Imay be excused such an insensi-bi lity to the common ties of human nature :rwould not give up fat Jack for half the gr~atmen of ancient chronicle. What have theheroes of yore done for me or men like me?They ~ave conquered countries of which I donot e~Joy an acre, or they have gained laurelsof w~l1ch I do not inherit a leaf, or they havefur~llshed exam1?les of hair-brained prowess,~vhl~h ~ have neither the opportunity nor thel~clmatlOn to follow. But, old Jack Falstaff!kind Jack Falstaff! sweet Jack Falstaff! hasenlarged the boundarie~ of human enjoyment;he has .added. vast regions of wit and good-humor, In which the poorest man may revel,and. has bequeathed a never-failing inheritanceof Jolly laughter, to make mankind merrierand better to the latest posterity.

A thought suddenly struck me. "I will;nake a pilgrimage to Eastcheap," said I clos-.ng the book, "and see if the old Boar's'Head

Tavern still exists. 'Who knows but I maylight upon some legendary traces of DameQUIckly and her guests? At any rate, therewill be a kindred pleasure in treading the hallsonce vocal with their mirth to that the toperenjoys in smelling to the empty cask, once filledwith generous wine .••

The resolution was no sooner formed thanput in execution. I forbear to treat of thevarious adventures and wonders I encounteredin my travels; of the haunted reg~ons of <:o~kLane' of the faded glories of LIttle Britainand the parts adjacent; what perils I ran inCateaton Street and Old Jewry; of the re-nowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants,the pride and wonder of the city and th~ ~er-1'01' of all unlucky urchins; and how I VISItedLondon Stone, and struck my staff upon it inimitation of that arch-rebel Jack Cade.

Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrivedin merry Eastcheap, that ancient region of witand wassail where the very names of thestreets re1i~hed of good cheer, as PuddingLane bears testimony even at the present day.For East cheap, says old Stow, "was alwaysfamous for its convivial doings. The cookescried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies wellbaked and other victuals; there was clatter-ing of'pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and s3;wtrie."Alas! how sadly is the scene changed SInce theroaring days of Falstaff and old Stow! Themadcap roisterer has given place to the plod-ding tradesman; the clattering of pots and th~sound of "harpe and sawtrie," to the din ot

168 THE SKETCH BOOK.

carts and the accurst dinging of the dustman'sbelI.; and no song is heard, save, haply, the:,tram of some syren from Billingsgate, chant-mg the eulogy of deceased mackere1.

I sought in vain, for the ancient abode ofDame Quickly. The onlv relict of it is a boar'shead, carved i~ relief in"stone, which formerlyserved as the sign, but at present is built intothe parting line of two houses which stand onthe site of the renowned old tavern.

For the history of this little abode of goodfelIowship I was referred to a talIow-chandler'swidow opposite, who had been born andbroug~t ~p on the spot, ~nd was looked up toas the ind ispu tab'le chromc1er of the neighbor-hood. I found her seated in a little back par-lor, the window of which looked out upon ayard about eight feet square laid out as a flow-er garden, while a glass door opposite affordeda distant view of the street, through a vista ofsoap and tallow candles-the two views, whichc?mprised, in all probability, her prospects inlife and the little world in which she had livedand moved and had her being for the betterpart of a century.

To be versed in the history of Eastcheapgreat and little, from London Stone even untothe Monument, was doubtless, in her opinion,to be acquainted with the history of the uni-v.erse... Yet, with all this, she possessed thesimplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal com-municative disposition which I have generallyremarked in intelligent old ladies knowing inthe concerns of their neighborhood.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 169

Her information, however, did not extendfar back into antiquity. She could throw nolight upon the history of the Boar's Head fromthe time that Dame Quickly espoused the val-iant Pistol until the great fire of London whenit was unfortunately burnt down. It was soonrebuilt, and continued to flourish under the oldname and sign, until a dying landlord, struckwith remorse for double scores, bad measures,and other iniquities which are incident to thesinful race of publicans, endeavored to makehis peace with Heaven by bequeathing thetavern to St. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane,toward the supporting of a chaplain. For sometime the vestry meetings were regularly heldthere, but it was observed that the old Boarnever held up his head under church govern-ment. He gradually declined, and finally gavehis last gasp about thirty years since. Thetavern was then turned into shops; but she in-formed me that a picture of it was still pre-served in St. Michael's Church which stoodjust in the rear. To get a sight of this picturewas now my determination; so, having in-formed myself of the abode of the sexton, Itook my leave of the venerable chronicler ofEastcheap, my visit having doubtless raisedgreatly her opinion of her legendary lore andfurnished an important incident in the historyof her life.

It cost me some difficulty and much curiousinquiry to ferret out the humble hanger-on tothe church. I had to explore Crooked Laneand divers little alleys and elbows and dark12 Sketch Book

1,0 THE SKETCH nOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 1,1

passages with which this old city is perforatedlike an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest ofdrawers. At length I traced him to a cornerof a small court surrounded by lofty houses,where the inhabitants enjoy about as much ofthe face of heaven as a community of frogs atthe bottom of a well.

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing littleman, of a bowing, lowly habit, yet he had apleasant twinkling in his eye, and if encour-aged, would now and then hazard a small pleas-antry, such as a man of his low estate mightventure to make in the company of highchurch wardens and other mighty men of theearth. I found him in company with the dep-uty organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels,discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points,and settling the affairs of the church over afriendly pot of ale; for the lower classes ofEnglish seldom deliberate on any weightymatter without the assistance of a cool tankardto clear their understandings. I arrived atthe moment when they had finished their aleand their argument, and were about to repairto the church to put it in order: so, havingmade known my wishes, I recei ved their gra-cious permission to accompany them.

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane,standing a short distance from Billingsgate,is enriched with the tombs of many fishmong-ers of renown; and as every profession has itsgalaxy of glory and its constellation of greatmen, I presume the monument of a mightyfishmonger of the olden time is regarded with

as much reverence by succeeding generationsof the craft, as poets feel on contemplating thetomb of Virgil or soldiers the monument of aMarlborough or Turenne.

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speakingof illustrious men, to observe that St. Mich-ael's Crooked Lane, contains also the ashes ofthat doughty champion, William Walworth,Knisrht who so manfully clove down thesturdy;right, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield-a heroworthy of honorable blazon, as almost the onlyLord Mayor on record famous for deeds ofarms the sovereigns of Cockney being gener-ally ;enowned as the most pacific of all poten-tates. *---;;The following was the ancient inscription on themonument of this worthy, which, unhappily, was de-stroyed in the great conflagration.

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame,William Walworth callyd by name:Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here,And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere;Who with courag-e stout and manly myght,Slew' Jack Straw LinKyng RIchard's sight.For which act done, and trew entent,The Kyng made him knyght incontinentAnd gave him arrnes, as here y~u see,To declare his fact and chivaldrie,He left this lyff the yere of our GodThirteen hundred fourscore and three odd.

An error in the foregoing inscription has been cor-rected bv the venerable Stow. "Whereas," saith he. "ithath been far spread abroad by vulgar opini~n: that therebel smitten down so manfully by SIr WIlham Wal-worth the then worthy Lord Maior, was named JackStraw', and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile

72 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 173

, Adjo,ining the church, in a small cemetery,immediately under the back window of whatwas once the Boar's Head, stands the tomb-stone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at thetavern. It is now nearly a century since thistr,usty drawer of good liquor closed his hus-t1~ng, career an~ was thus quietly depositedwithin call of hIS customers. As I was clear-ing- away the weeds from his epitaph the littlesexton drew me on one side with a mysteriousair, and informed me in a low voice that onceupon.a time, on a dark wintry night, whenthe ",:md was unruly, howling, and whistling,bangmg about doors and windows and twirl-ing weather-cocks, so that the livinO" werefrightened out of their beds, and even the deadcould not sleep quietly in their graves, theghost of honest Preston, which happened to beairing itself in the churchyard, was attractedby the well-known call of "Waiter!" from the!30ar's ~ead, and ma~e its sudden appearance:n the midst of,a r?arlllg club, just as the par-Ish clerk was Slllglllg a stave from the "mirregarland of Captain Death;" to the discomfitureof sundry train-band captains and the conver-sion of an infidel attorney, who became a zeal-ous Christian on the spot, and was never~nown to twist the truth afterwards, exceptIII the way of business.

I beg it may be remembered, that I do notpledge myself for the authenticity of this an-ecdote, though it is well known that thechurchyards and by-corners of this old metrop-olis are very much infested with perturbedspirits; and everyone must have heard of theCock Lane ghost, and the apparition thatguards the regalia in the Tower which hasfrightened so many bold sentinels almost outof their wits.

Be all this as it may, this Robert Prestonseems to have been a worthy successor to thenimble-tongued Francis, who attended uponthe revels of Prince Hal; to have been equallyprompt with his "Anon, anon, sir;" and tohave transcended his predecessor in honesty;for Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste noman will venture to impeach, flatly accusesFrancis of putting lime in his sack, whereashonest Preston's epitaph lauds him for thesobriety of his conduct, the soundness of hiswine, and the fairness of his measure. * The

*As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, Itranscribe it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters.It is, no doubt, the production of some choice spiritwho once frequented the Boar's Head.

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise,Produced one sober son, and here he lies,Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'dThe charms of wine, and every one beside.o reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined,Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind.He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots,Had sundry virtues that excused his faults,You that on Bacchus have the like dependence,Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance.

this. rash-conceived doubt by such testimony as I find inancle~t and good records. The principal leaders. orcaptains of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the firstman; the second was John, or Jack Straw, etc., etc.--Stow's "London."

174 THE SKETCH BOOK.

worthy dignitaries of the church, however, didnot appear much captivated by the sober vir-tues of the tapster; the deputy organist, whohad a moist look out of the eye, made someshrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a manbrought up among full hogsheads, and the lit-tle sexton corroborated his opinion by a signifi-cant wink and a dubious shake of the head.

Thus far my researches, though they threwmuch light on the history of tapsters, fish-mongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disappointedme in the great object of my quest, the pictureof the Boar's Head Tavern. No such paint-ing was to be found in the church of St. Mich-ael's. "Marry and amen," said I, "here end-eth my research!" So I was giving the mat-ter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary,when my friend the sexton, perceiving meto be curious in everything relative to the oldtavern, offered to show me the choice vesselsof the vestry, which had been handed downfrom remote times when the parish meetingswere held at the Boar's Head. These weredeposited in the parish club room, which hadbeen transferred, on the decline of the ancientestablishment, to a tavern in the neighbor-hood.

A few steps brought us to the house, whichstands No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title ofThe Mason's Arms, and is kept by MasterEdward Honeyball, the "bully-rock" of theestablishment. It is one of those little tavernswhich abound in the heart of the city and formthe center of gossip and intelligence of the

THE SKETCH BOOK. li5

neighborhood. We entered the bar-room,which was narrow and darkling, for in theseclose lanes but few rays of reflected light areenabled to struggle down to the inhabitants,whose broad day is at best but a tolerable twi-light. The room was partitioned into boxes,each containing a table spread with a cleanwhite cloth, ready for dinner. This showedthat the guests were of the good old stamp,and divided their day equally, for it was butjust one o'clock. At the lower end of theroom was a clear coal fire, before which abreast of lamb was roasting. A row of brightbrass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistenedalong the mantelpiece, and an old-fashionedclock ticked in one corner. There was some-thing primitive in this medley of kitchen, par-lor, and hall that carried me back to earliertimes, and pleased me. The place, indeed,was humble, but everything had that look oforder and neatness which bespeaks the super-intendence of a notable English housewife. Agroup of amphibious-looking beings, whomight be either fishermen or sailors, were re-galing themselves in one of the boxes. ASt Iwas a visitor of rather higher pretensions, Iwas ushered into a little misshapen back rOOIr,having at least nine corners. It was lighted bya sky-light, furnished with antiquated leathernchairs, and ornamented with the portrait of afat pig. It was evidently appropriated to par-ticular customers, and I found a shabby gentle-man in a red nose and oil-cloth hat seated in

176 'fHE SKETCH BOOK.

one corner meditating on a half-empty pot ofporter.

The ?ld sext~n had taken the landlady aside,and with an '1,1rof profound importance im-parted ~o her my errand. Dame Honeyballwas a Iikely, pl.ump, bustling little woman,and no bad substitute for that paragon of host-es.ses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delightedwith ,an opportunity to oblige, and, hurryingupstairs to the archives of her house wherethe precious vessels of the parish club weredeposited she returned, smil in s and courtesy-ing, with them in her hands. b

. The first she presented me was a japannediron tobacco-box of gigantic size, out of which,I was told, the vestry had smoked at theirstated meetings since time immemorial andwhich was never suffered to be profaned byvulgar hands, or used on common occasions.I received it with becoming- reverence, butwhat was my delight at beholding on itscover the indentical painting of which I wasin quest! There was displayed the outside ofthe Boar's Head Tavern, and before the doorwas to be seen the whole convivial group attable, in full revel, pictured with that wonder-ful fidelity and force with which the portraitsof renowned generals and commodores areillustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit ofposterity. Lest, however, there should be~ny ?1istake, the cunning limner had warilyinscribed the names of Prince Hal and Falstaffon the bottoms of their chairs.

On the inside of the cover was an in scrip-

THE SKETCH BOOK. 177

tion, nearly obliterated, recording that thisbox was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, forthe use of the vestry meetings at the Boar'sHead Tavern, and that it was "repaired andbeautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard,1767. .• Such is a faithful description of thisaugust and venerable relic, and I questionwhether the learned Scriblerius contemplatedhis Roman shield, or the Knights of theRound Table the long-sought San-greal, withmore exultation.

While I was meditating on it with enrap-tured gaze, Dame Honeyball, who was highlygratified by the interest it excited, put in myhands a drinking-cup or goblet which also be-longed to the vestry, and was descended fromthe old Boar's Head. It bore the inscriptionof having been the gift of Francis Wythers,Knight, and was held, she told me, in exceed-ing great value, being considered very"antyke." This last opinion was strength-ened by the shabby gentleman with the rednose and oil-cloth hat, and whom Istrongly suspected of being a lineal descendantfrom the valiant Bardolph. He suddenlyaroused from his meditation on the pot of por-ter, and casting a knowing look at the goblet,exclaimed, "Ay, ay! the head don't ache nowthat made that there article."

The great importance attached to this me-mento of ancient revelry by modern church-wardens, at first puzzled me; but there is noth-ing-sharpens the apprehension so much as anti-quarian research; for I Immediately perceived

178 THE SKETCH ROOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 179

that this could be no other than the identical"parcel-gilt goblet," on which Falstaff madehis loving but faithless vow to Dame Quicklyar:d which would, of course, be treasured upwith ca~e among the regalia of her domains,as a testimony of that solemn contract. *

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long his-tory how the goblet had been handed downfrom generation to generation. She also en-tertained me with many particulars concerningthe worthy vestrymen who had seated them-selves thus quietly on the stools of the ancientroisterers of Eastcheap, and, like so manycommentators, utter clouds of smoke in honorof Shakespeare. These r forbear to relatelest my readers should not be as curious i~these matters as myself. Suffice it to say thel1;eighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap,' be-l~eve that Falstaff and his merry crew actuallylived-and reveled there. Nay, there are sev-eral legendary anecdotes concerning him stillextant among the oldest frequenters of theMason's Arms, which they give as transmitteddown from their forefathers; and Mr. M'Kash,an rr~sh hair-dresser, whose shop stands onthe site of the old Boar's Head has severaldry jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid' down in the

* "Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt gobletsitting in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, bya sea-~oal fire, on Wednesday, in Whitsun-week, whent?e I?nnce broke t?y head for likening his father to asmgmg man at Wmdsor; thou didst swear to me then,as I was washing t~y wound, to marry me. and makem~ my lady, thy Wife. Canst thou deny it?"-HenryI\ .. Part 2.

books, with which he makes his customersready to die of laughter.

r now turned to my friend the sexton tomake some further inquiries, but r found himsunk in pensive meditation. His head haddeclined a little on one side; a deep sighheaved from the very bottom of his stomach,and, though r could not see a tear tremblingin his eye, yet a moisture was evidently steal-ing from a corner of his mouth. r followedthe direction of his eye through the door whichstood open, and found it fixed wistfully on thesavory breast of lamb, roasting in drippingrichness before the fire.

r now called to mind that in the eagernessof my recondite investigation, r was keepingthe poor man from his dinner. My bowelsyearned with sympathy, and putting in hishand a small token of my gratitude and good-ness, I departed with a hearty benediction onhim, Dame Honeyball, and the parish club ofCrooked Lane-not forgetting my shabby,but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth hat andcopper nose.

Thus have r given a "tedious brief" aCCOUl'l:of this interesting research, for which, if itprove too short and unsatisfactory, r can onlyplead my inexperience in this branch of litera-ture, so deservedly popular at the present day.I am aware that a more skilful illustrator ;)f

the immortal bard would have swelled thematerials I have touched upon to a good mer-chantable bulk, comprising the biographies )fWilliam Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robe.- t

180 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 181

Preston; some notice of the eminent fish-mongers of St. Michael's; the history of East-cheap, great and little; private anecdotes ofDame Honeyball and her pretty daughter,whom I have not even mentioned; to say noth-ing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb(and whom, by the way, I remarked to be acomely lass with a neat foot and ankle) ;-thewhole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, andilluminated by the great fire of London.

All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be workedby future commentators, nor do I despair ofseeing the tobacco-box, and the "parcel-giltgoblet" which I have thus brought to lightthe subject of future engravings, and almostas fruitful of voluminous dissertations and dis-putes as the shield of Achilles or the far-famedPortland Vase.

fHE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE.

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

I know that all beneath the moon decays,And what by mortals in this world is brought,In time's great periods shall return to nought.

I know that all the muses' heavenly rays,With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought,As idle sounds, of few or none are sought-

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise.Drummond of Hawthornden.

There are certain half-dreaming moods ofmind in which we naturally steal away fromnoise and glare, and seek some quiet hauntwhere we may indulge our reveries and buildour air castles undisturbed. In such a moodI was loitering about the old gray cloisters ofWestminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury ofwandering thought which one is apt to dignifywith the name of reflection, when suddenly anirruption of madcap boys from Westminsterschool, playing at football, broke in upon themonastic stillness of the place, making thevaulted passages and mouldering tombs echowith their merriment. I sought to take refugefrom their noise by penetrating still deeper intothe solitudes of the pile, and applied to oneof the vergers for admission to the library.He conducted me through a portal rich with

182 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 183

the crumbling sculpture of former ages, whichopened upon a gloomy passage leading to thechapter-house and the chamber in whichDoomsday Book is deposited. Just within thepassage is a small door on the left. To thisthe verger applied a key; it was doublelocked, and opened with some difficulty, as ifseldom used. We now ascended a dark narrowstaircase, and, passing through a second door,entered the library.

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, theroof supported by massive joists of old Englishoak. It was soberly lighted by a row ofGothic windows at a considerable height fromthe floor, and which apparently opened uponthe roofs of the cloisters. An ancient pictureof some reverend dignitary of the Church inhis robes hung over the fireplace. Around thehall and in a small gallery were the books,arranged' in carved oaken cases. They con-sisted prir:cipally of old polemical writers, andwere much more worn by time than use. Inthe center of the library was a solitary tablewith two or three books on it, an inkstandwithout ink, and a few pens parched by longdisuse. The place seemed fitted for quietstudy and profound meditation. It wasburied deep among the massive walls of theabbey and shut up from the tumult of theworld. I could only hear now and then theshouts of the school- boys faintly swelling fromthe cloisters, and the sound of a bell tollingfor prayers echoing soberly along the roofs atthe abbey. By dezrees the shouts of merri-

ment grew fainter and fainter, and at lengthdied away; the bell ceased to toll, and a pro-found silence reigned through. the dusky hal~.

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curi-ously bound in parchment, wit~ brass clasps,and seated myself at the table. m a venerableelbow-chair. Instead of reading, however, Iwas beguiled by the solen:m monas~ic air andlifeless quiet of the place, in to a tram of mus-ing. As I looked around upon the old vol-umes in their mouldering covers, thus rangedon the shelves and apparently never disturbedin their repose, I could not but consider thelibrary a kind of literary catacomb, whereauthors like mummies, are piously entombedand left' to blacken and moulder in dusty obli-vion.

How much, thought I, has each of these vol-urnes, now thrust aside with such indifference,cost some aching head! how many wearydays! how many sleepless night~! How.havetheir authors buried themselves in the solitudeof cells and cloisters, shut themselves up fromthe face of man, and the still more blessedface of Nature; and devoted themselves topainful research and intense reflection! Andall for what? To occupy an inch of dustyshelf-to have the titles of their works readnow and then in a future age by some drowsychurchman or casual straggler like myself, andin another age to be lost even to remem-brance. Such is the amount of this boastedimmortality. A mere temporary rumor,. alocal sound; like the tone of that bell WhICh

134 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 185

has tolled among: these towers, fi11ing the earfor a moment, lingering transiently in echoand then passing away, like a thing that wasnot!. While I sat half-murmuring, half-meditat-mg, these. unprofitable speculations with myh~ad restmg on my hand, I was thrummingWIt~the other hand upon the quarto, until IaccIdentally. loosened the clasps; when, to myutter astomshme.nt, the little book gave twoor three yawns, hke one awaking from a deepsleep, then a husky hem, and at length beganto talk. At first its voice was very hoarse andbroken, being much troubled by a cobweb:vhich som~ studious spider had woven acrossIt, and havmg probably contracted a cold fromlong exposure to th~ chills and damps of theabbey.. ~n a short time, however, it became!D0re distinct, and I soon found it an exceed-mgly fluent, conversable little tome. Its lan-guage, to. be sure, was rather quaint and obso-lete, and Its pronunciation what, in the presentday, would be deemed barbarous; but I shallendeavor, as far as I am able, to render it inmodern parlance.

It began with railings about the neglect ofth~ wo.rld, about merit being suffered to Ian-guish in ?bscurity, and other such common-pla~e top:cs of literary repining, and com.plained bitterly that it had not been openedfor more than two centuries-that the deanonly looked now and then into the library,so.metlmes took down a volume or two, trifledWIth them for a few moments, and then re-

turned them to their shelves. "What a plaguedo they mean?" said the little quarto, whichI began to perceive was somewhat choleric-"what a plague do they mean by keeping sev-eral thousand volumes of us shut up here, andwatched by a set of old vergers, like so manybeauties in a harem, merely to be looked atnow and then by the dean? Books were writ-ten to give pleasure and to be enjoyed; and Iwould have a rule passed that the dean shouldpay each of us a visit at least once a year, or,if he is not quite equal to the task, let themonce in a while turn loose the whole school ofWestminster among us, that at any rate wemay now and then have an airing. "

"Softly, my worthy friend," replied I; "youare not aware how much better you are offthan most books of your generation. Bybeing stored away in this ancient library youare like the treasured remains of those saintsand monarchs which lie enshrined in theadjoining chapels, while the remains of theircontemporary mortals, left to the ordinarycourse of Nature, have long since returned todust. "

"Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leavesand looking big, "I was written for all theworld, not for the bookworms of an abbey. Iwas intended to circulate from hand to hand,like other great contemporary works; but herehave I been clasped up for more than two cen-turies, and mighthave silently fallen a prey tothese worms that are playing the very ven-geance with my intestines if you had not by

186 THE SKETCH BOOK THE SKETCH BOOK. 187chance given me an opportunity of uttering afew last words before I go to pieces. "

"My good friend," rejoined I, "had you beenleft to the circulation of which you speak youwould long ere this have been no more. ' Tojudge from your physiognomy, you are nowwell stric~en in years: very few of your con-temporaries can be at present in existence, andt?ose few owe their longevity to being immuredIike yourself in old libraries; which, suffer meto. add, instead of likening to harems, youmIght more properly and gratefully have com-pared to those infirmaries attached to religiousestablishments for the benefit of the old andl1ecrepit, and where, by quiet fostering and noemployment, they often endure to an amaz-ingly good-for-no"thing old age. You talk ofyour contemporaries as if in circulation.Where do we meet with their works? Whatdo we hear of Robert Grosteste of Lincoln?No one could have toiled harder than he forimmortality. He is said to have written nearlytwo hundred volumes. He built as it were apyramid of books to perpetuate his name: b~lt,alas! the pyramid has long since fallen, andonly a few fragments are scattered in variouslibraries, where they are scarcely disturbedeven by the antiquarian. What do we hear ofGi::aldus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary,philosopher, theologian, and poet? He declinedtwo bishoprics that h.e might shut himself upand wnte for postenty; but posterity neverinquires after his labors. What of Henry ofHuntingdon, who, besides a learned history of

En (rland wrote a treatise on the contempt ofthe "'world, which the world has revenged byforgetting him? What is quoted of Joseph ofEx~ter, styled the miracle of his age in classicalcomposition? Of his three great heroic poems,one is lost forever, excepting a mere fragment;the others are known only to a few of the curi-ous in literature; and as to his love verses andepigrams, they have entirely disapp~ared.What is in curren t use of John Wallis theFranciscan, who acquired the name of W.e treeof life? Of William of Malmsbury-of SImeonof Durham-of Benedict of Peterborough-ofJohn Hanvill of St. Albans-of--"

"Prithee, friend," cried the quarto in a testytone, "how old do yon think me? You aretalking of authors that lived long before mytime and wrote either in Latin or French, sothat 'they in a manner expatriated themselves,and deserved to be forgotten;* but I, sir, wasushered into the world from the press of therenowned Wvnkvn de Worde. Iwas written inmy own native' tongue. at a time when thelanguage had become fixed; and indeed I yvasconsidered a model of pure and elegant English.

(I should observe that these remarks werecouched in such intolerably antiquated terms,that I have had infinite difficulty in renderingthem into modern phraseology.]-;7.1n Latin and French hath many soueraine witteshad great delyte to endite, and have many noble thingesfulfilde, but certes there ben some that speaken theirpoisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen haveas good a fantasye as we have in hearying of French-men's Englishe."-Chaucer's "Testament of Love."

188 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 1:::9

"I cry you mercy," said I, "for mistakingyour age; but it matters little: almost all thewriters of your time have likewise passed intoforgetfulness, and De Warde's publications aremere literary rarities among book-collectors.The purity and stability of language, too, onwhich you found your claims to perpetuity,have been the fallacious dependence of authorsof every age, even back to the times of theworthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his his-tory in rhymes of mongrel Saxon. * Even nowmany talk of Spenser's 'well of pure Englishundefiled,' as if the language ever sprang froma well or fountain-head, and was not rather amere confluence of various tongues perpetuallysubject to changes and intermixtures. It isthis which has made English literature soextremely mutable, and the reputation builtupon it so fleeting. Unless thought can becommitted to something more permanent andunchangeable than such a medium, eventhought must share the fate of everything else,and fall into decay. This should serve as acheck upon the vanity and exultation of the

* Holinshed, in his Chronicle. observes, "Afterwards,also, by diligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and JohnGowre, in the time of Richard the Second. and afterthem of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke ofBerre, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe,notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of per-fection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein JohnJewell, Bishop of Saurrn, John Fox, and sundrie learnedand excellent writers, have fully accomplished the orna-ture of the same to their great praise and immortal com-mendation.' ,

most popular writer. He finds the language inwhich he has embarked his fame graduallyaltering and subject to the dilapidations oftime and the caprice of fashion. He looks backand beholds the early authors of his country,once the favorites of their day, supplanted bymodern writers. A few short ages havecovered them with obscurity, and their meritscan only be relished by the quaint taste of thebook-worm. And such, he anticipates, winbe the fate of his own work, which, however,it may be admired in its day and held up as amodel of purity, will in the course of yearsgrow antiquated and obsolete, until it shallbecome almost as unintelligible in its nativeland as an Egyptian obelisk or one of thoseRunic inscriptions said to exist in the desertsof Tartary. I declare," added I, with someemotion, "when I contemplate a modernlibrary, filled with new works in all the braveryof rich gilding and binding, I feel disposed tosit down and weep, like the good Xerxes. whenhe surveyed his army, pranked out in all thesplendor of military array, and reflected thatin one hundred years not one of them would bein exis tence. "

"Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavysigh, "I see how it is: these modern scribblershave superseded all the good old authors. Isuppose nothing is read nowadays but SirPhilip Sidney's 'Arcadia,' Sackville's statelyplays and' Mirror for Magistrates, ' or the fine-spun euphuisms af the 'unparalleled JohnLyly.' "

190 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 191

"There you are again mistaken " said I·"the writers whom you suppose 'in vogue:because they happened to be so when you werelast in circulation, have lone since had theirday. Sir Philip Sidney's' Arcadia,' the immor-tality of which was so fondly predicted byhis admirers, * and which, in truth, was full ofnoble thoughts, delicate images, and gracefulturns of language, is now scarcely ever men-tioried. Sackville has strutted into obscurity;and even Lyly, though his writings were oncethe delight of a court, and apparently perpet-uated by a proverb, is now scarcely knowneven by name. A whole crowd of authors whowrote and wrangled at the time, have likewisegone down with all their writings and theirc.ontrover!;ies. 'Wave after wave of succeedingliterature has rulled over them until thev areburied so deep, that it is only now and -thenthat some industrious diver after fragments ofantiquity brings up a specimen for the grati-fication of the curious.

" For my part," I continued, "I consider thismutability of language a wise precaution ofProvidence for the benefit of the world atlarge, and of authors in particular. To reason

* "Live ever sweete book~; the simple image of hisgentle Witt. and the golden pillar of his noble courage'and ever notify unto the world that thy writer was th~secretary of eloquence. the breath of the muses. theh?ney bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, thepith of morale and intellectual virtues the arme of Bel-lona in the field, the tongue of Suada in the chamber.the spirite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excel.lence in print." -Harvey Pierce's Supererogation.

from analogy, we daily behold the varied andbeautiful tribes of vegetables springing upflourishing, adorning the fields for a short time'and then fading into dust, to make way fortheir s,uccessors. Were not this the c~se, thefecundity of nature would be a gnevanceinstead of a blessing. The earth would groanwith rank and excessive vegetation, and its sur-face become a tangled wilderness. In likemanner, the works of genius and learningdecline and make way for subsequent produc-tions. Language gradually varies, and with itfade away the writings of authors who haveflourished their allotted time; otherwise thecreative powers of genius would overstock theworld, and the mind would be completelybewildered in the endless mazes of literature.Formerly there were some restraints on thisexcessive multiplication. Works had to betranscribed by hand, which was a slow andlaborious operation; they were written eitheron parchment, which was expensive, so thatone work was often erased to make way foranother; or on papyrus, which was fragileand extremely perishable. Authorship was alimited and unprofitable craft, pursued chieflvby monks in the leisure and solitude of theircloisters. The accumulation of manuscriptswas slow and costly, and confined almostentirely to monasteries. To these circum-stances it may, in some measure, be owingthat we have not been inundated by the intel-lect of antiquity-that the fountains of thoughthave not been broken up, and modern genius

192 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 193

drowned in the deluge. But the inventions ofpaper and the press have put an end to allthese restraints. They have made everyone awriter, and enabled every mind to pour itselfinto print, and diffuse itself over the wholeintellectual world. The consequences arealarming. The stream of literature has swolleninto a torrent-augmented into a river-ex-panded into a sea. A few centuries since fiveor six hundred manuscripts constituted a greatlibrary; but what would you say to libraries,such as actually exist, containing three or fourhundred thousand volumes; legions of authorsat the same time busy; and the press going onwith fearfully increasing activity, to doubleand quadruple the number? Unless someunforseen mortality should break out amongthe progeny of the Muse, now that she hasbecome so prolific, I tremble for posterity. Ifear the mere fluctuation of language will notbe sufficient. Criticism may do much; itincreases with the increase of literature, andresem bles one of those salutary checks on pop-ulation spoken of by economists. All possibleencouragement, therefore, should be given tothe growth of critics, good or bad. But I fearall will be in vain; let criticism do what it.may, writers will write, printers will print, andthe world will inevitably be overstocked withgood books. It will soon be the employmentof a lifetime merely to learn their names.Many a man of passable information at thepresent day reads scarcely anything butreviews, and before long a man of erudition

will be little better than a mere walking cata-logue. "

"My very good sir," said the little quarto,yawning most drearily in my face, "excuse myinterrupting you, but I perceive you are rathergiven to prose. I would ask the fate of anauthor who was making some noise just as Ileft the world. His reputation, however, wasconsidered quite temporary. The learnedshook their heads at him, for he was a poor,half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin,and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged torun the country for deer-stealing. I think hisname was Shakespeare. I presume he soonsunk into oblivion." .

"On the contrary," said I, "it is owing tothat very man that the literature of his periodhas experienced a duration beyond the ordi-nary term of English literature. There riseauthors now and then who seem proof againstthe mutability of language because they haverooted themselves in the unchanging principlesof human nature. They are like gigantic treesthat we sometimes see on the banks of astream, which by their vast and deep roots,penetrating through the mere surface and lay-ing hold on the very foundations of the earth,preserve the soil around them from beingswept away by the ever-flowing current, andhold up many a neighboring plant, and per-haps worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such isthe case with Shakespeare, whom we beholddefying the encroachments of time, retainingin modern use the language and literature ::.!

13 Sk!ltch Book•

194 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 195

his day, and giving duration to many an indif-f~re~t ~~thor, merely from having flourished inhIS vicinity. Bl;lt even he, I grieve to say, isgradually as~ummg the tint of age, and hiswhole form IS overrun by a profusion of com.mentators, who, like clambering vines andcreepers, almost bury the noble plant thatupholds them.". Here the little quarto began to heave his

SIdes and chuckle, until at length he broke outi~to a plethoric. fit of laughter that had well.nigh choked him by reason of his excessivecorpulency. "Mighty well!" cried he, as soonas he could recover breath, "mighty well!and so you would persuade me that the litera-ture of an age is to be perpetuated by a vaga-bond deer-stealer! by a man without learning!by a poet! forsooth-a poet!" And here hewheezed forth another fit of laughter.

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at thisrudeness, w?ich, however, I pardoned onaccount of hIS having flourished in a less pol-is.hed age. I determined, nevertheless, not togive up my point.

"Ye.s," resumed I positively, "a poet; for ofallwriters he has the best chance for immor-tahty.. Others may write from the head, buthe wntes from the heart, and the heart willalways understand him. He is the faithfulportrayer of Nature, whose features are alwaysthe. same and always interesting. Prosewriters are volu~inous and unwieldy; theirpages crowded with commonplaces, and theirthoughts expanded into tediousness. But with

the true poet everything is terse, touching,or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughtsin the choicest language. He illustrates themby everything that he sees most striking innature and art. He enriches them by picturesof human life, such as it is passing before him.His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, thearoma, if I may use the phrase, of the age inwhich he lives. They are caskets whichenclose within a small compass the wealth ofthe language-its family jewels, which are thustransmitted in a portable form to posterity.The setting may occasionally be antiquated,and require now and then to be renewed, as inthe case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy andintrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered.Cast a look back over the long reach of liter-ary history. What vast valleys of dulness,511ed with monkish legends and academicalcon troversies! What bogs of theological spec-ulations! What dreary wastes of metaphysics!Here and there only do we behold the heaven-illumined bards, elevated like beacons on their •widely-separated heights, to transmit the pt> elight of poetical intelligence from age .age. ,,*

*Throw earth and waters deepe,The pen by skill doth passe:

And featly nyps the worldes abuse,And shoes us in a glasse,

The vertu and the viceOf every wight alyve ;

The honey comb that bee doth makeIs not so sweet in hyve,

As are the golden leves

196 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 19

I was just about to launch forth into eulo-giums upon the poets of the day when thesudden opening of the door caused me to turnmy head. It was the verger, who came toinform me that it was time to close the library.I sought to have a parting word with thequarto, but the worthy little tome was silent;the clasps were closed: and he looked perfect!yunconscious of all that had passed. I havebeen to the library two or three times since,and have endeavored to draw it into furtherconversation, but in vain; ard whether allthis rambling colloquy actually took place,or whether it was another of those odd day.dreams to which I am subject, I have never,to this moment, been able to discover.

That drops from poet's head!Which doth surmount our common talke

As farre as dross doth lead.

RURAL FUNERALS.

Here's a few flowers! but about midnight more:The herbs that have on them cold dew 0' the nightAre strewings fitt'st for graves--You were as flowers now withered; even soThese herblets shall, which we upon you strow.

-Cymbeline.

urchyard.

Among the beautiful and simple-heartedcustoms of rural life which still linger in someP~ITtsof England are those of strewing flowersbefore the funerals and planting them at thegraves of departed friends. These, it is said,are the remains of some of the rites of theprimitive Church; but they are of still higherantiquity, having been observed among theGreeks and Romans, and frequently mentionedby their writers, and were no doubt the spon-taneous tributes of unlettered affection, origi-nating long before art had tasked itself tomodulate sorrow into song or story it on themonument. They are now only to be metwith in the most distant and retired places ofthe kingdom, where fashion and innovationhave not been able to throng in and trampleout all the curious and interesting traces of theolden time.

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bedwhereon the corpse lies is covered with flowers,

198 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 199

White his shroud as the mountain snow,Larded aU with sweet flowers:

Which be-wept to the grave did go,With true love showers.

Thus, thus. and thus, we compass roundThy harmless and unhaunted ground,And as we sing thy dirge, we will,

The daffodillAnd other flowers lay uponThe altar of our love, thy stone.

-Herrick.

There is also a solemn respect paid by thetraveler to the passing funeral of these seques-tered places; for such spectacles, occurringamong the quiet abodes of Nat~re, sin~ deepinto the soul. As the mourmng tram ap-proaches he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by;he then follows silently in the rear; some-times quite to the grave, at other times for afew hundred yards, and, having paid thistribute of respect to the deceased, turns andresumes his journey.

The rich vein of melancholy which runsthrough the English character, and gives itsome of its most touching and ennoblinggraces, is finely evidenced in these patheticcustoms, and in the solicitude shown by thecommon people for an honored and a peacefulgrave. The humblest peasant, whatever maybe his lowly lot while living, is anxious thatsome little respect may be paid to his remains.Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the "faireand happy milkmaid," observes, "thus livesshe, and all her care is, that she may die inthe spring-time, to have store of flowers stuckeupon her winding-sheet." The poets, too,who always breathe the feeling of a nation,continually advert to this fond solicitude aboutthe grave. In "The Maid's Tragedy," by

a custom alluded to in one of the wild andplaintive ditties of Ophelia:

There is also a most delicate and beautifulrite observed in some of the remote villagesof the south at the funeral of a female whohas died young and unmarried. A chaplet ofwhite flowers is borne before the corpse by ayoung girl nearest in age, size, and resem-blance, and is afterwards hung up in the churchover the accustomed seat of the deceased.These chaplets are sometimes made of whitepaper, in imitation of flowers, and inside ofthem is generally a pair of white gloves. Theyarc intended as emblems of the purity of thedeceased, and the crown of glory which shehas received in heaven.

In some parts of the country, also, the deadare carried to the grave with the singing ofpsalms and hymns-a kind of triumph, "toshow," says Bourne, "that they have finishedtheir course with joy, and are become con-querors." This, I am informed, is observedin some of the northern counties, particularlyin Northumberland, and it has a pleasing,though melancholy effect to hear of a stillevening in some lonely country scene themournful melody of a funeral dirge swellingfrom a distance, and to see the train slowlymoving along the landscape.

200 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 201

Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautifulinstance of the kind describing the capriciousmelancholy of a broken-hearted girl:

When she sees a bankStuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tellHer servants, what a pretty place it wereTo bury lovers in; and made her maidsBluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse.

mignt be seen in various states of decay; somedrooping, ethers quite perished. They wereafterwards to be supplanted by holly, rose-mary and other evergreens, which on somegrav;s had grown to great luxuriance, andovershadowed the tombstones.

There W2'.$ formerly a melancholy fanciful-ness in the arrangement of these rustic offer-ings, that had something in it tru~y poeti<;a1.The rose was sometimes blended with the lily,to form a general emblem of frail mortality."This sweet flower," said Evelyn, "borne ona branch set with thorns and accompanied withthe lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugi-tive umbratile, anxious, and transitory life,which, making so fair a show for a time, isnot yet without its thorns and crosses." Thenature and color of the flowers, and of theribbons with which they were tied, had oftena particular reference to the qualities or storyof the deceased, or were expressive of thefeelings of the mourner. In an old poem,entitled "Corydon's Doleful Knell," a loverspecifies the decorations he intends to use:

A garland shall be framedBy art and nature's skill,

Of sundry-colored flowers,In token of good-will.

And sundry-colored ribbonsOn it I will bestow;

But chiefly blacke and yelloweWith her to grave shall go.

I'll deck her tomb with flowers14 Sketch Book The rarest ever seen;

The custom of decorating graves was onceuniversall y prevalen t : osiers were carefullybent over them to keep the turf uninjured,and about them were planted evergreens andflowers. "We adorn their graves," says Eve-lyn, in his 'Sylva,' "with flowers and redolentplants, just emblems of the life of man, whichhas been compared in Holy Scriptures to thosefading beauties whose roots, being buried indishonor, rise again in glory." This usagebas now become extremely rare in England;but it may still be met with in the churchyardsof retired villages, among the Welsh moun-tains; and I recollect an instance of it at thesmall town of Ruthven, which lies at the headof the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have beentold also by a friend, who was present at thefuneral of a young girl in Glamorganshire,that the female attendants had their apronsfull of flowers, which, as soon as the bodywas interred, they stuck about the grave.

He noticed several graves which had beendecorated in the same manner. As the flowershad been merely stuck in the ground, andnot planted, they had soon withered. and

202 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 203

And with my tears as showersI'll keep them fresh and green.

-T'he white rose, we are told, was planted atthe grave of a virgin; her chaplet was tied:vith white ribbons, in token of her spotlessinnocence, though sometimes black ribbonswere intermingled, to bespeak the grief of thesurvivors. The red rose was occasionallyused, in remembrance of such as had beenremarkable for benevolence; but roses ingeneral were appropriated to the graves oflovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom wasnot altogether extinct in his time near hisdwelling in the county of Surrey, •.'where themaidens yearly planted and decked the gravesof their defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes. "And Camden likewise remarks, in his "Brit-annia:" ••Here is also a certain custom,observed time out of mind, of planting treesupon the graves, especially by the young menand maids who have lost their loves' so thatthis churchyard is now full of them. to'

When the deceased had been unhappy intheir loves, emblems of a more gloomy charac-ter were used, such as the yew and cypressand if flowers were strewn, they were of themost melancholy colors. Thus, in poems 'byThomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 165I), isthe following stanza:

Yet strewUpon my dismal graveSuch offerings as you have,Forsaken cypresse and yewe;

For kinder flowers can take no birthOr growth from such unhappy earth.

In "The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic littleair is introduced, illustrative of this mode ofdecorating the funerals of females who hadbeen disappointed in love:

Lay a garland on my hearseOf the dismal yew,

Maidens, willow branches wear,Say I died true.

My love was false. but 1 was firm,From my hour of birth;

Upon my buried body lieLightly, gentle earth.

The natural effect of sorrow over the deadis to refine and elevate the mind; and we havea proof of it in the purity of sentiment andthe unaffected elegance of thought whichpervaded the whole of these f,:neral observ-ances. Thus it was an especial precautionthat none but sweet-scented evergreens andflowers should be employed. The intentionseems to have been to soften the horrors ofthe tomb to beguile the mind from broodingover the 'disgraces of perishing mortality, andto associate the memory of the deceased withthe most delicate and beautiful objects innature. There is a dismal process going onin the grave, ere dust can return to its kindreddust which the imagination .shrinks fromcont~mplating; and we seek still to think ofthe form we have loved, with those refinedassociations which it awakened when bloomingbefore us in youth and beauty. "Lay her i'the earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister,

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And from her fair and unpolluted fleshMay violets spring.

Herrick, also, in his "Dirge of Jephtha,"pours forth a fragrant flow of poetical thoughtand image, which in a manner embalms thedead in the recollections of the living.

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,And make this place all Paradise :May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence

Fat frankincense.Let balme and cassia send their scentFrom out thy maiden monument.

* * * * *Mayall shie maids at wonted hoursCome forth to strew thy tombe with flowers!May virgins, when they come to mourn

Male incense burnUpon thine altar! then returnAnd leave thee sleeping in thy urn.

The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; norThe azured harebell like thy veins; no, norThe leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander,Outsweetened not thy breath.

There is certainly something more affectingin these prompt and spontaneous offerings ofNature than in the most costly monumentsof art; the hand strues the flower while theheart is warm, and the tear falls on the graveas affection is binding the osier round the sod;but pathos expires under the slow labor of thechisel, and is chilled among the cold conceitsof sculptured marble.

It is greatly to be regretted that a customso truly elegant and touching has disappearedfrom general use, and exists only in the mostremote and insignificant villages. But itseems as if poetical custom always shuns thewalks of cultivated society. In proportion aspeople grow polite they cease to be poetical.They talk of poetry, but they have learnt tocheck its free impulses, to distrust its sallyingemotions, and to supply its most affecting andpicturesque usages by studied form and pom-pous ceremonial. Few pageants can be morestately and frigid than an English funeral intown. It is made up of show and gloomyparades, mourning carriages, mourning horses,mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, whomake a mockery of grief. "There is a gravedigged," says Jeremy Taylor, "and a solemnmourning, and a great talk in the neighbor-hood, and when the daies are finished, theyshall be, and they shall be remembered no

I might crowd my pages with extracts fromthe older British poets, who wrote when theserites were more prevalent, and delighted fre-quently to allude to them; But I have alreadyquoted more than is necessary. I cannot,however, refrain from giving a passage fromShakespeare, even though it should appeartrite, which illustrates the emblematical mean-ing often conveyed in these floral tributes,and at the same time possesses that magic oflanguage and appositeness of imagery forwhich he stands pre-eminent.

With fairest flowers,Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack

..

206 TH~ :::>KETCH BOOK.

more." The associate in the gay and crowdedcity is soon forgotten; the hurrying succes-sion of new intimates and new. pleasureseffaces him from our minds, and the veryscenes and circles in which he moved are in-cessantly fluctuating. But funerals in thecountry are solemnly impressive. The strokeof death makes a wider space in the villagecircle, and is an awful event in the tranquiluniformity of rural life. The passing belltolls its knell in every ear; it steals with itspervading melancholy over hill and vale, andsaddens all the landscape.The fixed and unchanging features of the

country also perpetuate the memory of thefriend with whom we once enjoyed them, whowas the companion of our most retired walks,and gave animation to every lonely scene. Hisidea is associated with every charm of Nature;we hear his voice in the echo which he oncedelighted to awaken; his spirit haunts thegrove which he once frequented; we think ofhim in the wild upland solitude or amidst thepensive beauty. of the valley. In th~ freshn.essof joyons morning we remember hIS beammgsmiles and bounding gayety; and when soberevening returns with its gathering shadowsand subduing quiet, we call to mind many atwilight hour of gentle talk and sweet-souledrrselancholy.

Each lonely place shall him restore,For him the tear be duly shed;

Beloved tiI1life can charm no more,And mourn'd till pity's self be dead.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 207'

Another cause that perpetuates the memoryof the deceased in the country is that thegrave is more immediately in sight of the sur-vivors. They pass it on their way to prayer;it meets their eyes when their hearts aresoftened by the exercises of devotion; theylinger about it on the Sabbath, when the mindis disengaged from worldly cares and mostdisposed to turn aside from present pleasuresand present loves and to sit down among thesolemn momentos of the past. In NorthWales the peasantry kneel and pray over thegraves of their deceased friends for severalSundays after the interment; and where thetender rite of strewing and planting flowers isstill practiced, it is always renewed on Easter,Whitsun tide, and other festivals, when theseason brings the companion of former fes-tivity more vividly to mind. It is also invari-ably performed by the nearest relatives andfriends; no menials nor hirelings are em-ployed, and if a neigh bar yields assistance, itwould be deemed an insult to offer compensa-tion.I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural cus-

tom because it is one of the last, so is it oneof the holiest, offices of love. The grave isthe ordeal of true affection. It is there thatthe divine passion of the soul manifests itssuperiority to the instinctive impulse of mereanimal attachment. The latter must be con-tinually refreshed and kept alive by the pres-ence of its object, but the love that is seatedin the soul can live on long remembrance.

,..201) THE SKETCH BOOK.

The mere inclinations of sense languish anddecline with the charms which excited them,and turn with shuddering disgust from thedismal precincts of the tomb; but it is thencethat tr~ly spiritual affection rises, purifiedfrom everv sensual desire, and returns, likea boly flame, to illumine and sanctify theheart of the survivor.The <orrow for the dead is the only sorrow

from which we refuse to be divorced. Everyother wound we seek to heal, every otheraffliction to for')"et; but this wound we con-sider it a duty t~ keep open, this affliction \~echerish and brood over in solitude. Where IS

the mother who would willingly forget theinfant that perished like a blossom from herarms thousrh every recollection is a pang?Whe~'e is th~ child that would willingly forgetthe most tender parents, though to rememberbe but to lament? Who, even in the hour ofagony, would forget the friend over ,:vhom .hemourns? Who, even when the tomb IS closingupon the remains of her he most loved,. whenhe fee Is his heart, as it were, crushed 111 theclosing of its portal, would accept of consola-tion that must be bought by forgetfulness?Na the 'love which survi yes the tomb is one ofthe' noblest attributes of the soul. If it has itswoes it has likewise its delights; and whenthe overwhelming burst of grief is calmedinto the gentle tear of recollec~ion, when thesudden anguish and the convulsive agony ov~rthe present ruins of all ~hat we !li0~t loved ISsoftened away into penSIve meditation on all

THE SKETCH BOOK. 209

that it was in the days. of its loveliness, whowould root out such a sorrow from the heart?Though it may sometimes throw a passingcloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spreada deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yetwho would exchange it even for the song ofpleasure or the burst of revelry? No, there isa voice from the tomb sweeter than song.There is a remembrance of the dead to whichwe turn even from the charms of the living.Oh, the grave! the grave! It buries everyerror, covers every defect, extinguishes everyresentment! From its peaceful bosom springnone but fond regrets and tender recollections.Who can look down upon the grave even of anenemy, and not feel a compunctious throb thathe should ever have warred with the poorhandful of earth that lies mouldering beforehim?But the grave of those we loved-what a

place for meditation! There it is that we callup in long review the whole history of virtueand gentleness, and the thousand endearmentslavished upon us almost unheeded in the dailyintercourse of intimacy; there it is that wedwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awfultenderness, of the parting scene. The bed ofdeath with all its stifled griefs-its noiselessattendance - its mute, watchful assiduities.The last testimonies of expiring love! Thefeeble, fluttering, thrilling-oh, h?w thrill-ing !-pressure of the hand! The faint, falter-ing accents, struggling in death to give onemore assurance of affection! The last fond

210 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 2nlook of the glazing eye, turning upon us evenfrom the threshold of existence!

Ay, go to the grave of buried love and med-itate! There settle the account with thyconscience for every past benefit unrequited-every past endear men t unregarded, of thatdeparted being who can never-never-neverreturn to be soothed by thv contrition!

If thou art a child, arid h~st ever added a sor-row to the soul or a furrow to the silvered browof on affectionate parent; if thou art a husband,and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ven-tured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubtone moment of thy kindness or thy truth; ifthou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, inthought or word or deed, the spirit that gener·ously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, andhast ever given one unmerited pang to thattrue heart which now lies cold and still beneaththyfeet,-then be sure that every unkind look.every ungracious word, every ungentle actionwill come thronging back upon thy memoryand knocking dolefully at thy soul: then besure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing andrepentant on the grave, and utter the unheardgroan and pour the unavailing tear, more deep,more bitter because unheard and unavail-ing.

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers and strewthe beauties of Nature about the grave; consolethy broken spirit, if thou canst, with thesetender yet futile tributes of regret; but takewarning by the bitterness of this thy contriteaffiiction over the dead, and henceforth be

more faithful and affectionate in the dischargeof thy duties to the living.

In writing the preceding article it was notintended to give a full detail of the funeralcustoms of the English peasantry, but merelvto furnish a few hints and quotations illustra'.tive of particular rites, to be appended, by wayof. note, to another paper, which has beenWIthheld. The article swelled insensiblv intoits present form, and this is mentioned -as anapology for so brief and casual a notice ofthese usages after they have been amply andlearnedly investigated in other works.

I must observe, also, that I am well awarethat this custom of adorning graves with flow-ers prevails in other countries besides EnQ"-land. Ind.eed, in some it is much more ge;;-eral, and IS observed even by the rich andfashionable; but it is then apt to lose its sim-plicity and to degenerate into affectation.Bright, in his travels in Lower Hungary, tellsof monuments of marble and recesses formedfor retirement, with seats placed among bow-ers of greenhouse plants, and that the gravesgenerally are covered with the gayest flowersof. the. season.. He gives a casual picture offilial piety which I cannot but transcribe' forI trust it is as useful as it is delightful to iilus.trate the amiable virtues of the sex. "When Iwas at Berlin," says he, "I followed the cele-brated Iffland to the grave. Mingled withsome pomp you might trace much real feeling.

THE SKETCH BOOK212 THE SKETCH BOOK.

In the midst of the ceremony my attention wasattracted by a young woman who ~tood a?a mound of earth newly covered with turt,which she anxiously protected from the feet ofthe passing crowd. It was th~ tom b ~f herparent; and the figure of this affectl<:Jn.atedauzhter presented a monument more striking

b 1 f "than the most costly war {.a art.I will barely add an instance of sepulchral

decoration that I once met with among themountains of Switzerland. It was at the vil-lage of Gersau, which stands on the borders ofthe Lake of Lucerne, at the foot of MountRigi. It was once the capital of a miniaturerepublic shut up between the Alps and thelake and accessible on the land SIde only byfootpaths. The whole force of. the republicdid not exceed six hundred fightmg men, an.da few miles of circumference, scooped out as Itwere from the bosom of the mountains, com-prised its territory. The village of Gersauseemed separated from the rest of the world,and retained the golden simplicity of a purerage. It had a small church, with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of the graveswere placed crosses of wood or iron. On somewere affixed miniatures, rudely executed, butevidently attempts at likenesses of the de-ceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets ~fflowers some withering, others fresh, as Ifoccasio~ally renewed. I paused with interestat this scene; I felt that I was at the source ~fpoetical description, fo~ these were the beal~tl.ful but unaffected offenngs of the heart which

poets are fain to record. In a gayer and morepopulous place I should have suspected themto have been suggested by factitious sentimentderived from books; but the good people ofGersau knew little of books; there was not anovel nor a love-poem in the village, and Iquestion whether any peasant of the placedreamt, while he was twining a fresh chapletfor the grave of his mistress, that he was ful-filling one of the most fanciful rites of poeticaldevotion, and that he was practically a poet.

rI

214 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 21j

THE INN KITCHEN.

ing. I threw aside the newspaper and explorer"my way to the kitchen, to take a peep at thegroup that appeared to be so merry. It ,wascomposed partly of travelers who had arnvedsome hours before in a diligence, and partly ofthe usual attendants and hangers-on of inns.They were seated round a gn~at burnishedstove, that ruig ht have been m~s~akell for analtar at which they were worshiping, It wascovered with various kitchen vessels of resplen-dent brightness, among which steamed andhissed a huve copper tea-kettle. A large lampthrew a st;'onO' mass o{ light upon the group,

b . •

brinzina out many odd features in strong re-lief. '" Its yellow rays partial.ly il1umi~ed thespacious kitchen, dying duskily away in to reomote corners, except where they settled in mel-low radiance on the broad side of a flitch ofbacon or were reflected back from well-securedutensils that gleamed from the midst of obscur-ity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long go!~-en pendants in her ears, and a necklace WIt,1a golden heart suspended to it, was the presid-ing priestess of the temple.

'Many of the company we:e furnishe~ withpipes. and most of them with ~ome, k ind ofevening potation. I foun~ thel~ mirth wasoccasioned by anecdotes WhICh a Iittle swarthyFrenchman, with a dry weazen face and largewhiskers, was giving of his love-adventures;at the end of each of which there was one ofthose bursts of honest unceremonious laughterin which a man indulges in that temple oftrue liberty, an inn.

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?-Falstaff.

During a journey that I once made throughthe Netherlands, I had arrived one evening atthe Pomme d'Or, the principal inn of a smallFlemish village. It was after the hour of thetable d'hote, so that I was obliged to make asolitary supper from the relics of its amplerboard. The weather was chilly; I was seatedalone in one end of a great gloomy dining-room, and, my repast being over, I had theprospect before me of a long dull evening,without any visible means of enlivening it. Isummoned mine host and requested somethingto read; he brought me the whole literarystock of his household, a Dutch family Bible,an almanac in the same language, and a num-bel' of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozingover one of the latter, reading old news andstale criticisms, my ear was now and thenstruck with bursts of laughter which seemedto proceed from the kitchen. Everyone thathas traveled on the Continent must know howfavorite a resort the kitchen of a country inn isto the middle and inferior order of travelers,particularly in that equivocal kind of weatherwhen a fire becomes agreeable toward even-

216 THE SKE TCH BOOK, THE SKETCH BOOK. 217

As I had no better mode of getting througha tedious blustering evening, I took my seatnear the stove, and listened to a variety oftravelers' tales, some very extravagant andmost very dull. All of them, however, havefaded from my treacherous memory exceptone which I will endeavor to relate. I fear,however it derived its chief zest from themanner 'in which it was told, and the peculiarair and appearance of the narrator. He was acorpulent old Swiss, who had the look of ':'vet-eran traveler. He was dressed in a tarnishedgreen traveling jacket, w~th a broad b~ltround his waist, and a parr of overalls withbuttons from the hips to the ankles. He wasof a full rubicund countenance, with a doublechin, aquiline nose, and a pleasant twinklingeye. His hair was light, and curled from un-der an old green velvet traveling cap stuck onone side of his head. He was interruptedmore than once by the arrival of guests or theremarks of his auditors, and paused now andthen to replenish his pipe; at which t~mes hehad generally a roguish leer and a sly Joke forthe buxom kitchen-maid.

I wish my readers could imagine the old fel-low lolling in a huge arm-ch~ir, one. arma-kimbo the other holding a curiously twistedtobacco-pipe formed of genuine ec~me de mer,decorated with silver chain and silken tassel,his head cocked on one side, and a whimsicalcut of the eye occasionally as he related thefollowing story:

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM.

A TRAVELER'S TALE.*

On the summit of one of the heights of theOdenwald, a wild and romantic tract of UpperGermany that lies not far from the confluenceof the Main a1;d the Rhine, there stood many,many years smce the castle of the Baron VonLandshort. It is now quite fallen to decayand almost buried among beech trees and darkfirs; ab~)Vewhich, however, its old watch-towermay still be seen struggling, like the formerpossessor I have. mentioned, to carry a highhead and look down upon the neighboringcountry.

T?e baron was a dry branch of the greatfam ily of Katzenellenbogen, t and inherited

*The. erudite. reader, well versed in good-for-nothinglore, will perceive that the above Tale must have beensUt:;"gestedto the .old Swiss by a little French anecdote,a CIrcumstance said to have taken place in Paris.

He that supper for is dight,He lyes full cold, r trow, this night!Yestreen to chamber r him ledThis night Gray-steel has mad~ his bed!

Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel.tr. e., eat's Elbow-the name of a family of those

parts, and very powerful in former times. The appella-ion, we are told, was given III compliment to a peer-less dame of the family, celebrated for a fine arm.

THE SKETCH BOOK.

the relics of the property and all the pride, ofhis ancestors. Though the warlike dispositionof his predecessors had much impaired thefamily possessions, yet the baron still endeav-ored to keep up some show of former state.The times were peaceable, and the Germannobles in general had abandoned their incon-venient old castles, perched like eagles' nestsamong the mountains, and had built more con-venient residences in the valleys; still, thebaron remained proudly drawn up in his littlefortress, cherishing with hereditary inveteracyall the old family fends, so that he was on illterms with some of his nearest neighbors onaccount of disputes that had happened betweentheir great-great-grandfathers.

The baron had but one child, a daughter,but Nature, when she grants but one child,always compensates by making it a prodigy;and so it was with the daughter of the baron.All the nurses, gossips, and country cousinsassured her father that she had not her equalfor beauty in all Germany; and who shouldknow better than they? She had, moreover,been brought up with g-reat care under thesuperintendence of two maiden aunts, who hadspent some years of their early life at one ofthe little German courts, and were skilled inall branches of knowledg-e necessary to theeducation of a fine lady. Under their instruc-tions she became a miracle of accomplish.ments. By the time she was eighteen shecould embroider to admiration, and hadworked. whole histories of the saints in tapes-

THE SKETCH BOOK. 219

try with such strength of expression in theircountenances that they looked like so manysouls in purgatory. She could read withoutgreat difficulty, and had spelled her waythrough several Church legends and almost allthe chivalric wonders of the HeIden buch. Shehad even made considerable proficiency inwriting; could sign her own name withoutmissing a letter, and so legibly that her auntscould read it without spectacles. She excelledin making little elegant good-for-nothing-, lady-like nicknacks of all kinds, was versed in themost abstruse dancing of the day, played anumber of airs on the harp and guitar, andknew all the tender ballads of the Minneliedersby heart.

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts andcoquettes in their younger days, were admir-ably calculated to be vigilant guardians andstdct censors of the conduct of their niece; forthere is no duenna so rigidly prudent and in-exorably decorous as a superannuated coquette.She was rarely suffered out of their sight;never went beyond the domains of the castleunless well attended, or rather well watched;had continual lectures read to her about strictdecorum and implicit obedience; and, as to themen-pah!- she was taught to hold them atsuch a distance and in such absolute distrustchat, unless properly authorized, she would nothave cast a glance upon the handsomest cav-alier in the world-no, not if he were evendying at her feet.

The good effects of this system were won-

"

.220 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 221

derfully app~rent. The young lady was a pat-tern of docility and correctness. While otherswere wasting their sweetness in the glare ofthe world, and liable to be plucked and thrownaside by every hand, she was coyly bloominginto fresh and lovely womanhood under theprotection of thos~ immaculate spinsters, iikea rosebud blushmg forth among guardianthorns. Her aunts looked upon her with prideand exultation, and vaunted that, though allthe other young ladies in the world might goastray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kindcould happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbo-gen.

But, however scantily the Baron Von Land-short might be provided with children hishousehold was by no means a small one'· forProvidence had enriched him with abundanceof poor relations. They, one and all, 'poss-essedthe affectionate disposition common tohumble relatives-were wonderfully attachedto the baron, and took every possible occasionto come in swarms and enliven the castle. Allfamily festivals were commemorated by thesegood people at the baron's expense; and whenthey were filled with good cheer they woulddeclare that there was nothing on earth sodelightful as these family meetings, these jubi-lees of the heart.

The bar~n, though a small man, had a largesoul, and It swelled with satisfaction at theconsciousness of being the greatest man in thelitt1~ world about him. He loved to tell longstones about the stark old warriors whose

portraits looked grimly down from the wallsaround, and he found no listeners equal tothose who fed at his expense. He was muchgiven to the marvelous and a firm believer inall those supernatural tales with which everymountain and valley in Germany abounds.The faith of his guests exceeded even his own;they listened to every tale of wonder with openeyes and mouth, and never failed to be aston-ished, even though repeated for the hundredthtime. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort,the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch ofhis little territory, and happy, above all things,in the persuasion that he was the wisest man ofthe age.

At the time of which my story treats therewas a great family gathering at the castle onan affair of the utmost importance: it was toreceive the destined bridegroom of the baron'sdaughter. A negotiation had been carried onbetween the father and an old nobleman ofBavaria to unite the dignify of their houses bythe marriage of their children. The prelimi-naries had been conducted with properpunctilio.The young people were betrothed withoutseeing each other, and the time was appointedfor the marriage ceremony. The young CountVon Altenburg had been recalled from thearmy for the purpose, and was actually on hisway to the baron's to receive his bride. Mis-sives had even been received from him fromWurtzburg, where he was accidentally detainedmentioning the day and hour when he mightbe expected to arrive.

222 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 223

.The. castle ':Vasin a tumult of preparation togive him a suitable welcome. The fair bridehad been decked out with uncommon care.The two aunts had superintended her toilet,and quarreled the whole morning about everyarticle of her dress. The young lady had takenadvantage of their contest to follow the bentof her own taste; and fortunately it was ago?d one. She looked as lovely as youthfulbridegrc--rn could desire, and the flutter ofexpectation heightened the lustre of hercharms.The suffusions that mantled her face and

neck, the gentle heaving of the bosom, the evenow and then lost in reverie, all betrayed thesoft tumult that was going on in her littleheart. The aunts were continually hoveringaroun~ her, fo.r mai~en aunts are apt to takegreat l~t~rest III affairs of this nature. Theywere grvmg her a world of staid counsel howto deport herself, what to say and in wnatmanner to receive the expected lover.The baron was no less busied in preparations.

He had in truth nothing exactly to do; but hewas naturally a fuming bustling little man andcould not remain passive when all the worldwas in a hurry. He worried from top to bot-tOll],of t?e castle with an air of infinite anxiety;he.'contlnllally called the servants from theirwork to exhort them to be diligent; and buzzedabout every hall and chamber as idly restlessand importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warmsummer's day.In the meantime ~he fatted calf had been

killed; the forests had rung with the clamorof the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowdedwi th good cheer; the cellars had yielded upwhole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein;and even the great Heidelberg tun had beenlaid under contribution. Everything wasready to receive the distinguished guest withSaus und Braus in the true spirit of German hos-pitality; but the guest delayed to make hisappearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sunthat had poured his .ownward rays upon therich Icrests of the CJdenwald now just gleamedalong the summits of the mountains. Thebaron mounted the highest tower and strainedhis eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight ofthe count and his attendants. Once he thoughthe beheld them; the sound of horns camefloating from the valley prolonged by themountain-echoes. A number of horsemenwere seen far below slowly advancing alongthe road; but when they had nearly reachedthe foot of the mountain they suddenly struckoff in a different direction. The last ray ofsunshine departed. the bats began to flit byin the twilight, the road grew dimmer anddimmer to the view, and nothing appearedstirring in it but now and then a peasant lag-ging homeward from his labor.While the old castle of Landshort was in this

state of perplexity a very interesting scenewas transacting in a different part of the Oden-waldoThe young Count Von Altenburg was tran-

quilly pursuing his route in that sober jog-trot

224 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 22.5

way in which a man travels toward matri-mony when his friends have take~ all t~etrouble and uncertainty of courtship off hishands and a bride is waiting for him as cer-tainly as a dinner at the end of his journey.He had encountered at Wurtzburg a youthfulcompanion-in-arms with whom he had seensome service on the frontiers-Herman VonStarkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands andworthiest hearts of German chivalry-who wasnow returning from the army. His father'scastle was not far distant from the old fortressof Landshort, although an hereditary feud ren-dered the families hostile and strangers to eachother.

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition:he young friends related all their past adven-tures and fortunes, and the count gave thewhole history of his intended nuptials with ayoun"" lady whom he had never seen, but ofwhos~ charms he had received the most enrap-turing descriptions.

As the route of the friends lay in the samedirection, they agreed to perform the. rest ?ftheir journey together, and that they might uoit the more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburgat an early hour, the count having given direc-tions for his retinue to follow and overtakehim.

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollec-tions of their military scenes and adventures,but the count was apt to be a little tedious nowand then about the reputed charms of his brideand the felicity that awaited him.

In this way they had entered among themountains of the Odenwald, and were travers-insr one of its most lonely and thickly wooded1)a~ses. It is well known that the forests ofGermany have always been as much infestedbv robbers as its castles by spectres, and attl;is time the former were particularly numer-ous, from the hordes of disbanded ,soldiers wan-dering about the country. It wil l not ap~earextraordinary, therefore, that the cavalierswere attacked by a gang of these stragglers,in the midst of the forest. They defendedthemselves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered when the count's retinue arrived totheir assistance. At sight of them the robbersfled but not until the count had received amo;tal wound. He was slowly and carefullyconveyed back to the city of .Wurtzburg, and afriar summoned from a neighboring conventwho was famous for his skill in administeringto both soul and hody; but half of his skill wassuperfluous; the moments of the unfortunatecount were numbered.

With his dying breath he entreated his friendto repair instantly to the castle. of Landsh,ortand explain the fatal cause of his not keepinghis appointment with his bride. Though notthe most ardent of lovers, he was one of themost punctilious of men, and appeared earn-estly solicitous that his mission s?,ould be sp~e~.ily and courteously executed. U nles~ this ?Sdone," said he, "I shall not sleep quietly mmy grave." He repeated these last wordswith peculiar solemnity. A request at a

15 Sketch Book

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226 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 227,i;

moment so impressive admitted no hesitation.Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him tocalmness, promised faithfully to execute hiswish, and gave him his hand in solemn pledge.The dying man pressed it in acknowledgmentbut soon lapsed into delirium-raved about hisbride, his engagements, his plighted word-ordered his horse, that he might ride to thecastle of Landshort, and expired in the fanciedact of vaulting into the saddle.

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier'stear on the untimely fate of his comrade andthen pondered on the awkward mission he hadundertaken. His heart was heavy and his headperplexed; for he was to present himself anunbidden guest among hostile people, and todamp their festivity with tidings fatal to theirhopes Still, there were certain whisperingsof curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famedbeauty of katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shutup from the world; for he was a passionateadmirer of the sex, and there was a dash ofeccentricity and enterprise in his character thatmade him fond of all singular adventure.

Previous to his departure he made all duearrangements with the holy fraternity of theconvent for the funeral solemnities of hisfriend, who was to be buried in the cathedralof Wurtsburg near some of his illustriousrelatives, and the mourning retinue of the counttook charge of his remains.

It is now high time that we should return tothe ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, whowere impatient for their guest, and still more

for their dinner, and to the worthy little baron,whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower.

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived.The baron descended from the tower indespair. The banquet, which had beendelayed from hour to hour, could no longer bepostponed. The meats were already overdone,the cook in an agony, and the whole householdhad the look of a garrison that had been reducedby famine. The baron was obliged reluctantlyto give orders for the feast without the pres-ence of the guest. All were seated at table,and just on the point of commencing, whenthe sound of a horn from without the gate gavenotice of the approach of a stranger. Anotherlong blast filled the old courts of the castlewith its echoes, and was answered by thewarder from the walls. The baron hastenedto receive his future son-in-law.

The drawbridge had been let down, and thestranger was before the gate. He was a tallgallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed.His countenance was pale, but he had a beam-ing, romantic eye and an air of stately melan-choly. The baron was a little mortified that heshould have come in this simple, solitary style.His dignity for a moment was ruffled, a., j hefelt disposed to consider it a want of properrespect for the important occasion and the im-portant family with which he was to be con-nected. He pacified himself, however, withthe conclusion that it must have been youthful

228 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 229impatience which had induced him thus to spuron sooner than his attendants.

"I am sorry," said the stranger, "to breakin upon you thus unseasonably--"

Here the baron interrupted him with a worldof compliments and greetings, for, to tell thetruth, he prided himself upon his courtesy andeloquence. The stranger attempted once ortwice to stem the torrent of words, but in vain,so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on.By the time the baron had come to a pausethey had reached the inner court of the castle,and the stranger was again about to speak,when he was once more interrupted by theappearance of the female part of the family,leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride.He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced;it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth inthe c aze and rested upon that lovely form.One ~f the maiden aunts whispered somethingin her ear; she made an effort to speak: hermoist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shyl.,danceof inquiry on the stranger. and was cast;laain to the g.round. The words died away,b •

but there was a sweet smile playing about herlips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek. thatshowed her glance had not been unsatisfac-torv. It was impossible for a girl of the fondage of eighteen, highly predisposed for loveand matrimony, not to be pleased with so gal-Ian t a cavalier.

The late hour at which the guest had arrivedleft no time for parlev. The baron was per-emptory, and deferred all particular can versa-

tion until the morning, and led the way to theuntasted banquet.

It was served up in the great hall of the cas-tle. Around the walls hung the hard-favoredportraits of the heroes of the house of Katze-nellenbogen, and the trophies which they hadaained in the field and in the chase. Hacked~orselets, splintered jousting-spears, and. tat-tered banners were mingled wit h the spoils ofsylvan warfare: the jaws of the wolf and thetusks of the boar grinned horribly amongcrossbows and battle-axes, and a huge pair ofantlers branched immediately over the head ofthe youthful bridegroom.

The cavalier took but little notice of the com-pany or the entertainment. He scarcely tastedthe banquet, but seemed absorb~d in admira-tion of his bride. He conversed 111 a low tonethat could not be overheard, for the languageof love is never loud; but where is the femaleear so dull that it cannot catch the softestWhisper of the lover? There was a mingledtenderness and gravity in his manner thatappeared to have a powerful effect upon theyoung lady. Her color c~me and went as shelistened with deep attention. Now and thenshe made some blushing reply, and when hiseye was turned away she would steal a side-long glance at his romantic countenance, andheave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. Itwas evident that the young couple were com-pletelyenamored. The aunts, who were deeplyversed in the mysteries of the heart, declared

230 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 231

that they had fallen in love with each other atfirst sight.The feast went on merril v, or at least nois-

ily, for the guests were all blessed. with thosekeen appetites that attend upon light pursesand mountain air. The baron tolc1 his bestand lorioest stories and never had he told themso well ~r with su~h great effect. If there w?-sanything marvelous, his auditors were lost inastonishment; and if anything facetious, theywere sure to laugh exactly in the right place,The baron, it is true, like most great men, wastoo dignified to utter any joke but a dull one;it was always enforced, however, by a bumperof excellent Hockheimer, and even a dull jokeat one's own table, served up with jolly oldwine, is irresistible. Many good things weresaid by poorer and keener wits that would notbear repeating, except on similar occasions;many sly speeches whispered in ladies' earsthat almost convulsed them with suppressedlaughter; and a song or two roared out by apoor but merry and broad-faced cousin of thebaron that absolutelv made the maiden auntshold up their fans. -Amidst all this revelry the stranger guest

maintained a most singular and unreasonablegravity. His countenance assumed a deepercast of dejection as the evening advanced,and, strange as it may appear, even the bar-on's jokes seemed only to render him the moremelancholy. At times he was lost in thought,and at times there was a perturbed and rest-less wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind

but ill at ease. His conversations with thebride became more and more earnest and mys-terious. Lowering clouds began to steal overthe fair serenity of her brow, and tremors torun through her tender frame. .All this could not escape the notice of the

company. Their gayety was. chilled by t1:eunaccountable gloom of the bndegroom; theirspirits were infected; whispe:'s and glanceswere interchans ed, accompanied by shrugs

b d 'l~hand dubious shakes of the hea . e songarid the laugh grew less and less frequ~nt;there were dreary pauses in the conve.rsatlOn,which were at length succeeded by WIld talesand supernatural legends. 01~e dismal storyproduced another still more dismal, a?-cl .thebaron nearly frightened some of th~ l~clles intohysterics with the history of the .g·oDllll horse-man that carried away the fair Leonorc:-adreadful story which has since been put 111toexcellent verse, and is read and believed byall the world.The bridevroorn listened to this tale with

profound atterrtion, He kept his eyes steadilyfixed on the baron, and, as the story dr~w to aclose, began gradually to rise. f~om hIS sea~,growing taller and taller, until in the baron s~ntran~ed eye he seemed almost to towe~ intoa giant. The moment the tale was finishedhe heaved a deep sigh and took a solemn fare-well of the company. They were a1l amaze-ment. The baron was perfectly thunderstru~lc"What! going to leave the castle ',t ml~-

night? Why, everything was prepared for hIS

232 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 230

reception; a chamber was ready for him if hewished to retire. "

The stranger shook his head mournfully andmysteriously: "I must lay my head in a differ-ent chamber to-night."

There was something in this reply and thetone in which it was uttered that made thebaron's heart misgive him; but he rallied hisforces and repeated his hospitable entreaties.

~h.e stranger shook his head silently, butpositively, at every offer, and, waving his fare-well to the company, stalked slowly out of thehall. The maiden aunts were absolutely pet-rified; the bride hung her head and a tear stoleto her eye.

The baron followed the stranger to the greatcourt of the castle, where the black chargerstood pawing- the earth and snorting with im-patience. When they had reached the portal,whose deep archway was dimly lighted by acresset, the stranger paused, and addressed thebaron in a hollow tone of voice, which thevaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral.

"N ow that we are alone," said he, "I willimpart to you the reason of my going. I havea solemn, an indispensable engagement--"

"Why;" said the baron, "cannot you sendsome one in your place?"

"It admits of no substitute-I must attend itin person; I must away to Wurtzburg cathe-dral--"

"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit,"but not until to-morrow-to-morrow youshall take your bride there. "

"No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfoldsolemnity, "my engagement is with no bride-the worms! the worms expect me! I am adead man-I have been slain by robbers-mybody lies at Wurtz burg-at midnight I am tobe buried-the grave is waiting for me-Imust keep my appointment!"

He sprang on his black charger, dashed overthe drawbridge, and the clattering of his horse'shoofs was lost in the whistling of the nightblast.

The baron returned to the hall in the utmostconsternation, and related what had passed.Two ladies fainted outright, others sickened atthe idea of having banqueted with a spectre.It was the opinion of some that this might bethe wild huntsman, famous in German legend.Some talked of mountain-sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings withwhich the good people of Germany have beenso grievously harassed since time immemorial.One of the poor relations ventured to suggestthat it might be some sportive evasion o~ theyoung cavalier, and that the very gloommessof the caprice seemed to accord with so melan-choly a personag-e. This, however, drew onhim the indignation of the whole company,and especially of the baron, who looked uponhim as little better than an infidel; so that hewas fain to abjure his heresy as speedily aspossible and come into the faith of the truebelievers.

But, whatever may have been the doubts en-tertained, they were completely put to an end

16 Sketch Boolr

234 THE SKETCH BOOK, THE SKETCH BOOK. 235

by t~e arriva~ next day of regular missives con-firming the lI;ttelligence of the young count'smurder and his interment in Wurtzburg cathe-dra1.. The dismay at the cas~le may well be imag-ined. The baron shut himself up in his cham-b~r. The guests, ;Vho had come to rejoice withh~m, could not fh ink of abandoning him in hisdistress, They wandered about the courts orcollected in groups in the hall shakins- theirheads and shrugging their sh~ulders ~t thetroubles of so good a man. and sat longer thanever at table, and ate and drank more stoutlythan eve~, by .way of keeping up their spirits.But the srtuat ion of the widowed bride was themost pitiable. To have lost a husband beforeshe had even embraced him-and such a hus-band! If the very spectre could be so graciousand noble, what must have been the livingman? She. filled the house with lamentations.

On the mght of the second day of her widow-hoo? she had retired to her chamber, accorn-pame.d by. one of her aunts. who insisted onsleeping WIth her. The aunt, who was one ofthe b~st tellers of ghost-stories in all Germany,had Just been recount~ng one of her longest,and had fallen asleep III the very midst of it.The chamber was remote and overlooked asmall garden. The niece lay pensively gazingat the beams of the rising moon as they trem-ble~ on t~e leaves of an aspen tree before thel~ttlce. I'he castle clock had just tolled mid-night when a soft strain of music stole up fromthe garden. She rose hastily from her bed

and stepped lightly to the window. A tall fig-ure stood among the shadows of the trees. Asit raised its head a beam of moonlight fellupon the countenance. Heaven and earth! shebeheld the Spectre Bridegroom! A loudshriek at that moment burst upon her ear, andher aunt, who had been awakened by the mu-sic and had followed her silently to the win-dow, fell into her arms. When she lookedagain the spectre had disappeared,

Of the two females, the aunt now requiredthe most soothing, for she was perfectly besideherself with terror. As to the young lady,there was something even in the spectre of herlover that seemed endearing. There was stillthe semblance of manly beauty, and, thoughthe shadow of a man is but little calculated tosatisfy the affections of a lovesick girl, yetwhere the substance is not to be had even thatis consoling. The aunt declared she wouldnever sleep in that chamber again; the niece,for once, was refractory, and declared asstrongly that she would sleep in no other inthe castle; the consequence was, that she hadto sleep in it alone; but she drew a promisefrom her aunt not to relate the story of thespectre, lest she should be denied the only mel-ancholy pleasure left her on earth-that of in-habiting the chamber over which the guardianshade of her lover kept its nightly vigils.

How long the good old lady would have ob-served this promise is uncertain, for she dearlyloved to talk of the marvelous, and there is a"riumph in being the first to tell a frightful

236 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 237

story; it is, however, still quoted in the neigh.borhood as a memorable instance of femalesecrecy that she kept it to herself for a wholeweek when she was suddenly absolved fromall fl1~ther restraint by intelligence brought tothe breakfast table one morning that the younglady was not to be found. Her ro<;>mwasempty-the bed had not b~en slept m;-thewindow was open and the bird had fl?wn. .

The astonishment and concern with Wh.1Chthe intelligence was received can only be Im-agined by those who have witnessed the agita-tion which the mishaps of a great man c~useamong his friends. Even the poor relationspaused for a moment from the indefatigablelabors of the trencher, when the aunt, whohad at first been struck speechler s, wrung herhands and shrieked out, "The goblin! the gob-lin! she's carried away by the goblin!"

In a few words she related the fearful sceneof the garden, and conc1~ded. that the spectremust have carried off his bnde. Two of thedomestics corroborated the opinion, for theyhad heard the clattering of a horse's hoofsdown the mountain about midnight, ~nd hadno doubt that it was the spectre on his blackcharger bearing her ~way to .the tomb. .1\11present were struck wl~h the direful probabil-ity, for events of the kind are extremely. com-mon in Germany, as many well-authenticatedhistories bear witness.

What a lamentable situation was that of thepoor baron! What a heartrending dilemmafor a fond father and a member of the great

family of Katzenellenbogen! His only daugh-ter had either been rapt away to the grave, orhe was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and perchance a troop of goblin grandchil-dren. As usual, he was completely bewil-dered, and all the castle in an uproar. Themen were ordered to take horse and scourevery road and path and glen of the Odenwald.The baron himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about tomount his steed to sally forth on the doubtfulquest, when he was brought to a pause by anew apparition. A lady was seen approachingthe castle mounted on a palfrey, attended bya cavalier on horseback. She galloped up tothe gate, sprang from her horse, and, fallingat the baron's feet, embraced his knees. Itwas his lost daughter, and her companion-theSpectre Bridegroom! The baron was as-tounded. He looked at his daughter, then atthe spectre, and almost doubted the evidenceof his senses. The latter, too, was wonder-fully improved in his appearance since his visitto the world of spirits. His dress was splen-did, and set off a noble figure of manly sym-metry. He was no longer pale and melancholy.His fine countenance was flushed with the glowof youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye.

The mystery was soon cleared up. Thecavalier (for, in truth, as you must have knownall the while, he was no goblin) announcedhimself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. Herelated his adventure with the young count.He told how he had hastened to the castle to

'I238 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 239

deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that theeloquence of the baron had interrupted him inevery attempt to tell his tale. How the sightof the bride had completely captivated him,and that to pass a few hours near her he hadtacitly suffered the mistake to continue. Howhe had been sorely perplexed in what way tomake a decent retreat, until the baron's goblinstories had suggested his eccentric exit. How,fearing the feudal hostility of the family, hehad repeated his visits by stealth-had hauntedthe garden beneath the young lady's window-had wooed-had won-had borne away in trioumph-and, in a word, had wedded the fair.

Under any other circumstances the baronwouldhave been inflexible, for he was tenaciousof paternal authority and devoutly obstinate inall family feuds; but he loved his daughter; hehad lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to findher still alive; and, though her husband wasof a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven! he wasnot a goblin. There was something, it mustbe acknowledged, that did not exactly accordwith his notions of strict veracity in the jokethe knight had passed upon him of his being adead man; but several old friends present,who had served in the wars, assured him thatevery stratagem was excusable in love, andthat the cavalier was entitled to especial priv-ilege, having lately served as a trooper.

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged.The baron pardoned the young couple on thespot. The revels at the castle were resumed.The poor relations overwhelmed this new memo

ber of the family with loving-kindness; he wasso gallant, so generous-and so rich. Theaunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalizedthat their system of strict seclusion and passiveobedience should be so badly exemplified, butattributed it all to their negligence in not hav-ing tbe windows grated. One of them wasparticularly mortified at baving her marvelousstory marred, and that the only spectre she hadever seen should turn out a counterfeit· butthe niece seemed perfectly happy at h~vingfound him substantial flesh and blood. Andso the story ends.

240 THE SKETCH BOOK. " ., ""THE SKETCH BOOK. 241

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

perforations in the massive walls. Throughthis dark avenue I had a distant view of thecloisters, with the figure of an old verger in hisblack gown moving along their shadowy vaults,and seeming like a spectre from one of theneighboring tombs. The approach to theabbey through these gloomy monastic remainsperpares the mind for its solemn contemplation.The cloisters still retain something of the quietand seclusion of former days. The gray wallsare discolored by damps and crumbling withage; a coat of hoary moss has gathered overthe inscriptions of the mural monuments, andobscured the death's heads and other funeralemblems. The sharp touches of the chisel aregone from the rich tracery of the arches; theroses which adorned the key-stones have losttheir leafy beauty; everything bears marks ofthe gradual dilapidations of time, which yethas something touching and pleasing in itsvery decay.

The sun was pouring down a yellow autum-nal ray into the square of the cloisters, beam-ing upon a scanty plot of grass in the center,and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passagewith a kind of dusky splendor. From betweenthe arcades the eye glanced up to a bit of bluesky or a passing cloud, and beheld the sun-giltpinnacles of the abbey towering into the azureheaven.

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contem-plating this mingled picture of glory anddecay, and sometimes endeavoring to decipherthe inscriptions on the tombstones which

When I behold, with deep astonishment,To famous Westminster how there resorte,Living in brasse or stoney .monument, .The princes and the worthies of all sorte ;Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, .Without contempt, or pride, or ostentationAnd looke upon offenselesse majesty,Naked of pomp or earthly domination?And how a play-game of a pa.inted st<?neContents the quiet now and silent sprites,Whome all the world which late they stood upon,Could not content nor quench their appetite.

Life is a frost of cold felicitie,And death the thaw of all our vanitie,

-Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B., 1598.

On one of those sober and rather melancholydays in the latter part of autum.n when theshadows of morning and evemng almostmingle together, and throw a gloom over t~edecline of the year, I passed several hours IIIramblinz about Westminster Abbey. Therewas so~ething congenial to the sea;son in themournful magnificence. of the old ,PIle, an~ asI passed its threshold It seen:ed.llke stepp~ngback into the regions of antiquity and losingmyself among the sha~es of former ages. .

I entered from the mner court of Westmin-ster School, through a long, low, vaulted pas-sage that had an almost subterranean. look,being dimly lighted in one part by circular

242 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 243

formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eyewas attracted to three figures rudely carved inrelief, but nearly worn away by the footstepsof many generations. They were the effigiesof three of the early abbots; the epitaphs wereentirely effaced; the names alone remained,having no doubt been renewed in later times(Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus.Abbas. II 14, and Laurentius, Abbas. 1176). Iremained some little while, musing over thesecasual relics of antiquity thus left like wrecksupon this distant shore of time, telling no talebut that such beings had been and had per-ished, teaching no moral but the futility of thatpride which hopes still to exact homage in itsashes and to live in an inscription. A littlelonger, and even these faint records will beobliterated and the monument will cease to bea memorial. Whilst I was yet looking downupon the gravestones I was roused by thesound of the abbey clock, reverberating frombuttress to buttress and echoing among thecloisters. It is almost startling to hear thiswarning of departed time sounding among thetombs and telling the lapse of the hour whichlike a billow, has rolled us onward tow~rds th~grave. I pursued my walk to an arched dooropening to the interior of the abbey. Onentering here the magnitude of the buildingbreaks fully upon the mind, contrasted withthe vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gazewith wonder at clustered columns of giganticdimensions, with arches springing from themto such an amazing height, and man wander-

ing about their bases, shrunk into insignificancein comparison with his own handiwork. Thespaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice pro-duce. a profound and mysterious awe. We stepcautiously and softly about as if fearful of dis-turbing the hallow~d silenc~ of the tomb, whileevery footfall whispers along the walls andchatters among the sepulchres, making usmore sensible of the quiet we have interrupted.

It seems as if the awful nature of the placepresses down upon the soul and hushes thebeholder into noiseless reverence. We feelthat we are surrounded by the congregatedbones of the great men of past times, who havefilled history with their deeds and the earthwith their renown.

And yet it almost provokes a smile at thevanity of human ambition to see how they arecrowded together and jostled in the dust; whatparsimony is observed in doling out a scantynook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth,to those whom, when alive, kingdoms couldnot satisfy, and how many shapes and formsand artifices are devised to catch the casualnotice of the passenger, and save from forget-fulness for a few short years a name whichonce aspired to occupy ages of the world'sthought and admiration.

I passed some time in Poet's Corner whichoccupies an end of one of the transepts ~r crossaisles of the abbey. The monuments are gen-erally simple, for the lives of literary menafford no striking themes for the sculptor.Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected

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244 THE SKETCH BOOK. Ii.'

"

Ito their memories, but the greater part havebusts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscrip-tions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of thesememorials, I have always observed that thevisitors to the abbey remained longest aboutthem. A kinder and fonder feeling takes placeof that cold curiosity or vague admiration withwhich they gaze on the splendid monuments ofthe great and the heroic. They linger aboutthese as about the tombs of friends and com-panions, for indeed there is something of com-panionship between the author and the reader.Other men are known to posterity only throughthe medium of history, which is continuallygrowing faint and obscure; but the intercoursebetween the author and his fellow-men is evernew, active and immediate. He has lived forthem more than for himself; he has sacrificedsurrounding enjoyments, and shut himself upfrom the delights of social life, that he mightthe more intimately commune with distantminds and distant ages. Well may the worldcherish his renown, for it has been purchasednot by deeds of violence and blood, but by thediligent dispensation of pleasure. Well mayposterity be grateful to his memory, for he hasleft it an inheritance not of empty names andsounding actions, but whole treasures of wis-dom, bright gems of thought, and golden veinsof language.

From Poet's Corner I continued my strolltowards that part of the abbey which containsthe sepulchres of the kings. I wanderedamong what once were chapels, but which are

THE SKETCH BOOK. 245

now occupied by the tombs and monuments ofthe great. At every turn I met with someillustrious name or the cognizance of somepowerful house renowned in history. As theeye darts into these dusky chambers of deathit catches glimpses of quaint effigies-somekneeling in niches, as if in devotion; othersstretched upon the tombs, with hands piouslypressed together; warriors in armor, as ifreposing after battle; prelates, with crosiersand mitres and nobles in robes and coronets,lying as it were in state. In glancing over thisscene, so strangely populous, yet where everyform is so still and silent, it seems almost as ifwe were treading a mansion of that fabled citywhere every being had been suddenly trans-muted into stone.

I paused to contemplete a tomb on which laythe effigy of a knight in complete armor. Alarge buckler was on one arm; the hands werepressed together in supplication upon thebreast; the face was almost covered by themorion; the legs were crossed, in token of thewarrior's having been engaged in the holywar. It was the tomb of a crusader, of one ofthose military enthusiasts who so strangelymingled religion and romance, and whoseexploits form the connecting link between factand fiction, between the history and the fairy-tale. There is something extremely pictur-esque in the tombs of these adventurers, dec-orated as they are with rude armorial bearingsand Gothic sculpture. They comport with theantiquated chapels in which they are generally

246 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK.

found; and in considering them the imagina-tion is apt to kindle with the legendary associ-ations, the romantic fiction, the chivalrouspomp aud pageantry which poetry has spreadover the wars for the sepulchre of Christ.They are the relics of times utterly gone by, ofbeings passed from recollection, of customs andmanners with which ours have no affinity.

They are like objects from some strange anddistant land of which we have no certainknowledge, and about which all our conceptionsare vague and visionary. There is somethingextremely solemn and awful in those effigieson Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep ofdeath or in the supplication of the dying hour.They have an effect infinitely more impressiveon my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, theover-wrought conceits, the allegorical groupswhich abound on modern monuments. I havebeen struck, also. with the superiority of manyof the old sepulchral inscriptions. There wasa noble way in former times of saying thingssimply, and yet saying them proudly; and I donot know an epitaph that breathes a loftier con-sciousness of family worth and honorable line-age than one which affirms of a noble housethat "all the brothers were brave and all thesisters virtuous. "

In the opposite transept to Poet's Cornerstands a monument which is among the mostrenowned achievements of modern art, butwhich to me appears horrible rather than sub-lime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, byRoubillac. The bottom of the monument is

represented as throwing open its marble doors,and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. Theshroud is falling from his fleshless fr~m~ as. helaunches his dart at his victim. She IS sinkinginto her affrighted husband's arms, who striveswith vain and frantic eff?rt to a:rert the blow.The whole is executed WIth ternble t~uth ~ndspirit; we almost fancy: we hear the g~bberlllgyell of triumph burstmg from the dIstendedjaws of the spectre. But why should we thusseek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors,and to spread horrors round the tomb of thosewe love? The grave should be surroundedby everything that might inspire tendert;lessand veneration for the dead, or that mightwin the living to virtue. It is the place not ofdisgust and dismay, but of sorrow and med-itation. I

While wandering about these gloomy vau tsand silent aisles, studying the records of .thedead, the sound of busy existence from wi.th-out occasionally reaches the ear-the rumblingof the passing equipage, ~he murmur of themultitude, or perhaps the. h~ht 13;ugh of pleas-ure. The contrast is str.lklllg WIth the death-like repose around; and It has a strange effectupon the feelings thus to hear th.e surges ofactive life hurrying along and beatlllg agalllstthe very walls of the sepulchre.

I continued in this way to move from tombto tomb and from chapel to chapel: The daywas O'radually wearing away; the distant treadof loiterers about the abbey grew less and lessfrequent; the sweet-tongued bell was sum-

247

248 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH nOOK. 249

moning to evening prayers; and I saw at a dis,tance. the chori,sters in their white surplicescrossmg the aisle and entering the choir. Istoo~ before the e~trance to Henry the Sev-enth s chapel. A flight of steps leads up to itthrough a deep and gloomy but magnificentarch. Great gates of brass, richly and deli.cat~ly wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges,as If proudly reluctant to admit the feet ofcommon mortals into this most gorgeous ofsepulchres.

On enterin,g the eye is astonished by thepomp of architecture and the elaborate beaut"of sculptured detail. The very walls ar~w:ought into universal ornament encrustedw~th tracery, and scooped into niches crowdedwith the statues of saints and martyrs. Stoneseems, by the cunning labor of the chisel tohave been robbed. of its weight and density,suspended aloft as If by mazic and the frettedroof achieved with the wo~d~rfu11l1inutenessand airy security of a cobweb.

Along the sid.es of the chapel are the loftystalls of the Kmg.hts of the Bath, richly carvedof oak, t.hough ~lth the grotesque decorationsof Gothic architecture, On the pinnacles ofthe stalls are affixed the helmets and crests ofthe knights, with their scarfs and swords andabove them are suspended their banners' em-?lazoned with armorial bearings, and contrast-lUg th.e splendor of gold and purple and crim-son WIth the cold g-ray fretwork of the roof.In the midst of this grand mausoleum standsthe sepulchre of its founder-his effigy, with

that of his queen, extended on a sumptuoustomb-and the whole surrounded by a superbly-wrought brazen railing.

There is a sad dreariness in this magnifi-cence, this strange mixture of tombs and tro-phies, these emblems of living and aspiringambition, close beside mementos which showthe dust and oblivion in which all must sooneror later terminate. Nothing impresses themind with a deeper feeling of loneliness thanto tread the silent and deserted scene of for-mer throng and pageant. On looking roundon the vacant stalls of the knights and theiresquires, and on the rows of dusty but gor-geous banners that were once borne beforethem, my imagination conjured up the scenewhen this hall was bright with the valor andbeauty of the land, glittering with the splen-dor of jeweled rank and military array, alivewith the tread of many feet and the hum of anadmiring multitude. All had passed away;the silence of death had settled again upon theplace, interrupted only by the casual chirpingof birds, which had found their way into thechapel and built their nests among its friezesand pendants-sure signs of solitariness anddesertion.

When I read the names inscribed on the ban-ners, they were those of men scattered far andwide about the world-some tossing upon dis-tant seas; some under arms in distant lands;some mingling in the busy in trigues of courtsand cabinets.-all seeking to deserve one more

250 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 251

distinction in this mansion of shadowy honors~the melancholy reward of a monument., Two small ai~les ~n each side of this chapelpresent a touching instance of the equality ofthe grave, .which brings down the oppressor toQ level with the oppressed and mingles thedust of the bitterest enemies together. In oneis the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth' inthe other is that of her victim, the lovely andunfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the daybut some ejaculation of pity is uttered overthe fate of the latter, mingled with indignationat her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth'ssepulchre continually echo with the sighs 04'sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival.

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aislewhere Mary lies buried. The light strugglesdimly through windows darkened by dust.The greater part of the place is in deep sha-dow, and the walls are stained and tinted by~ime and weather. A marble figure of MaryIS stretched upon the tomb, round which is aniron railing, much corroded, bearing her na-tional emblem-the thistle. I was weary withwandering, and sat down to rest myself bythe monument, revolving in my mind thechequered and disastrous story of poor Mary., The sound of casual footsteps had ceased

from the abbey. I could only hear, now amithen, the distant voice of the priest repeatingthe evening service and the faint responses ofthe choir; these paused for a time, and all washushed. The stillness, the desertion and ob-scurity that were gradually prevailing around

gave a deeper and more solemn interest to theplace;

For in the silent grave no conversation,No joyful tread of friends, no voi~e of lovers,No careful father's counsel-,nothmg's heard,For nothing is, but all oblivion,Dust, and an' endless darkness.

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboringorgan burst upon the ear falling wit,h double.dand redoubled intensity, and rolling, as Itwere, huge billows of sound. How :well ~otheir volume and grandeur accord with thismighty building! With what pomp do theyswe ll through its vast vaults, and breathe theirawful harmony through these caves of death,and make the silent sepulchre vocal! Andnow they rise in triumphant acclamation,heavinz hisrher and higher their accordantnotes ~nd piling sound on sound. And nowthey pause, and- the soft voices of the choirbreak out into sweet gushes of melody; theysoar aloft and warble along the roof, and seemto play about thes~ lofty va~lts like the pureairs of heaven. Agam the pealing ?rgan ?e~vesits thrilling thunders, compressing air intomusic, and rolling it forth upon ~he soul. W~atlong-drawn cadences! 'What SOlemn sweepingconcords! It orows more and more dense andpowerful; it fills the vast pile and seems to jarthe very walls-the ear is stunned-the sensesare overwhelmed. And now it is winding upin full jubilee-it is rising from the earth toheaven; the very soul seems rapt away and

252 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 253

floated upwards on this swelling tide of har-mony.

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reveriewhich a strain of music is apt sometimes toinspire; the shadows of evening were graduallythickening round me; the monuments beganto cast deeper and deeper gloom; and the dis-tant clock again gave token of the slowly wan-ing day.

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. AsI descended the flight of steps which lead intothe body of the building, my eye was caughtby the shrine of Ed ward the Confessor, and Iascended the small staircase that conducts to it,to take from thence a general survey of thiswilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevatedupon a kind of platform, and close around itare the sepulchres of various king.; and queens.From this eminence the eye looks down be-tween pillars and funeral trophies to the chap-els and chambers below, crowded with tombs,where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and states-men lie mouldering in their "beds of~ark·ness. " Close by me stood the great chair ofcoronation, rudely carved of oak in the barbar-ous taste of a remote and Gothic age. Thescene seemed almost as if contrived with the-atrical artifice to produce an effect upon thebeholder. Here was a type of the beginningand the end of human pomp and power; hereit was literally but a step from the throne tothe sepulchre. INould not one think that theseincongruous mementos had been gathered to-gether as a lesson to living greatness?-to show

it even in the moment of its proudest ex alta.tion, the neglect and dishonor to which it mustsoon arrive-how soon that crown which en-circles its brow must pass away; and it mustlie down in the dust and disgraces 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 shocking levity in some natureswhich leads them to sport with awful and hal-lowed things, and there are base minds whichdelisrht to revenge on the illustrious dead theabject homage and groveling servility whichthey pay to the living. The coffin of Edwardthe Confessor has been broken open, and hisremains despoiled of their funereal ornaments;the sceptre has been stolen from the hand ofthe imperious Elizabeth; and the effigy ofHenry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royalmonument but bears some proof how false andfugitive is the homage of mankind. Some areplundered, some mutilated, some covered withribaldry and insult,--Clll more or less out-raged and dishonored.

The last beams of day were now faintlystreaming through the painted windows in thehi zh vaults above me; the lower parts of theabbey were already wrapped in the obscurityof twi lizht, The chapels and aisles grewdarker ~nd darker. The effigies of the kingsfaded into shadows; the marble figures of thenomuments assumed strange shapes in the un-certain light; the evening breeze crept throughthe aisles like the cold breath of the grave;

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and even the distant footfall of a verger, trav-ersing the Poet's Corner, had somethingstrange and dreary in its sound. I slowly re-traced my morning's walk, and as I passed outat the portal of the cloisters, the door, closingwith a jarring noise behind me, filled thewhole building with echoes.

I endeavored to form some arrangement inmy mind of the objects I had been contemplat-ing, but found they were already falling intoindistinctness and confusion. Names, inscri p-tions, trophies, had all become confounded inmy recollection, though I had scarcely takenmy foot from off the threshold. What, thoughtI, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but atreasury of humiliation-a huge pile of reiter-ated homilies on the emptiness of renown andthe certainty of oblivion? It is, indeed, theempire of death; his great shadowy palacewhere he sits in state mocking at the relics ofhuman glory and spreading dust and forget-fulness on the monuments of princes. Howidle a boast, after all, is the immortality of aname! Time is ever silently turning over hispages; we are too much engrossed by thestory of the present to think of the charactersand anecdotes that gave interest to the past;and each age is a volume thrown aside to bespeedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushesthe hero of yesterday out of our recollection,and will in turn be supplanted by his successorof to-morrow. "Our fathers," says Sir ThomasBrowne, "find their graves in our short memoories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried

in our survivors." History fades into fable;fact becomes clouded with doubt and contro-versy; the inscription moulders from the tab-let; the statue falls from the pedestal. Col-umns, arches, pyramids, what are they butheaps of sand, and their epitaphs but characterswritten in the dust? What is the securitv ofa tomb or the perpetuity of an embalmment?The remains of Alexander the Great havebeen scattered to the wind, and his empty sar-cophagus is now the mere curiosity of a muse-um. "The Egyptian mummies, which Cam-byses or time hath spared, avarice now con-sumeth; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaohis sold for balsams. "*

What then is to ensure this pile which nowlowers above me from sharing the fate ofmightier mausoleums? The time must comewhen its gilded vaults which now spring soJoftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet;when instead of the sound of melody andpraise the wind shall whistle through thebroken arches and the owl hoot from the shat-tered tower; when the garish sunbeam shallbreak into these gloomy mansions of death,and the ivy twine round the fallen columnand the fox-glove hang its blossoms above thenameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead.Thus man passes away; his name passes fromrecord and recollection; his history as a talethat is told, and his very monument becomesa ruin.

*Sir T. Browne

THE SKETCH BOOK.

CHRISTMAS.

But is' old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothingbut the hair of his good, gray old head and beard left?Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more ofhim.

Hue and Cry after Christmas.

A man might then beholdAt 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 gate were not chiddenWhen this old cap was new.

Old Song.

Nothinz in England exercises a more de-lightful spell over my imagination than thelingerings of the holiday customs and ruralzames of former times. They recall the pic-tures my fancy used to draw in the May morn-ing of life, when as yet I only knew the worldthrough books, and believed it to be all thatpoets had painted it; and they bring with the~the flavor of those honest days of yore, 1ll

which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am ~ptto think the world was more homebred, social,and joyous than at present. I regret to saythat they are daily growing more and ~orefaint, being gradually worn away by time,

THE SKETCH BOOK. 257

I

\

but still more obliterated by modern fashion.They resemble those picturesque morsels ofGothic architecture which we see crumbling invarious parts of the country, partly dilapi-dated by the waste of ages and partly lost inthe additions and alterations of latter days.Poetry however, clings with cherishing fond-ness about the rural game and holiday revelfrom which it has derived so many of itsthemes, as the ivy winds its rich foliage aboutthe Gothic arch and mouldering tower, grate-fully repaying their support by clasping to-gether their tottering remains, and, as it were,embalming them in verdure.

Of all the old festivals, however, that ofChristmas awakens the strongest and mostheartfelt associations. There is a tone ofsolemn and sacred feeling that blends with ourconviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state ofhallowed and elevated enjoyment. The ser-vices of the Church about this season are ex-tremely tender and inspiring. They dwell onthe beautiful story of the origin of our faithand the pastoral scenes that accompanied itsannouncement. They gradually increase infervor and pathos during the season of Advent,until they break forth in full jubilee on themorning that brought peace and good-will tomen. I do not know of a grander effect ofmusic on the moral feelings than to hear thefull choir and the pealing organ performing aChristmas anthem in a cathedral, and fillingeverv part of the vast pile with triumphantharmony.

17 Sketch Book

258 THE SKETCH BOOK.

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derivedfrom days of yore, that this festival, whichcommemorates the announcement of thereligion of peace and love, has been made theseason for gathering together of family con-nections, and drawing closer again those bandsof kindred hearts which the cares and pleas-ures and sorrows of the world are continuallvoperating to cast loose; of calling back thechildren of a family who have launched forthin life and wandered wildly asunder, once moreto assemble about the paternal hearth, thatrallying-place of the affections, there to growyoung and loving again among the endearingmementos of childhood.

There is something in the very season of theyear that gives a charm to the festivity ofChristmas. At other times we derive a greatportion of our pleasures from the merebeauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forthand dissipate themselves over the sunny land-scape, and we "live abroad and everywhere."

The song of the bird, the murmur of thestream, the breathing fragrance of spring, thesoft voluptuousness of summer, the goldenpomp of autumn, earth with its mantle of re-freshing green, and heaven with its deep de-licious blue and its cloudy magnificence,-allfill us with mute but exquisite delight, and werevel in the luxury of mere sensation. But inthe depth of winter, when Nature lies de-spoiled of every charm and wrapped in hershroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our grati-fications to moral sources. The dreariness

THE SKETCH BOOK. 25\1

and desolation of the landscape, the shortgloomy days and darksome nights, while theycircumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feel-ings also from rambling abroad, and make usmore keenly disposed for the pleasure of thesocial circle. Our thoughts are more concen-trated; our friendly sympathies more aroused.We feel more sensibly the charm of eachother's society, and are brought more closelytogether by dependence on each other for en-joyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and wedraw our pleasures from the deep wells of lov-ing-kindness which lie in the quiet recesses ofour bosoms, and which, when resorted to,furnish forth the pure element of domesticfelicity.

The pitchy gloom without makes the heartdilate on entering the room filled with the glowand warmth of the evening tire. The ruddyblaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshinethrough the room, and lights up each counte-nance in a kindlier welcome. Where does thehonest face of hospitality expand into abroader and more cordial smile, where is theshy glance of love more sweetly eloquent,than by the winter fireside? and as the hollowblast of wintry winds rushes through the hall,claps the distant door, whistles about the case-ment, and rumbles down the chimney, whatcan be more grateful than that feeling ofsober and sheltered security with which welook round upon the comfortable chamber andthe scene of domestic hilarity?

The English, from the great prevalence of

260 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 26\

u-

IIIiII

rural habit throughout every class of society,have always been fond of those festivals andholidays, which agreeably interrupt the still-ness of country life, and they were, in formerdays, particularly observant of the religiousand social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring,to read even the dry details which some anti-quaries have given of the quaint humors, theburlesque pageants, the complete abandon-ment to mirth and good-fellowship with whichthis festival was celebrated. It seemed tothrow open every door and unlock everyheart. It brought the peasant and the peertogether, and blended all ranks in one warm,generous flow of joy and kindness. The oldhalls of castles and manor-houses resoundedwith the harp and the Christmas carol andtheir ample boards groaned under the weightof hospitality. Even the poorest cottage wel-comed the festive season with green decora-tions of bay and holly-the cheerful fireglanced its rays through the lattice, invitingthe passengers to raise the latch and join thegossip knot huddled round the hearth beguil-ing the long evening with legendary jokes andoft-told Christmas tales.

One of the least pleasing effects of modernrefinement is the havoc it has made among thehearty old holiday customs. It has completelytaken off the sharp touchings and spirited re-liefs of these embellishments of life, and hasworn down society into a more smooth and pol-ished, but certainlv a less characteristic surface.Many of the games and ceremonials of Christ-

mas ~ave entirely disappeared, and, like thesherris sack of old Falstaff, are become mat.ters of speculation and -dispute among com-m:~tators. T~ey flourished in times full ofspirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed lifero.ughly, b~t heartily and vigorously-timesWIld and picturesque, which have furnishedpoetry ,,:,ith .its richest materials and thedrama with Its most attractive variety ofcharacters and manners. The world has be-c011?'emore worldly. There is more of dissi-patton, an~ less of enjoyment. Pleasure hasexpanded into a broader, but a shallowerstream,. and has forsaken many of those deepand quiet channels where it flowed sweetlyt~rough the c~lm bosom of domestic life. 80-ciety has acqUlr~d a more enlightened and ele-gant tone, .bu.t .It h~s lost many of its stronglocal pecuh~nttes,. Its homebred feelings, itshonest fireside delights. The traditionary cus-toms. of. ?,olden-hearted antiquity, its feudalhospitalities, a~d lordly wassailings, havepassed away with the baronial castles andstately manor-houses in which they were cele-brated. They comported with the shadowyh::ll, the great oaken gallery, and the tapes-tried parlor, but are unfitted to the light showys~loons and gay drawing-rooms of the modernvilla,

8?orn, however, as it is, of its ancient andfes!Ive honors, Christmas is still a period of?el.lghtful excitement in England. It is grat-ifying to s~e that home-feeling completelyaroused which holds so powerful a place in

262 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 233

every English bosom. The pr~parations ma~.ing on every side for the s~clal board that ISavain to unite friends and kindred ; the pres-e~ts of good cheer passing and repassing, thosetokens of regard and quickeners of kind feel-invs : the ev cr sreens distributed about housesb , b

and churches, emblems of peace and gladness,-aU these have the most pleasing effect inproducing fond associations and kindlingbenevolent sympathies. Even .the .sound ofthe 'Waits rude as may be their minstrelsy,breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter nightwith the effect of perfect harmony. As I havebeen awakened by them in that still andsolemn hour "when deep sleep falleth uponman" I have listened with a hushed delight,and,' connecting them with the s.acred and ~oy-OLlSoccasion, have almost fancied them mtoanother celestial choir announcing peace andaood-will to m ..mkind.b How deliahL;ully the imagination, whenwrouvht uno~ by these moral influences, turnscver)~hini to melody and beauty! . The. verycrowinv of the cock, heard sometimes rn theprofound repose of the country, "telling thenight watches to his feathery dames," wasthought by the common peopl~ to announcethe approach of this sacred festival.

"Some say that ever 'gamst that s.eason comes'Wherein our Savior's birth IS celebrated,This bird of dawning singeth all night long;And then, they say. no spirit dares stir abroad;The nights are wholesome-then no planets strike,No fairy takes. no witch hath power to charm,So nallow'd and so gracious is the time."

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bus-tle of the spirits, and stir of the affectionswhich prevail at this period what bosom canremain insensible? It is, indeed, the seasonof rezenerated feeling-the season for kindlingnot ~erely the fire of hospitality in the hall,but the genial flame of charity in the heart.

The scene of early love again rises green tomemory beyond the sterile waste of years;and the idea of home frauzht with the frag-rance of home-d wellin'g joys, reanimates thedrooping spirit, as the Arabian breez~ willsometimes waft the freshness of the distantfields to the weary pilgrim of the desert.

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land,'[hough for me no social hearth may blaze, nohospitable roof throw open its doors, nor thewarm grasp of friendship welcome me at thethreshold, yet I feel the influence of theseason beaming into my soul from the happylooks of those around me. Surely happinessis reflective, like the light of heaven, andevery countenance, bright with smiles andglowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirrortransmitting to others the rays of a supremeand ever-shining benevolence. He who canturn churlishly away from contemplatingthe felicitv of his fellow-beings. and can sitdown darkling and repining in his lonelinesswhen 0.11around is joyful, may have his mo-ments of strong excitement and selfish gratifi-cation, but he wants the genial and socialsympathies which constitute the charm of amerry Christmas.

264. THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 265

THE STAGE-COACH.

school-boys for my fellow-passengers inside,full of the buxom health and manly spiritwhich I have observed in the children of thiscountry. They were returning home for theholidays in high glee, and promising them-selves a world of enjoyment. It was delightfulto hear the gigantic plans of the little rogues,and the impracticable feats they were to per-form during their six weeks' emancipation fromthe abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and ped-agogue. They were full of anticipations of themeeting with the family and household, downto the very cat and dog, and of the joy theywere to give their little sisters by the presentswith which their pockets were crammed; butthe meeting to which they seemed to look for-ward with the greatest impatience was withBantam, which I found to be a pony, and,according to their talk, possessed of more vir-ti.es than any steed since the days of Bu-cephalus, How he could trot! how he couldrun! and then such leaps as he would take!-there was not a hedge in the whole countrythat he could not clear.

They were under the particular guardianshipof the coachman, to whom, whenever an oppor-tunity presented, they addressed a host ofquestions, and pronounced him one of the bestfellows in the world. Indeed, I could not butnotice the more than ordinary air of bustle andimportance of the coachman, who wore his hata little on one side and had a large bunch ofChristmas greens stuck in the buttonhole of hiscoat. He is always a personage full of mighty

18 Sketch Book

Omne beneSine poena

Tempua est ludendi,Venit horaAbsque mora

Libras deponendi.-Old Holiday School- Song.

In the preceding paper I have made somegeneral observations on the Christmas festiv-rties of England, and am tempted to illustrate~hem by some anecdotes of a Christmas passedin the country; in perusing which I would mostcourte~:>usly i~vite my reader to lay aside thea~stent>:" of WIsdom, and to put on that gen-ume hol:day spirit which is tolerant of fo11yand anxious only for amusement.

!n the course of a December tour in York-shIre: I rode for a long distance in one of thepublic coaches on the clay preceding Christmas.T~e coach was crowded, both if side and outwI.th .passengers who, by their talk, seemedpnncI,Pally bound to the mansions of relationsor friends to eat the Christmas dinner. Itwas loaded also with hampers of game andbaskets and boxes of delicacies and hares hun"dangling their long ears about the coachman'~,?ox, p~esents from distant friends for theimpending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked

•

266 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 267

care and business, but he is particularly so dur-ing this season, having so many commissionsto execute in consequence of the great inter-change of presents. And here, perhaps, itmay not be unacceptable to my untraveledreaders to have a sketch that may serve as ageneral representation of this very numerousand important class of functionaries, who havea dress, a manner, a language, an air peculiarto themselves and prevalent throughout thefraternity; so that whenever an Eng-lish stage-coachman may be seen he cannot bemistaken for one of any other craft or mystery.

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiouslymottled with red, as if the blood had beenforced by hard feeding into every vessel of theskin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions byfrequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulkis still further increased by a multiplicity ofcoats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower,the upper one reaching to his heels. He wearsa broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat; a huge rollof colored handkerchief about his neck know-ingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom : andhas in summer-time a large bouquet of flowersin his buttonhole, the present, most probably,of some enamored country lass. His waistcoatis. commonly of some bright color, striped, andhIS small-clothes extend far below the knees,to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach abouthalfway up his legs.

All this costume is maintained with muchprecision; he has a pride in having his clothesof excellent materials, and, notwithstanding

.he seeming grossness of his appearance, tl~ereIS still discernible that neatness and proprietyof person which is almost inherent in an Eng-lishman. He enjoys great consequence andconsideration along the road; has frequentconferences with the village housewives, wholook upon him as a man of great trust anddependence; and he seems to have a goodunderstanding with every bright-eyed countrylass. The moment he arrives where the horsesare to be changed, he throws down the reinswith something of an air and abandons thecattle to the care of the ostler, his duty beingmerely to drive from one stage to another.When off the box his hands are thrust into thepockets of his great coat, and he rolls aboutthe inn-yard with an air of the most absolutelordliness. Here he is generally surroundedby an admiring throng of ostlers. stable-boys,shoe blacks, and those nameless hangers-onthat infest inns and taverns, and run errandsand do all kinds of odd jobs for the privilege ofbattening on the drippings of the kitchen andthe leakage of the tap-room. These al.l lookup to him as to an oracle, treasure up hIS cantphrases, echo his opinions about horses andother topics of jockey lore, and, above all,endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Everyragamuffin that has a coat to ?is ?ack. thrustshis hands in the pockets, rolls in hIS galt, talksjIang, and is an embryo Coachey. .

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasingserenity that reigned in my own mind that Ifancied I saw cheerfulness in every counte-

L,

268 THE SKETCH nOOK. THE SKETCH nOOK. 26~

nancc throughout the journey. A stage-coach,however, carries animation always with it, andputs the world in motion as it whirls alon;:;.The horn, sounded at the entrance of the vil-lage, produces a general bustle: Some ,hastenforth to meet friends; some with bundles andbandboxes to secure places, and in the hurryof the moment can hardly take leave of thegroup that accompanies them. In the mean-time the coachman has a world of small com-missions to execute. Sometimes he deliversa hare or pheasant; sometimes jerks a smallparcel or newspaper to the door of a publichouse; and sometimes, with knowing leer andwords of sly import, hands to some half-blush-ina- half-laughing housemaid and odd-shapedbill~t-doux from some rustic admirer. As thecoach rattles through the village everyoneruns to the window, and you have glances onevery side of fresh country faces and bloominggiggling girls. .At the corn.ers are assembledjuntos of village Idlers and WIse men, who taketheir stations there for the important purposeof seeinv company pass; but the sagest knotis gene;ally at the blacksmith's, .to whom thepassing of the coach ISan event fruitful of muchspeculation. The smith, with the horse's heelin his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; thecyclops round the anvil suspend their ringinghammers and suffer the iron to grow cool; andthe sooty spectre in brown paper cap laboringat the bellows leans on the handle for amoment, and permits the asthn~etic engine toheave a long-drawn sigh, while he glare:;;

throuvh the murky smoke and sulphurousa-leam""sof the smithv."" Perhaps the impending holiday might havegiven a more than usual animation to the coun-try, for it seemed to me. a.s if everybody was ingood looks and good SpIrItS. Game, J?oult:y,and other luxuries of the table were in briskcirculation in the villages; the grocers',butchers' and fruiters' shops were throngedwith cust;mers. The housewives were stirringbriskly about putting their dwellings in order,and the a-los'sv bra;ches of holly with theirbriO"ht-red ber~ies bee-an to appear at the win-do~s. The scene brought to mind an oldwriter's account of Christmas preparation:"N ow capons and hens, besides turkeys, gee~e,and ducks with beef and mutton, must all die,for in twelve days a multitude of people willnot be fed with a little. Now plums andspice, sugar and honey, square it amo.ng pi~sand broth. Now or never must mUSICbe intune for the youth must dance and sing to getthern a heat: while the aged sit by the fire.The country maid leaves half her market, andmust be sent again if she forgets a pack ofcards on Christl';as Eve. Great is the conten-tion of holly and ivy whether master or damewears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit thebutler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he willsweetly lick his fingers. "

I was roused from this fit of lUXUrIOUSmedi-tation by a shout from my little traveling com-panions. They had been looki?g out of t~ecoach-windows for the last few miles, recog111z-

270 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 271

ing every tree and cottag e as they approachedhome, and now there was a general burst ofjoy. "There's John! and there's old Carlo!and there's Bantam!" cried the happy littlerogues, clapping their hands.

At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant in livery waiting for them; hewas accompanied by a superannuated pointerand by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old ratof a pony with a shaggy mane and long rustytail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside,little dreaming of the bustling times thatawaited him.

I was pleased to see the fondness with whichthe little fellows leaped about the steady oldfootman and hugged the pointer, who wriggledhis whole body for joy. But Bantam was thegreat object of interest; all wanted to mountat once, and it was with some difficulty thatJohn arranged that they should ride by turnsand the eldest should ride first.

Off they set at last, one on the pony, withthe dog bounding and barking before him, andthe others holding John's hands, both talkingat once and overpowering him with questionsabout home and with school anecdotes. Ilooked after them with a feeling in which I donot know whether pleasure or melancholy pre-dominated; for I was reminded of those dayswhen, like them. I had known neither care norsorrow and a holiday was the summit of earthlyfelicity. We stopped a few moments after-wards to water the horses, and on resumingour route a turn of the road brought us in

sight of a neat country-seat. I could iust dis-ti?gu~sh the fon~ls of a lady and two younggirls m the portico, and I saw my little com-rades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old Johntrooping along the carriage-road. I leaned outof the coach-window, in hopes of witnessin zthe happy meeting, but a grove of trees shU:tit from my sight.

In the evening we reached a village whereI had determined to pass the night. As wedrove int.o the great gateway of the inn, I sawon one SIde the light of a rousinz kitchen-firebean:ing through a window. IOentered, andadmired, f?r the hundredth time, that pictureof convemence, neatness, and broad honestenjoyment, the kitchen of an Envlish inn. Itwas of spacious dimensions, hung around withcopper and tin vessels, highly polished, anddecorated here and there with a Christmasgreen. Hams, tongues, and flitches of baconwere suspended from the ceiling, a smoke-jackmade its ceaseless clankinv beside the fire-place, and a clock ticked in one corner. Awell-scoured deal table extended along one sideof the kitchen, with a cold round of beef andother hearty viands upon it, over which twofoaming tankards of ale seemed rnou nt.invgua.rd. Travelers. of inferior order were pre":panng to attack this stout repast, while otherssat smoking and gossiping over their ale on twohigh- backed oaken settles beside the fire.Trim housemaids were hurrying backwardsand forwards under the directions of a freshbustling landlady, but still seizing an occa-

272 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK.

sional moment to exchange a flippant word andhave a rallying lauzh with the group round thefire. The scene b completely realized PoorRobin's humble idea of the comforts of mid-winter:

Now trees their leafy hats do bareTo reverence Winter's silver hair;A handsome hostess. merrv host,A pot of ale now and a toast,Tobacco and a good coal fire,Are things this season doth require. *

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to the door. A young gentle-man stepped out, and by the light of the l~mpsI caught a glimpse of a countenance which Ithought I knew. I ~oved forward t? get anearer view, when hIS eye caught mm~. Iwas not mistaken; it was Frank Bracebnd~e,a sprightly, good-humored young fellow. withwhom I had once traveled on the Contment.Our meeting was extremely cordial, for thecountenance of an old fellow-traveler alwaysbrings up the recollection of a thousand pleas-ant scenes odd adventures, and excellentjokes. To 'discuss all these in a transient .in-terview at an inn was impossible; and, findingthat I was not pressed for time and was merelymaking a tour of observation, he insisted thatI should give him a day or two at ?is father'scountry seat, to which he was gom~ to,pa;ssthe holidays and which lay at a few miles dIS-tance. "It is better than eating a solitaryChristmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and I

*Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684.

can assure you of a hearty welcome m some-thing of the old-fashioned style. •• His reason-ing was cogent, and I must confess the prepar-ation I had seen for universal festivity andsocial enjoyment had made me feel a little im-patient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore,at once with his invitation; the chaise droveup to the door, and in a few moments I wason my way to the family mansion of the Brace-bridges.

THE SKETCH BOOK.

CHRISTMAS EVE.Saint Francis and Saint BenedightBlesse this house from wicked wight;From the night-mare and the goblin,That is hight good fellow Robin;Keep it from all evil spirits,Fairies, weasels, rats and ferrets:

From curfew timeTo the next prime.

-Cartwright.

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but ex-tremely cold; our chaise whirled rapidly overthe frozen ground; the postboy smacked hiswhip incessantly, and a part of the time hishorses were on a gallop. "He knows wherehe is going," said my companion, laughing,"and is eager to arrive in time for some of themerriment and good cheer of the servants'hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoteddevotee of the old school, and prides himselfupon keeping up something of old English hos-pitality. He is a tolerable specimen of whatyou will rarely meet with nowadays in its pur-ity, the old English country gentleman; forour men of fortune spend so much of theirtime in town, and fashion is carried so muchinto the country, that the strong rich peculi-arities of ancient rural life are almost polishedaway. My father, however, from early years,

!

THE SKETCH BOOK. 275

took honest Peacham * for his text-book m-stead o~ Chesterfield; he determined in' hisown mind that there was nO condition moretruly honorable and enviable than that of acountry gentleman on his paternal lands andtherefore, passes the whole of his time ~n hi~estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the re-vival of the old rural games and holiday obser-vances, and is deeply read in the writersancient and modern, who have treated on th~:mbject. Indeed, his favorite range of readingIS among the authors who flourished at leasttwo centuries since, who, he insists, wrote andthought more like true Enzrishmen than anv

f 1 . '" 'o t ieir successors. He even rezrets some-times that he had not been born a few centur-ies earlier, when Envland was itself and had., '"Its peculiar manners and customs. As he livesat some distance from the main road in rathera lonely part <:f the country, without' any rivalgentry near h im, he has that most enviable ofa~l bles~ings ~o an Englishman-an opportu-mty of indulging the bent of his own humorwithout molestation. Being representative ofthe oldest family in the neighborhood, and agre,:,t part of the peasantry being his tenants,he IS mu.ch looked up to, and in general isknown SImply by the appellation of 'TheSquire'-a title which has been accorded to thehead of the family since time immemorial. Ithink it best to give you these hints about myworthy old father, to prepare you for any

*Peacham's "Complete Gentlemen," 1622.

THE SKETCH BOOK.

eccer.tr icit ics that niight otherwise appearabsurd. "

We had passed for some time along the wallof a park, and at length the chaise stopped atthe gate. I twas 11J a heavy, magnificent oldstyle, of iron bars fancifully wrought at topinto flourishes and flowers. The huge squarecolumns that supported the gate were sur-mounted by the family crest. Close adjoiningwas the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark firtrees and almost buried in shrubbery.

The postboy rang a large porter's bell whichresounded through the still frosty air, and wasanswered by the distant barking of dogs, withwhich the mansion-house seemed garrisoned.An old woman immediately appeared at thegate. As the moonlight fell strongly uponher, I had a full view of a little primitivedame, dressed very much in the antique taste,with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and hersilver hair peeping from under a cap of snowywhiteness. She came curtseying forth, withmany expressions of simple joy at seeing heryoung master. Her husband, it seemed, wasup at the house keeping Christmas Eve in theservants' hall; they could not do without him,as he was the best hand at a song and story inthe household.

My friend proposed that we should alightand walk through the park to the hall, whichwas at no great distance, while the chaiseshould follow on. Our road wound through anoble avenue of trees, among the nakedbranches of which the moon glittered as she

THE SKETCH BOOK. 271

rolled through the deep vault of a cloudlesssky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with aslight covering of snow, which here and theresparkled as the moonbeams caught a frostycrystal, and at a distance might be seen a thintransparent vapor stealing up from the lowgrounds and threatening gradually to shroudthe landscape.

My companion looked around him withtransport. "How often," said he, "have Iscampered up this avenue on returning homeon school vacations! How often have I playedunder these trees when a boy! I feel a degreeof filial reverence for them, as we look up tothose who have cherished us in childhood.My father was always scrupulous in exactingour holidays and having us around him on fam-ily festivals. He used to direct and superin-'tend our games with the strictness that someparents do the studies of their children. Hewas very particular that we should play theold English games according to their originalform, and consulted old books for precedentand authority for every 'merrie disport'; yetI assure you there never was pedantry so de-lightfu1. It was the policy of the good oldgentleman to make his children feel that homewas the happiest place in the world; and Ivalue this delicious horne- feeling as one of thechoicest gifts a paren t could bestow. •,

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troopof dogs of all sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy,whelp, and hound, and curs of low degree, ,-that, disturbed hy the ring of the porter's bell

,278 THE SKETCH BOOK.

and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding,open-mouthed, across the lawn.

.. '-The little dogs and all,Tray, Blanch and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me!' ..

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound ofhis voice the bark was changed into a yelp ofdelight, and in a moment he was surroundedand almost overpowered by the caresses of thefaithful animals.

We had now come in full view of the oldfamily mansion, partly thrown in deep shadowand partly lit up by the cold moonshine. Itwas an irregular building of some magnitude,and seemed to be of the architecture of differ-ent periods. One wing was evidently veryancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow win-dows jutting out and overrun with ivy, fromamong the foliage of which the small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the moon-beams. The rest of the house was in theFrench taste of Charles the Second's time, hav-ing been repaired and altered, as my friendtold me, by one of his ancestors who returnedwith that monarch at the Restoration. Thegrounds about the house were laid out in theold formal manner of artificial flower-beds,clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavystone balustrades, ornamented with urns, aleaden statue or two, and a jet of water. Theold gentleman, I was told, was extremely care-ful to preserve this obsolete finery in all itsoriginal state. He admired this fashion ingardo \ng; it had an air of magnificence, was

THE SKETCH BOOK. 279

courtly and noble, and befiting good old familystyle. The boasted imitation of Nature inmodern gardening had sprung up with modernrepublican notions but did not suit, a monarch-ical government; it smacked of the levelingsystem. I could not help smiling at this intro-duction of politics into gardening, though Iexpressed some apprehension that I should findthe old gentleman rather intolerant in hiscreed. Frank assured me, however, that itwas almost the only instance in which he hadever heard his father meddle with politics;and he believed that he had got this notionfrom a member of Parliament who once passeda few weeks with him. The squire was gladof any argument to defend his clipped yewtrees and formal terraces, which had been oc-casionally attacked by modern landscape gar-deners.

As we approached the house we heard thesound of music, and now and then a burst oflaughter from one end of the building. This,Bracebridge said, must proceed from the ser-vants' hall, where a great deal of revelry waspermitted, and even encouraged, by the squirethroughout the twelve days of Christmas, pro-vided everything was done conformably to an-cient usage. Here were kept up the old gamesof hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cock-les, steal the white loaf, bob apple, and snapdragon; the Yule-clog and Christmas candlewere regularly burnt, and the mistletoe with

THE SKETCH BOOK. 2!:l1280 THE SKETCH BOOK.

its white berries hung up, to the imminentperil of all the pretty housemaids.* .

So intent were the servants upon their sportsthat we had to ring repeatedly before we couldmake ourselves heard. On our arrival beingannounced the squire came out to receive us,accompanied by his two other sons-one ayoung officerin the army, home on a leave ofabsence; the other an Oxonian, just from theuniversity. The squire ~as ~ fine hea:lthylo?k-ing old gentleman, WIth s;lver hall' curlinglightly around ~n open. flon? countenance, mwhich the physlOgnon:Ist, w~ththe advantage,like myself, of a prevIo~s hint or tw~, mightdiscover a singular mixture of whim andbenevolence.

The family meeting was warm and affec-tionate; as the evening was far advanced, thesquire would not permit us to change ourtraveling dresses, but ushered us a~ once tothe company, which was assembled in a ~argeold-fashioned hall. It was composed of differ-ent branches of a numerous family connec-tion where there were the usual proportion ofold 'uncles and aunts comfortable marrieddames, superannuated spinster~, .bloomingcountry cousins, half-fledged striplings, andbright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. Theywere variously occupied - some at a round

-;-The mistletoe is still hung up in farm houses andkitchens at Christmas. and the youn~ men ~ave theprivilege of kissing the girls under It, pluc~Ing eachtime a berry from the bush. When the berries are allplucked the privilege ceases.

game of cards; others conversing around thefireplace; at one end of the hall was a groupof the young folks, some nearly grown up,others of a more tender and budding age,fully engrossed by a merry game; and a pro-fusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, andtattered dolls about the floor showed tracesof a troop of little fairy beings who, havingfrolicked through a happy day, had beencarried off to slumber through a peacefulnight.

While the mutual greetings were going onbetween young Bracebridge and his relativesI had time to scan the apartment. I havecalled it a hall, for so it had certainly been inold times, and the squire had evidently en-deavored to restore it to something of its prim-itive state. Over the heavy projecting fire-place was suspended a picture of a warrior inarmor, standing by a white horse, and on theopposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, andlance. At one end an enormous pair of ant-lers were inserted in the wall, the branchesserving as hooks on which to suspend hats,whips, and spurs, and in the corners of theapartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods,and other sporting implements. The furni-ture was of the cumbrous workmanship of for-mer days, though some articles of modern con-venience had been added and the oaken floorhad been carpeted, so that the whole presentedan odd mixture of parlor and hall.

The grate had been removed from the wideoverwhelming fireplace to make way for a

THE SKETCH BOOK.

fire of wood, in the midst of which was anenormous log glowing and blazing, and send.ing forth a vast volume of light and heat: this,I understood, was the Yule-clog, which thesquire was particular in having brought in andillumi~ated on a Christmas Eve, accordingto ancient custom.*

It was really delightful to see the old squireseated in his hereditary elbow-chair by thehospitable fireside of his ancestors, and look-~ngaround him like the sun of a system, beam-lUgwarmth and gladness to every heart. Eventhe very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as

* The Yule-clog is a great log of wood, sometimes theroot of a tree, brought into the house with great cere-~ony on .Christmas Eve, laid in the fire-place, andhghted with the brand of last year's clog. While itlasted there was great drinking. singing, and telling oftales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Christmascandles; but in the cottages the only light was from theruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule-clog wasto burn all night; if it went out, it was considered asign of ill-luck.

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs:Come, bring with a noise,My merrie, merrie boys,The Christmas Log to the firing;While my good dame, sheBids ye all be free,And drink to your hearts' desiring.

The Yule-clog is still burnt in many farm-houses andkitchens in England, particularly in the north, andthere are several superstitions connected with it amongthe peasantry. If a squinting- person come to the housewhile it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is consid-ered an ill omen. The brand remaining from the Yule.clog is carefully put away to hght the next year's Christ-mas fire.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 283

•I

he lazily shifted his position and yawnedwould look fondly up in his master's face, waghis tail against the floor, and stretch himselfagain to sleep, confident of kindness and pro-tection. There is an emanation from the heartin genuine hospitality which cannot be de-scribed, but is immediately felt and puts thestranger at once at his ease. I had not beenseated many minutes by the comfortablehearth of the worthy old cavalier before Ifound myself as much at home as if I had beenone of the family.

Supper was announced shortly after ourarrival. It was served up in a spacious oakenchamber, the panels of which shone with wax,and around which were several family por-traits decorated with holly and ivy. Besidesthe accustomed lights, two great wax tapers,called Christmas candles, wreathed withgreens, were placed on a highly polishedbeaufet among the family plate. The tablewas abundantly spread with substantial fare;but the squire made his supper of frumenty, adish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk withrich spices, being a standing dish in old timesfor Christmas Eve. I was happy to find myold friend, minced pie, in the retinue of thefeast; and, finding him to be perfectly ortho-dox, and that I need not be ashamed of mypredilection, I greeted him with all the warmthwherewith we usually greet an old and verygenteel acquaintance.

The mirth of the company was greatly pro-moted by the humors of an eccentric personage

284 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 285

whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed withthe quaint appellation of Master Simon. Hewas a tight brisk little man, with the air of anarrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped likethe bill of a parrot; his face slightly pittedwith the small-pox, with a dry perpetual bloomon it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. Hehad an eye of great quickness and vivacity,with a drollery and lurking waggery of expres-sion that was irresistible. He was evidentlythe wit of the family, dealing very much insly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, andmaking infinite merriment by harping uponold themes, which, unfortunately, my ignor-ance of the family chronicles did not permitme to enjoy. It seemed to be his great de.light during supper to keep a young girl nextto him in a continual agony of stifled laughter,in spite of her awe of the reproving looks ofher mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he wasthe idol of the younger part of the company,who laughed at everything he said or did andat every turn of his countenance. I could notwonder at it; for he must have been a miracleof accomplishments in their eyes. He couldimitate Punch and Judy; make an old womanof his hand, with the assistance of 'a burntcork and pocket-handkerchief; and cut anorange into such a ludicrous caricature thatthe young folks were ready to die with laugh-ing.

I was let briefly into his history by FrankBracebridge. He was an old bachelor, of asmall independent income, which by careful

management was sufficient for all his wants.He revolved through the family system like avagrant comet in its orbit, sometimes visitingone branch, and sometimes another quite re-mote, as is often the case with gentlemen ofextensive connections and small fortunes inEngland. He had a chirping, buoyant dispo-sition, always enjoying the present moment;and his frequent change of scene and companyprevented his acquiring those rusty, unaccom-modating habits with which old bachelors areso uncharitably charged. He was a completefamily chronicle, being versed in the geneal-ogy, history, and intermarriages of the wholehouse of Bracebridge, which made him agreat favorite with the old folks; he was abeau of all the elder ladies and superannuatedspinsters, among whom he was habitually con-sidered rather a young fellow; and he was mas-ter of the revels among the children, so thatthere was not a more popular being in thesphere in which he moved than Mr. SimonBracebridge. Of late years he had residedalmost entirely with the squire, to whom hehad become a factotum, and whom he particu-larly delighted by jumping with his humor inrespect to old times and by having a scrap ofan old song to suit every occasion. We hadpresently a specimen of his last-mentioned tal-ent, for no sooner was supper removed andspiced wines and other beverages peculiar tothe season introduced, than Master Simon wascalled on for a good old Christmas song. Hebethought himself for a moment, and then,

286 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 287

with a sparkle of the eye and a voice that wasby no means bad, except that it ran occasion-ally into a falsetto like the notes of a splitreed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty:

Now Christmas is come,Let us beat up the drum,

And call all our neighbors together;And when they appear,Let us make them such cheer,

As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc.

graces of the ancient school; but he had un-luckily assorted himself with a little rompinggirl from boarding-school, who by her wildvivacity kept him continually on the stretchand defeated all his sober attempts at ele-gance; such are the ill-started matches towhich antique gentlemen are unfortunatelyprone.

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, hadled out one of his maiden aunts, on whomthe rogue played a thousand little knaverieswith impunity: he was full of practical jokes,and his delight was to tease his aunts andcousins, yet, like all madcap youngsters, hewas a universal favorite among the women.The most interesting couple in the dance wasthe young officer and a ward of the squire's, abeautiful blushing girl of seventeen. Fromseveral shy glances which I had noticed in thecourse of the evening I suspected there was alittle kindness growing up between them; andindeed the young soldier was just the hero tocaptivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slen-der, and handsome, and, like most young Brit-ish officers of late years, had picked up varioussmall accomplishments on the Continent: hecould talk French and Italian, draw land-scapes, sing very tolerably, dance divinely;but, above all, he had been wounded atWaterloo. What girl of seventeen, well read inpoetry and romance, could resist such a mir-ror of chivalry and perfection?

The moment the dance was over he caughtup a guitar, and, lolling against the old marble

The supper had disposed everyone to gayety,and an old harper was summoned from theservant's hall, where he had been strummingall the evening, and to all appearance com-forting himself with some of the squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I wastold, of the establishment, and, though osten-siblv a resident of the village, was oftener tobe found in the squire's kitchen than his ownhome, the old gentleman being fond of thesound of "harp in hall."

The dance, like most dances after supper,was a merry one: some of the older folksjoined in it, and the squire himself figureddown several couple with a partner with whomhe affirmed he had danced at every Christ-mas for nearly half a century. Master Simon,who seemed to be a kind of connecting linkbetween the old times and the new, and to bewithal a little antiquated in the taste of hisaccomplishments, evidently piqued himself onhis dancing, and was endeavoring to gaincredit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other

288 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 289

fireplace in an attitude which I am half in-clined to suspect was studied, began the littleFrench air of the Troubadour. The squire,however, exclaimed against having anythingon Christmas Eve but good old English; uponwhich the young minstrel, casting up his eyefor a moment as if in an effort of memory,struck into another strain, and with a charm-ing air of gallantry gave Herrick's "Night.Piece to Julia:"

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,The shooting stars attend thee,

And the elves also,Whose little eyes glow

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o'<the-Wisp mislight thee;Nor snake nor slow-worm bit thee

But on thy way,Not making a stay,

Since ghost there is none to affright thee.

Then let not the dark thee cumber.What though the moon does slumber,

The stars of the nightWill lend thee their light,

Like tapers clear without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee,Thus. thus to come unto me,

And when I shall meetThy silvery feet,

My soul I'll pour unto thee.

tion for she never looked at the singer, butkept her eyes cast upon the floor .. Her facewas suffused, it is true, with a beautiful blush,and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom,but all that was doubtless caused by the exer-cise of the dance; indeed, so great ~as her in-difference that she amused herself WIth pluck-ing to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-houseflowers, and by the time the song was con-cluded the nose-gay lay in ruins on the floor.

The party no; broke up for the night withthe kind-hearted old custom of shaking hands.As I passed thrcuzh the hall on my way tomy chamber, the dying embers of the Yul~-clos' still sent forth a dusky glow, and had Itnotbeeri the season when "no spirit dares stirabroad." I should have been half tempted tosteal from my room at midnight and peepwhether the fairies might not be at their revelsabout the hearth.

My chamber was in the old part of the man-sion, the ponderous furniture of which r.nighthave been fabricated in the days of the gIants.The room was paneled, with cornices ofheavy carved work, in which flowers and gTO-

tesque faces were strangely intermingled, anda row of black-looking portraits stared mourn-fully at me from the walls. . The bed was ofrich though faded damask, WIth a lo~ty tester,and stood in a niche opposite a bow window, Ihad scarcely got into bed when c: s~rain of musicseemed to break forth in the air Just below thewindow. I listened, and found it proceededfrom a band which I concluded to be the Waits

1\1 Sketch Book

The song might or might not have been in-tended in compliment to the fair Julia, for so Ifound his partner was called; she, however,was certainly unconscious of any such applica-

Io..~ ••••••••••••• •••• iiiiiiiii===--

290 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 291

from some neighboring village. They wentround the house, playing under the windows.I drew aside the curtains to hear them moredistinctly. The moonbeams fell through theupper part. of the casement; partially lightingup the ant iquaterl apartment. The sounds, asthey receded, became more soft and aerial3;nd seemed. to accord with the quiet and moon:light. I listened and listened-they becamemore and more tender and remote and asthey gradually died away, my head ~unk ~ponthe pillow and I fell asleep.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

Dark and dull night, flie hence away,And give the honor to this dayThat sees December turn'd to May.

Why does the chilling winter's morneSmile like a field beset with corn?Or smell like to a meade new-shorne,Thus on the sudden?-come and beeThe cause why things thus fragrant be.

-Herrick.

When I woke the next morning it seemed asif all the events of the preceding evening hadbeen a dream, and nothing but the identity ofthe ancient chamber convinced me of theirreality. While I lay musing on my pillow Iheard the sound of little feet pattering outsideof the door, and a whispering consultation.Presently a choir of small voices chanted forthan old Christmas carol, the burden of whichwas-

Rejoice, our Saviour he was bornOn Christmas Day in the morning.

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened thedoor suddenly, and beheld one of the mostbeautiful little fairy groups that a painter couldimagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls,the eldest not more than six, and lovely asseraphs. They were going the rounds of the

292 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 293

house and singing at very chamber door butmy sudden appearance frightened them' intomute bashfulness. They remained for amoment playing on their lips with theirfingers, and now and. then stealing a shyglance ~rom under their eyebrows, until, as ifby one Impulse, they scampered away, and asthey turne~ an. an~le of the gallery I heardthem laug~lllg III tn.umph at their escape.

Everythlllg conspired to produce kind and~appy feel~ng~ in this stronghold of old-fash-ioned hospita lity, The window of my cham-ber looked out upon what in summer wouldhav~ been a beautiful landscape. There was aSI01?lllglawn, a fine stream winding at the footof It, and a tract of park beyond, with nobleclumps of trees and herds of deer. At a dis-tance was a ne~t hamlet, with the smoke fromthe cotta.~e c~lmneys hanging over it, and achu~ch WIth Its dark spire in strong reliefagainst th~ clear cold sky. The house was sur-r~)llnded WIth ev.ergreens, according to the Eng-lish custom, which would have given almost anappearance of summer; but the morning wasext~emely f~osty; the light vapor of the pre-ceding evenlllg had been precipitated by thecold, and covered all the trees and everv bladeof gras~ with its fi~e crystallizations. The raysof a bnght n:orn.lllg sup had a dazzling effectamong the ghttenng foliage, A robin perchedupon the top of a mourrtairr-ash that'l1tlllg itsclusters ~f re~ berrie~ just before my window,:vas baskmg himself in the sunshine and pip-7;lg a few querulous notes, and a peacock was

displaying all the glories of his train and strut-ting with the pride and gravity of a Spanishgrandee on the terrace walk below.

I had scarcely dressed myself when a servantappeared to invite me to family prayers. Heshowed me the way to a small chapel in theold wing of the house, where I found the prin-cipal part of the family already assembled in akind of gallery furnished with cushions, has-socks, and large prayer-books; the servantswere seated on benches below. The oldgentleman read prayers from a desk in frontof the gallery, and Master Simon acted asclerk and made the responses; and I must dohim the justice to say that he acquitted himselfwith great gravity and decorum.

The service was followed by a Christmascarol, which Mr. Bracebridge himself had con-structed from a poem of his favorite author,Herrick, and it had been adapted to an oldchurch melody by Master Simon. As therewere several good voices among the household,the effect was extremely pleasing, but I wasparticularly gratified by the exaltation of heartand sudden sally of grateful feeling with whichthe worthy squire delivered one stanza, his eyeglistening and his voice rambling out of allthe bounds of time and tune:

"'Tis Thou that crowu'st my glittering hearthWith guiltless mirth,

And givest me Wassaile bowles to drinkSpiced to the brink;

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping "andThat soiles my land:

~94 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 295

And giv'st me for my bushell sowneTwice ten for one." '

I ~fterwards understood that early morningservice was read on every Sunday and saint'sday throughout the year, either by Mr. Brace-bndge or by some member of the family Itwas once almost universally the case at theseats. o~ the nobility and gentry of England~nd It. IS ~uch to be regretted that the custo~IS falling into neglect; for the dullest observermust be sensible of the order and serenitp.revalent in. those households where the occ!-~lOnal exerc~se of. a beautiful form of worshipin the morning gIves, as it were, the keynoteto .eyery temper for the day and attunes everyspirrt to harmony.

Our ,breakfast consisted of what the squire?enomlll~ted tru~ old English fare. Heindulged in some bitter lamentations over mod-ern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he cen-~ured as among the causes of modern effem-manc? and weak nerves and the decline of oldEnglish h~artiness; and, though he admittedthem to his table to suit the palates of hisguests, y:et there was a brave display of coldmeats, Wille, and ale on the sideboard

.After breakfast I walked about the' O"roundswith ~rank Bracebridge and Master Si~on orMr. Snl!0n, as he was called by everybody butthe squire .. We were escorted by a number ofgentlemanhke dogs, that seemed loungersabol1~ the establishment, from the friskingspaniel to the steady old stag-hound the lastof which was of a race that had been in the

family time out of mind; they were all obedi-ent to a dog-whistle which hung to MasterSimon's buttonhole, and in the midst of theirgambols would glance an eye occasionally upona small switch he carried in his hand.

The old mansion had a still more venerablelook in the yellow sunshine than by pale moon-light; and I could not but feel the force ofthe squire's idea that the formal terraces,heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yewtrees carried with them an air of proud aris-tocracy. There appeared to be an unusualnumber of peacocks about the place, and I wasmaking some remarks upon what I termed aflock of them that were basking under a sunnywall, when I was gently corrected in myphraseology by Master Simon, who told methat according to the most ancient and ap-proved treatise on hunting I must say a musterof peacocks. "In the same way," added he,with a slight air of pedantry, "we say a flightof doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herdof deer. of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes,or a building of rooks," He went on to informme that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert,we ought to ascribe to this bird "both under-standing and glory; for, being praised, he willpresently set up his tail, chiefly against thesun, to the intent you may the better beholdthe beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf,when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hidehimself in corners till his tail come again as itwas,"

I could not help smilin:- at this dis:'by of

296 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 287

small erudition on so whimsical a subject: butI found that the peacocks were birds of some~onsequence at the hall, for Frank Bracebridgeinformed me that they were great favoriteswith his father, who was extremely careful tokeep up the breed; partly because theybelonged to chivalry, and were in great requestat the stately banquets of the olden time, andp~~tly because they had a pomp and mag-nificence about them highly becoming an oldfamily mansion. Nothing, he was accustomedto say, had an air of greater state and dignitythan a peacock perched upon an antique stonebalustrade.

Maste.r Simon had now to hurry off, havingan appointment at the parish church with thevillage choristers, who were to perform somemusic of his selection. There was somethingextremely agreeable in the cheerful flow ofanimal spirits of the little man; and I confessI h~d been somewhat surprised at his apt quo-~atIOns from authors who certainly were notm.the rang~ of every-day reading. I mentionedthis last clrcu~stance .to Frank Bracebridge,who told me with a smile that Master Simon'swhole stock of erudition was confined to somehalf ~ dozeJ?-old authors, which the squire hadput into hIS hands, and which he read overand over whenever he had a studious fit as hesometimes had on a rainy day or a long wirrterevening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's "Book ofHusbandry," Markham's "Country Content-ments," the "Tretyse of Hunting," by SirThomas Cockayne, Knight, Isaac Walton's

"Ano ler " and two ar three more such ancientb , •

worthies of the pen were hIS standard author-ities: and like all men who knew but a fewbooks, h~ looked up to them with.a kind ofidolatry and quoted them on all occasions. Asto his songs, they were chiefly picked out ofold books in the squire's library, and adaptedto tunes that were popular among the choicespirits of the last century. His practical appli-cation of scraps of literature, however, hadcaused him to be looked upon as a prodigy ofbook-knowledge by all the grooms, hunstmen,and small sportsmen of the neighborhood.

While we were talking we heard the distanttoll of the village bell, and I was told that thesquire was a little particular in having hishousehold at church on a Christmas morning,considering it a day of pouring out of thanksand rejoicing; for, as old Tusser observed,-"At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal,And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small."

"If you are disposed to go to church," saidFrank Bracebridge, "I can promise you a spec-imen of my cousin Simon's musical achieve-ments. As the church is destitute of an organ,he has formed a band from the village ama-teurs, and established a musical club for theirimprovement; he has alsd sorted a choir, as hesorted my father's pack of hounds, accordingto the directions of Jervaise Markham in his'Country Contentments:' for the bass he hassought out of all the 'deep, solemn mouths,'and for the tenor the 'loud-ringing mouths,'

20 Sketch Book

298 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 29S

among the country bumpkins, and for 'sweet-mouths,' he has culled with curious tasteamong the prettiest lasses in the neighbor-hood; though these last, he affirms, are themost difficult to keep in tune, your prettyfemale singer being exceedingly wayward andcapricious, and very liable to accident."

As the morning, though frosty, was remark-ably fine and clear, the most of the familywalked to the church, which was a very oldbuilding of gray stone, and stood near a villageabout half a mile from the park gate. Adjoin-ing it was a low snug parsonage which seemedcoeval with the church. The front of it wasperfectly matted with a yew tree that had beentrained against its walls, through the densefoliage of which apertures had been formedto admit light into the small antique lattices.As we passed this sheltered nest the parsonissued forth and preceded us.

I had expected to see a sleek well-condi-tioned pastor, such as is often found in a snugliving in the vicinity of a rich patron's tahle,but I was disappointed, The parson was 2

little, meagre, black-looking man, with agrizzled wig that was too wide and stood offfrom each ear; so that his head seemed tohave shrunk away within it, like a dried fil-hert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, withgreat skirts and pockets that would have heldthe church Bible and prayer-book: and hissmall legs seemed still smaller from beingplanted in large shoes decorated with enor-mous buckles.

I was informed bv Frank Bracebridge thatthe parson had been a chum of his father's atOxford and had received this living shortlyafter the latter had come to his estate. Hewas a complete black-letter hunter, and wouldscarcely read a work printed in the Romancharacter. The editions of Caxton and Wyn-kyn de Worde were his delight, and he wasindefatigable in his researches a~ter suc~ ?ldEnglish writers as had fallen into oblivioufrom their worthlessness. In def~rence, per-haps, to the notions o~ M~. Bra.cebndge he ~admade diligent investlgatlons into tl~e festiverites and holiday customs of former t1?1es, andhad been as zealous in the inquiry as if he hadbeen a boon companion; but it was merelywith that plodding spirit with which men ofa dust temperament follow up ~ny track ofstudy, merely beca.use. it i.s d.enommated learn-inc : indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whetherit b~the illustration of the wisdom or of theribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He hadpored over these old volumes so intensely th~tthey seemed to have been reflecte~ into hiscountenance; which, if the face be indeed anindex of the mind, might be compared to atitle-page of black-letter. ~

On reaching the church-porch we found theparson rebuking the gray-headed sexton ~orhaving used mistletoe among the greens withwhich the church was decorated. It was,.heobserved, an unholy plant, profaned by havingbeen used by the Druids in their n:ystlc cere-monies; and, though it might be mnocently

300 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 301

employed in the festive ornamenting of halls presented a most whimsical grouping of headsand kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the piled one above the other, among which I par-fathers of the church as unhallowed and totally ticularly noticed that of the village tailor, aunfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was pale fellow with a retreated forehead and chin.he on this point that the poor sexton was who played on the clarinet, and seemed toobliged to strip down a great part of the hum- have blown his face to a point; and thereble trophies of his taste before the parson was another, a short pursy man, stooping andwould consent to enter upon the service of the laboring at a bass-viol, so as to show nothingdav. but the top of a round bald head, like the egg

1'he interior of the church was venerable of an ostrich. There were two or three prettybut simple; on the walls were several mural faces among the female singers, to which themo~uments of the Bracebridges, and just keen air of a frosty morning had given abeside the altar was a tomb of ancient work- bright rosy tint; but the gentleman choristers~anship, o~ whi~h lay the effigy of a warrior had evidently been chosen, like old CremonaIII a~mor with his legs crossed, a sign of his fiddles, more for tone than looks; and as sev-having been a crusader. I was told it was one eral had to sing from the same book, thereof the family who had signalized himself in were clusterings of odd physiognomies not un-the Holy Land, and the same whose picture like those groups of cherubs we sometimes seehung over the fireplace in the hall. on country tombstones.

During service Master Simon stood up in the The usual services of the choir were man-pe;" a;nd repeate~ the responses very audibly, aged tolerably well, the vocal parts generallyeVlllcmg that kind of ceremonious devotion lagging a little behind the instrumental andpunctually observed by a gentleman of the old some loitering fiddler now and then making'school and a man of old family connections. I up for lost time by traveling over a passageobserved too that he turned over the leaves of with prodigious celerity and clearing more barsa fol!o prayer-book with something of a flourish; than the keenest fox-hunter to be in at thepos.s1bly t<;>show off an enormous seal-ring death. But the great trial was an anthem thatwhich enriched one of his fingers and which had been prepared and arranged by Masterha~ the look of a family relic. But he was Simon, and on which he had founded great ex-evidently most solicitous about the musical pectation. Unluckily, there was a blunder atpart of the servic~, keeping his eye fixed the very outset; the musicians became flur-intently o~ the. choir, and beating time wih ' ried; Master Simon was in a fever; everythingmuch gesticulation and emphasis. I went on lamely and irregularly until they came

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and to a chorus beginning, "Now, let us sing with

-j-~-~

302 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK.

one accord," which seemed to .be a signal forparting compan:y; all becaI?e discord and con-fusion; each shifted for himself, and got tothe end as well-or, rather, as soon-as hecould excepting one old chorister in a pair ofhorn ~pectacles bestriding and pinching a longsonorous nose, who happened to stand a littleapart, and, being wrapp~d up in his o,,:n ~el-ody, kept on a q~avenng cour~e, :vnggl1l1ghis head ogling his book, and windirig all upby a nasal solo of at least three bars' dura-tion.

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon onthe rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and thepropriety of observing it ~o~ ~nerely as a ~ayof thanksgiving, but of reJ01C1l1g,supportingthe correctness of his opinions by the earliestusages of the Church, and enforcing them bythe authorities of Theophilus of Csesarea, St.Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and acloud more of saints and fathers, from whomhe made copious quotations. I was a little ata loss to perceive the necessity of such a mightyarrav of forces to maintain a point which noone' present seemed inclined to dispute; .but Isoon found that the good man had a legion ofideal adversaries to contend with, having inthe course of his researches on the subject ofChristmas got completely embroiled in thesectarian controversies of the Revolution,when the Puritans made such a fierce assaultupon the ceremonies of the Church, and poorold Christmas was driven out of the land by

proclamation of Parliament. * The worthyparson lived but with times past, and knew butlittle of the present.

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the re-tirement of his antiquated little study, thepages of old times were to him as the gazettesof the day, while the era of the Revolutionwas mere modern history. He forgot .thatnearly two centuries had elapsed since thefiery persecution of poor mince-pie throughoutthe land; when plum porridge was denouncedas "mere popery," and roast beef as anti-chris-tian, and that Christmas had been brought inagain triumphantly with the merry court ofKing Charles at the Restoration. He kindledinto warmth with the ardor of his contest andthe host of imaginary foes with whom he hadto combat; he had a stubborn conflict with oldPrynne and two or three other forgotten cham-pions of the Roundheads on the subject of

*From the "Flying Eagle," a small gazette, publishedDecember 24, 1652: "The House spent much time thisday. about the business of the Navy, for settling theaffairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented witha terrible remonstrance against Christmas day, ground-ed upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v, 16; I Cor. xv, 14,17; and i~ honor of the Lord's Day, grounded uponthese Scriptures, John xx, I; Rev. i. 10; Psalms cxviir,24; Lev. xxiii. 7, I r; Mark xv. 8; Psalms lxxxiv. 10, inwhich Christmas is called Anti-Christ's masse, and thoseMasse-mongers an~ Papists who observe it, etc. Inconsequence of WhICh Parliaments spent some time inconsultation about the abolition of Christmas day,passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on thefollowing day, which was commonly called Christmasday. "

304 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 305

Christmas festivity; and concluded by urginghis hearers in the most solemn and affectingmanner to'stand to the traditional customs oftheir fathers and feast and make merry on thisjoyful anniversary of the Church.

I have seldom known a sermon attendedapparently with more immediate effects, foron leaving the church the congregation seemedone and all possessed with the gayety of spiritso earnestly enjoined by their pastor. Theelder folks gathered in knots in the church-yard, greeting and shaking hands, and the chil-dren ran about crying Ule! Ule! and repeatingsome uncouth rhymes, * which the parson, whohad joined us, informed me had been handeddown from days of yore. The villagers doffedtheir hats to the squire as he passed, givinghim the good wishes of the season with everyappearance of heartfelt sincerity, and we.re in-vited by him to the hall to take something tokeep out the cold of the weather; and I he~rdblessings uttered by several of the poor, whichconvinced me that, in the midst of his enjoy-ments, the worthy old cavalier had not forgot-ten the true Christmas virtue of charity.

On our way homeward 'his heart seemedoverflowed with generous and happy feelings.As we passed over a rising round which com-manded something of a prospect, the sounds ofrustic merriment now and then reached ourears; the squire paused for a few moments and

*"Ule! Ule!Three puddings III a pule;Crack nuts and cry ule l"

looked around with an air of inexpressible be-nignity. The beauty of the day was of itselfsufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwith-standing the frostiness of the morning, the sunin his cloudless journey had acquired sufficientpower to melt away the thin covering of snowfrom every southern declivity, and to bringout the living green which adorns an Englishlandscape even in mid-winter. Large tracts ofsmiling verdure contrasted with the dazzlingwhiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows.Every sheltered bank on which the broad raysrested yielded its silver rill of cold and limpidwater, glittering through the dripping grass,and sent up slight exhalations to contribute tothe thin haze that hung just above the surfaceof the earth. There was something trulycheering in this triumph of warmth and ver-dure over the frosty thraldom of winter; itwas, as the squire observed, an emblem ofChristmas hospitality breaking through thechills of ceremony and selfishness and thaw-ing every heart into a flow. He pointed withpleasure to the indications of good cheer reek-ing from the chimneys of the comfortablefarm-houses and low thatched cottages. "IJove, " said he, "to see this day well kept byrich and poor; it is a great thing to have oneday in the year, at least, when you are sure ofbeing welcome wherever you go, and of hav-ing, as it were, the world all thrown open toyou: and I am almost disposed to join withPoor Robin in his malediction on every churl-ish enemy to this honest festival:

306 THE SKETCH BOOK. . THE SKETCH BOOK. 307" 'Those who at Christmas do repine,

And would fain hence dispatch him.May they with old Duke Humphry dine.

Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em.' .,

The squire went on to lament the deplorabledecay of the games and amusements whichwere once prevalent at this season among thelower orders and countenanced by the higher,when the old halls of castles and manor-houseswere thrown open at daylight; w hen the tableswere covered with brawn and bee' and hum-ming ale; when the harp and the carol re-sounded all day long; and when rich and poorwere alike welcome to enter and make merry. *"Our old games and local customs," said he,"had a great effect in making the peasant fondof his home, and the promotion of them bythe gentry made him fond of his lord. Theymarie the times merrier and kinder and better,and I can truly say, with one of our old poets,

" 'I like them well; the curious precisenessAnd all-pretended gravity of thoseThat seek to banish hence these harmless sports,Have thrust away much ancient honesty."

"The nation," continued he, "is altered; weha~e almost lost our simple hearted peasantry.

*"An English gentleman. at the opening of the greatday-i. e., on Christmas Day in the morning-had allhis tenants and neighbors enter his hall by daybreak.The strong beer was broached, and the black-jacks wentplentifully about, with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and goodCheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) mustbe boiled by daybreak, or else two young men musttake the maiden (r, e., the cook) by the arms and runher round the market-place till she is shamed of herlazmess."-Round about our Sea-Coal Fire.

'They have broken asunder from the higherolasses, and seem to think their interests are~eparate.. They have become too knowing,and begll?-. t? read newspapers, listen to ale-house politicians, and talk of reform. I thinkone mode to keep them in good-humor in thesehard times would be for the nobility and gen-fry to pass more time on their estates, minglemore among the country-people, and set theme;ry old English games going again. "

S.uch was .the. good squire's project for miti-gatmg public discontent: and, indeed, he hadonce attempted to put his doctrine in practice,and a few years before he had kept open houseduring the holidays in the old style. Thecountry-people, however, did not understandho:v to play their parts in the scene of hospi-tality : many uncouth circumstances occurred;the manor was overrun by all the vagrants ofth~ country, and more beggars drawn into thene igh borhood in ~ne ,:veek than the parishofficers could get rid of in a year. Since thenhe had contented himself with inviting thedecent part of the neighboring peasantry tocall at the hall on Christmas Day and withdistributing beef, an.d bread, and ~le amongthe poor, t.hat they might make merry in theirown dwelhngs.

We had not been long home when the soundof music was heard from a distance. A bandof country lads, without coats, their shirt-sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their hatsdecorated with greens, and clubs in theirhands, was seen advancing up the avenue,

THE SKETCH BOOK. 3()9308 THE SKETCH BOOK .•

followed by a large number of villagers andpeasantry. They stopped before the halldoor where the music struck up a peculiarair and the lads performed a curious and in-tri~ate dance advancing, retreating, and strik-ing their clubs together, keeping exact timeto the music; while one, whimsically crownedwith a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunteddown his back, kept capering round the skirtsof the dance and rattling a Christmas box withmany antic gesticula~ions. . . . . .

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition withoreat interest and delight, and gave me a full~ccount of its oris-in which he traced to thetimes when the Ron'tans held possession ofthe island, plainly proving that this was a ~inealdescendant of the sword dance of the ancients."It was now" he said, "nearly extinct, but hehad accidentally met with traces 0.£ it i~ theneighborhood, and had encouraged its revival ;though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to befollowed up by the rough cudgel play andbroken heads in the evening."

After the dance was concluded the wholeparty was entertained with brawn and beefand stout home-brewed. The squire himselfmingled among the rustics, and was receivedwith awkward demonstrations of deference andregard. It is true I perceived two or three ofthe younger peasants, as they were raising t.he~rtankards to their mouths, when the squire sback was turned making something of a grim-ace, and giving each other the wink; but themoment they caught my eye they pulled grave

faces and were exceedingly demure. WithMaster Simon, however, they all seemed moreat their ease. His varied occupations andamusements had made him well knownthroughout the neighborhood. He was av.isitor at every farm-house and cottage, gos-siped with the farmers and their wives,romped with their daughters, and, like thattype of a vagrant bachelor, the humble bee,tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of thecountry round.

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave waybefore good cheer and affability. There issomething genuine and affectionate in the gay-ety of the lower orders when it is excited bythe bounty and familiarity of those abovethem; the warm glow of gratitude enters intotheir mirth, and a kind word or a small pleas-antry frankly uttered by a patron gladdens theheart of the dependant more than oil andwine. When the squire had retired the merri-ment increased, and there was much jokingand laughter, particularly between MasterSimon and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headedfarmer who appeared to be the wit of the vil-lage; for I observed all his companions to waitwith open mouths for his retorts, and burst intoa gratuitous laugh before they could well un-derstand them.

The whole house indeed seemed abandonedto merriment: as I passed to my room to dressfor dinner, I heard the sound of music in asmall court, and, looking through a windowthat commanded it, I perceived a band of

:310 THE SKETCH BOOK.

wandering musicians with pandean pipes andtambourine; a pretty coquettish housemaidwas dancing a jig with a smart country lad,while several of the other servants were look-ing on. In the midst of her sport the girlcaught a glimpse of my face at the window,and, coloring up, ran off with a air of roguish'lffected confusion.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 311

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.Lo, now is come our joyfui'st feast!

Let every man be jolly,Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest,

And every post with hollv.Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke,

And Christmas blocks ar-- burning;Their ovens they with bak 't meats choke

And all their spits are turning.Without the door let sorrow lie,And if, for cold, it hap to die,Wee'l bury 't in a Christmas pye,And evermore be merry.

Withers, Juvenilia.

I had finished my toilet, and was loiteringwith Frank Bracebridge in the library, whenwe heard a distant thwacking sound, whichhe informed me was a signal for the servingup of the dinner. The squire kept up oldcustoms in kitchen as well as hall, and the roll-ing-pin, struck upon the dresser by the cook,summoned the servants to carry in the meats.

Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice,And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;Each serving-man, with dish in hand,March'd boldly up, like our train-band.

Presented and away. *

The dinner was served up in the great hall,

\ ~~_-_*_S_ir_J_O_h_n_S_U_C_k_lin_g_. _

312 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 31:!

where the squire always held his Christmasbanquet. A blazing crackling fire of logs hadbeen heaped on to warm the spacious apart-ment and the flame went sparkling andwreathing up the wide-mouthed chimneJ:'.The great picture of the crusader and ?ISwhite horse had been profusely decorated withgreens for the occasion, and holly and ivy hadlikewise been wreathed round the helmet andweapons on the opposite wall, which I un-derstood were the arms of the same warrior. Imust own by the by, I had strong doubtsabout the' authenticity of the painting andarmor as having belonged to the crusader,they certainly having the stamp of more recentdays; but Iwas told that the p~inting had beenso considered time out of mind ; and that asto the armor it had been found in a lumber-room and elevated to its present situation bythe squire, who at once determined it to bethe armor of the family hero; and as he wasabsolute authority on all such subjects in hisown household, the matter had passed intocurrent acceptation. A side-board was.set outjust under this chivalric tro1?hy, on Whl~h wasa display of plate that might have VIed (atleast in variety) with Belshazzar's parade ofthe vessels of the temple: "flagons, cans,cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and e.wers.."the gorgeous utensils of good companionshipthat had gradually accumulated through manygenerations of jovial housekeepers. Beforethese stood the two Yule candles, beaming liketwo stars of the first magnitude; other lights

were distributed in branches, and the wholearray glittered like a firmament of silver.

We were ushered into this banqueting scene'with the sound of minstrelsy, the old harperbeing seated on a stool beside the fireplace andtwanging his instrument with a vast dealmore power than melody. Never did Christ-mas board display a more goodly and graciousassemblage of countenances; those who werenot handsome were at least happy, and happi-ness is a rare improver of your hard-favoredvisage. I always consider an old Englishfamily as well worth studying as a collectionof Holbein's portraits or Albert Durer'sprints. There is much antiquarian lor~ to beacquired, much knowledge of the physiogno-mies of former times. Perhaps it may be fromhaving continually before their eyes those rowsof old family portraits, with which the man-sions of this country are stocked; certain it isthat the quaint features of antiquity are oftenmost faithfully perpetuated in these ancientlines and I have traced an old family nosethro~gh a whole picture-ga~lery, legitimat~lyhanded down from generatlOn to generationalmost from the time of the Conquest. Some-thing of the kind was to be observed in theworthy company around me. Many of theirfaces had evidently originated in a Gothic age,and been merely copied by succeeding genera-tions; and there was one little girl in particu-lar, of staid demeanor, with a high Romannose and an antique vinegar aspect, who wasa ~reat favorite of the squire's, being, as he

314 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 315

Though prepared to witness many of theselittle eccentricities, from being apprised of thepeculiar hobby of mine host, yet I confess theparade with which so odd a dish was intro-duced somewhat perplexed me, until Igathered from the conversation of the squire

and the parson that it was meant to representthe bringing in of the boar's head, a dish for-merly served up with much ceremony and thesound of minstrelsy and song at great tableson Christmas Day. "I like the old custom "said the squire, "not merely because it' isstately and pleasing in itself, but because itwas observed at the college at Oxford at whichI was e~uca~ed. W~en I hear the old songchanted It bnngs to mind the time when I wasyoung and gamesome, and the noble old col-lege hall, and my fellow-students loiteringabout in their black gowns; many of whompoor lads! are now in their graves." '

The parson, however, whose mind was nothaunted by such associations, and who wasalways more taken up with the text than thesentiment, objected to the Oxonian's versionof the carol, which he affirmed was differentfrom that sung at college. He went on, witht~e dry perseverance of a commentator, togrve the col~ege reading, accompanied by sun-dry annotations, addressing himself at first tot?e company at large; but, finding their atten-bon gradually diverted to other talk and otherobjects, he lowered his tone as his number ofauditors diminished until he concluded hisremarks in an under' voice to a fat-headed oldgentleman next him who was silently engaged~~he discussion of a huge plateful of turkey. *

* ~he old cere.mony of serving up the boar's head onChristmas Day IS still observed in the hall of Queen'sCollege, Oxford. I was favored by the parson with acopy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be accept-

said, a Bracebridge all over, and the verycounterpart of one of his ancestors who figuredin the court of Henry VIII.

The parson said grace, which was not a shortfamiliar one, such as is commonly addressedto the Deity in these unceremonious days, buta long, courtly, well-worded one of the ancientschool. There was now a pause, as if some-thing was expected, when suddenly the butlerentered the hall with some degree of bustle:he was attended by a servant on each sidewith a large wax-light, and bore a silver dishon which was an enormous pig's head deco-rated with rosemary, with a lemon in itsmouth, which was placed with great formalityat the head of the table. The moment thispageant made its appearance the harper struckup a flourish; at the conclusion of which theyoung Oxonian, on receiving a hint from thesquire, gave, with an air of the most comicgravity, an old carol, the first verse of whichwas as follows;

Caput apri deferoReddens laudes Domino.

The boar's head in hand bring I,With garlands gay and rosemary.I pray you all synge merrily

Qui estis in convivio,

816 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 317

itation, was a pheasant pie, though a peacockpie was certainly the most authentical; butthere had been such a mortality among thepeacocks this season that he could not prevailupon himself to have one killed. *

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiserreaders, who may not have that foolish fond-ness for odd and obsolete things to which I ama little given, were I to mention the othermakeshifts of this worthy old humorist, bywhich he was endeavoring to follow up, thoughat humble distance, the quaint customs ofantiquity. I was pleased, however, to see therespect shown to his whims by his children andrelatives; who, indeed, entered readily into thefull spirit of them, and seemed all well versedin their parts, having doubtless been present

able to such of my readers as are curious in these grave *The peacock was anciently in great demand forand learned matters. I give it entire: stately entertainments. Sometimes it was made into

a pie. at one end of which the head appeared above theThe boar's head in hand bear I, crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt; at theBedeck'd with bays and rosemary; other end the tail was dispayed. Such pies were servedAnd I pray YO~l, my masters. be merry up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights-

Quot estis in convivio errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilousCaput apri defero, enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used by Jus-Reddens laudes domino. ice Shallow, "by cock and pie."

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christ-The boar's bead, as I understand. mas feast; and Massinger in his "City Madam." gives,Is the rarest dish in all this land, some idea of the extravagance with which this, as wellWhich thus bedeck'd with a gay garland as other dishes. was prepared for the gorgeous revels of

Let us servire cantico the olden times:Caput apri defero, etc.

Men may talk of Country Christmasses,Our steward hath provided this Their thirty pound butter'd eggs. their pies of carps'In honor of the King of Bliss, tongues;Which on this day to be served is 'fheir pheasants drench'd with ambergris: the carcases

In Reginensi Atrio. of three fat wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce'

_________ .c.a.p.u.t.a.p.ri_d.ef.e.r.o .• e.t.c•.•• e.t.c .•••e.tc.· I.. fo.r_a.s.in.g.l.e.p.e.a.c.O.ck_! ----------

The table was literally loaded with gooccheer, and presented an epitome of countryabundance in this season of overflowing lar-ders. A distinguished post was allotted to"ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it,being, as he added, "the standard of old Eng-lish hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence,and full of expectation. " There were severaldishes quaintly decorated, and which hadevidently something traditional in their em-bellishments, but ahout which, as I did not liketo appear over-curious, I asked no questions.

I could not, however, but notice a pie mag-nificently decorated with peacock's feathers, inimitation of the tail of that bird, which over-shadowed a considerable tract of the table.This, the squire confessed with some little hes-

318 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 319

at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at .heair of profound gravity with which the butlerand other servants executed the duties assignedthem, however eccentric, They had an old-fashioned look, having, for the most part, beenbrought up in the household and grown intokeeping with the antiquated mansion and thehumors of its lord, and most probably lookedupon all his whimsical regulations as the esta b-lished laws of honorable housekeeping.

'When the cloth was removed the butlerbrought in a huge silver vessel of rare and cur-ious workmanship, which he placed before thesquire. Its appearance was hailed withacclamation, being the Wassail Bowl, sorenowned in Christmas festivity. The con-tents had been prepared by the squire himself;for it was a beverage in the skilful mixture ofwhich he particularly, prided himself, allegingthat it was too abstruse and complex for thecomprehension of an ordinary servant. It wasa potation, indeed, that might well make theheart of a toper leap within him, being com-posed of the richest and raciest wines, highlyspiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bob-bing- about the surface. *

The old gentleman's whole countenancebeamed with a serene look of indwelling delightas he stirred this mighty bowl. Having raised

it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a merryChristmas to all present, he sent it brimminground the board, for everyone to follow hisexample, according to the primitive style, pro-nouncing it "the ancient fountain of good feel-ing, where all hearts met together. ,,*

There was much laughing and rallying asthe honest emblem of Christmas jovialitycirculated and was kissed rather coyly by theladies. When it reached Master Simon, heraised it in both hands, and with the air of aboon companion struck up an old WassailChanson:

*The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of aleinstead of wine, with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, andToasted crabs; in this way the nut-brown beverage isstill prepared in some old families and round thehearths of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also

The brown bowle,The merry brown bowie,As it goes round-about-a,

FillStill,

Let the world say what it will,And drink your fill all out-a.

The deep canne,The merry deep canne,As thou dost freely quaff-a,

called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated by Herrick in his"Twelfth Night:"

Next crowne the bowIe fullWith gentle Lamb's Wool;

Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,With store of ale too,And thus ye must doe

To make the Wassaile a swinger.

*"The custom of drinking out of the same cup gaveplace to each having his cup. When the steward cameto the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry three timesWassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappell (chap-lain) was to answer with a SOtlg'."--Archreologia.

320 THE SKETCH BOOK •.THE SKETCH BOOK. 321

SingFling.

Be as merry as a king.And sound a lusty laugh-a. *

benevolent being t<? diff?se pleasure aroundhim ! and how truly IS a kind heart a fountainof gladnes~, maki~g everything in its vicinityto freshen into srniles ]' The joyous dispositionof the worthy sq?ire was perfectly contagious;he was happy himself, and disposed to makeall the world happy, and the little eccentric-ities of his humor did but season, in a mannerthe sweetness of his philanthropy. '. 'When the ladies had retired, the conversa-

tion, as usual, became still more animated.many good things were broached which hadbeen thought of during dinner, but whichwould not exactly do for a lady's ear' andthough I cannot positively affirm that' ther~was much wit uttered, yet I have certainlyheard many contests of rare wit produce muchless laugh.ter. ~it, after all, is a mighty tart,pungent ingredient, and much too acid forsome stomachs; but honest good-humor is theoil ~nd. wine of a .merry meeting, and there isno JOVIal companionship equal to that wherethe jokes are rather small and the laughterabundant.

The squire told several long stories of earlycollege pranks and adventures in some ofwhich the parson had been a sharer though inlooking at the latter it required some effort ofimagination to figure such a little dark anat-omy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcapgambol. Indeed, the two college chums pre.sen~ed .pictures of ~hat. men may be made bytheir dlfferet;t lot.s in hfe: The squire hadleft the university to live lustily on his

21 Sketch Book

Much of the conversation during dinnerturned upon family topics, to which I was astranger. There was, however, a great dealof rallying of Master Simon about som~ gaywidow with whom he was accused of having aflirtation. This attack was commenced by theladies, but it was continued throughout thedinner by the flat-headed ol~ gent1~m,:n nextthe parson with the persevenng assldU1t~ of aslow hound, being one of those long-wm?edjokers, who, though rather dull 3;t startinggame, are unrivaled for thei~ talents m huntingit down. At every pause m the general con-versation he renewed his bantering in prettymuch the same terms, winking hard at mewith both eyes whenever he gave Master Simonwhat he considered a home-thrust. The latter,indeed, seemed fond of being teased on thesubject, as old bachelors are apt to be, and' hetook occasion to inform me, in an undertone,that the lady in question was a prodigiouslyfine woman and drove her own curric1e.

The dinner-time passed away in this flow ofinnocent hilarity, and, though the old hallmay have resounded in its time with many ascene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubtwhether it ever witnessed more honest andgenuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one

*From Poor Robin's Almanack,

32~, THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 32S

paternal domains in the vigorous enjoyment ofprosperity and sunshine, and had flourished onto a hearty and florid old age; whilst the poorparson, on the contrary, had dried and witheredaway among dusty tomes in the silence andshadows of his study. Still, there seemed tobe a spark of almost extinguished fire feeblyglimmering in the bottom of his soul; and asthe squire hinted at a sly story of the parsonand a pretty milkmaid whom they once met onthe banks of the Isis, the old gentleman madean "alphabet of faces," which, as far as Icould deci pher his physiognomy, I verily believewas indicative of laughter; indeed, I haverarely met with an old gentleman that tookabsolute offence at the imputed gallantries ofhis youth. . .I found the tide of wine and wassail fast

gaining on the dry land of sober judgmen~.The company grew merrier and .louder as !helrjokes grew duller. Master SImon was m. aschirping a humor as a grasshopper filled withdew; his old songs grew of a warmer complex-ion, and he began to talk maudlin about thewidow. He even gave a long song about thewooing of a widow which he informed me hehad gathered from an excellent black-letterwork entitled" Cupid's Solicitor for Love," con-taining store of good advice fer bachelors, and.which he promised to lend me; the first verst'was to this effect:

He that WIllwoo a widow must not dally,He must make hay while the sun doth shine

He must not stand with her, shall I. shall l,But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine.

'this song inspired the fat-headed old gentle-man, who made several attempts to tell a ratherbroad story out of Joe Miller that was pat tothe purpose; but he always stuck in the middle~very.body recollecting the latter part except:mg himself, The parson, too, began to showthe effects of. good cheer, having graduallysettled d~\v:n mto a doze and his wig sitting~ost SUSPIClOusly on one side. Just at thisJuncture we were summoned to the drawinc-room,. and I suspect, at the private instigatio""nof mme host, whose joviality seemed alwaystempered with a proper love of decorum.After the dinner-table was removed the hall

was given up to the younger members of thefa~i1y, who, pror;npted to'" all kind of noisymirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon madeits old walls ri~g with their merriment as theyplay~d at rompmg games I delight in wit-nessmg the gambols of children, and partic-ularly at this happy holiday season, andcould not help stealing out of the drawing-room one hearing one of their peals of laughter.I found them at the game of blindmans.bn g,Master Simon, who was the leader of theirrevels, and seemed on all occasions to fulfillthe of?ce of that ancient potentate, the Lordof MIsrule, * was blinded in the midst of thehall. The little beings were as busy about

*At Christmasse there was in the Kinges house, where-soever hee was lodged, a Jorde of misrule or mayster ofmene disportes, and the Irke had ye in the house ofev~ry nobleman of honor, or good worshippe, were hespirituall or temporall,-Stow.

Il:)

IJII

324 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 325

him as the mock fairies about Falstaff, pinch-ing him, plucking at the skins of his coat, andtickling him with straws. One fine blue-eyedgirl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair allin beautiful confusion, her frolic face in aglow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, acomplete picture of a romp, was the chieftormentor; and, from the slyness with whichMaster Simon avoided the smaller game andhemmed this wild little nymph in corners, andobliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, Isuspected the rogue of being not a whit moreblinded than was convenient.

When I returned to the drawing-room Ifound the company seated round the fire listen-ing to the parson, who was deeply ensconced\n a high-backed oaken chair, the work of somecunning artificer of yore, which had beenbrought from the library for his particularaccommodation. From this venerable pieceuf furniture, with which his shadowy figureand dark weazen face so admirably accorded,he was dealing out strange accounts of the pop-ular superstitions and legends of the surround-ing country, with which he had becomeacquainted in the course of his antiquarianresearches. I am half inclined to think thatthe old gentleman was himself somewhat tinc-tured with superstition, as men are very apt tobe who live a recluse and studious life in asequestered part of the country and pore overblack-letter tracts, so often filled with themarvelous and supernatural. He gave usseveral anecdotes of the fancies of the

neighboring peasantry concerning the effigy ofthe crusader which lay on the tomb by thechurch altar. As it was the only monument ofthe kind in that part of the country, it hadalways been regarded with feelings of supersti-tion by the good wives of the village. It wassaid to get up from the tomb and walk therounds of the churchyard in stormy nights, par-ticularly when it thundered; and one oldwoman, whose cottage bordered on the church-yard, had seen it through the windows of thechurch, when the moon shone, slowly pacingup and down the aisles. It was the belief thatsome wrong had been left unredressed by thedeceased, or some treasure hidden, which keptthe spirit in a state of trouble and restlessness.Some talked of gold and jewels buried in thetomb, over which the spectre kept watch; andthere was a story current of a sexton in oldtimes who endeavored to break his way to thecoffin at night, but just as he reached it receiveda violent blow from the marble hand of theeffigy, which stretched him senseless on thepavement. These tales were often laughed atby some of the sturdier among the rustics, yetwhen night came on there were many of thestoutest unbelievers that were shy of venturingalone in the footpath that led across the church-yard. .

From these and other anecdotes that followedthe crusader appeared to be the favorite heroof ghost-stories throughout the vicinity. Hispicture, which hung up in the hall, was tnoughtby the servants to have something supernatural

326 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 327

about it; for they remarked that in whateverpart of the hall you went the eyes of the warriorwere still fixed on you. The old porter's wife,too, at the lodge, who had been born andbrought up in the family, and was a great gos-sip among the maid-servants, affirmed that inher young days she had often heard say that onMidsummer Eve, when it was well known allkinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies becomevisible and walk aboard, the crusader used tomount his horse, come down from his pictureride about the house, down the avenue, and s~to the church to visit the tomb; on which occa-sian the church-door most civilly swung openof itself; not that he needed it, for he rodethrough closed gates, and even stone walls, andhad been seen by one of the dairymaids to passbetween two bars of the great park gate, mak-ing himself as thin as a sheet of paper.

All these superstitions I found had been verymuch coun~e?,ance? by the squire, who, thoughnot superstitious himself, was very fond of see-ing others so. He listened to every goblin taleof the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity,and held the porter's wife in high favor onaccount of her talent for the marvelous. Hewas himself a great reader of old legends andromances, and often lamented that he couldnot believe in them; for a superstitious person,he thought, must live in a kind of fairy-land.

~hilst we were all attention to the parson'sstones, our ears were suddenly assailed by aburst of heterogeneous sounds from the hall inwhich were mingled something like the cl~ng

of rude minstrelsy with the uproar of manysmall voices and girlish laughter. The door~uddenly flew open,. and a train came troopinginto the room that might almost have been mis-taken ~or the ~reakingup of the court of Faery.That indefatigable spirit, Master Simon, inthe faithful discharge of his duties as lord ofmisrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmasmummery or masking; and having called in tohis assistance the Oxonian and the youngofficer, who were equally ripe for anything thatshould occasion romping and merriment, theyhad carried it into instant effect. The oldhouse-keeper had been consulted; the antiqueclothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged andmade to yield up the relics of finery that hadnot seen the light for several generations; theyounger part of the company had been privately convened from the parlor and hall, andthe whole had been bedizened out into a bur-lesque imitation of an antique mask. *

Master Simon led the van, as "AncientChristmas," quaintly appareled in a ruff ashort cloak, which had very much the asp~ctof one of the old housekeeper's petticoats,and a hat that might have served for a villagesteeple, and must indubitably have figured inthe days of the Covenanters. From under

~'Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports atChristmas in old times, and the wardrobes at halls andmanor-houses were often laid under contribution tofurnish dresses and fantastic disguising-so I stronglysuspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his fromBen Jonson's ":-'fasque of Christmas,"

328 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 329

this his nose curved boldly forth, flushed witha frost-bitten bloom that seemed the verytrophy of a December blast. He was accom-panied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up, as"Dame Mince Pie," in the venerable magnifi-cence of a faded brocade, long stomacher,peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. Theyoung officer appeared as Robin Hood, in asporting dress of Kendal green and a foragingcap with a gold tassel.

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testi-mony to deep research, and there was an evi-dent eye to the picturesque, natural to a younggallant in the presence of his mistress. Thefair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rusticdress as "Maid Marian." The rest of the trainhad been metamorphosed in various ways; the:girls trussed up in the finery of the ancientbelles of the Bracebridge line, and the strip-lings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravelyclad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent the character ofRoast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthiescelebrated in ancient maskings. The wholewas under the control of the Oxonian in theappropriate character of Misrule; and Iobserved that he exercised rather a mischiev-ous sway with his wand over the smaller per-sonages of the pageant.

The irruption of this motley crew with beatof drum, according to ancient custom, was theconsummation of uproar and merriment.Master Simon covered himself with glory bythe stateliness with whicb, as Ancient Christ.

mas, he walked a minuet with the peerlessthough giggling Dame Mince Pie. It was fol-lowed by a dance of all the characters, which

'from its medley of costumes seemed asthough the old family portraits had skippeddown from their frames to join in the sport.Different centuries were figuring at crosshands and right and left; the Dark Ages werecutting pirouettes and rigadoons; and the daysof Queen Bess jigging merrily down the mid-dle through a line of succeeding generations.

The worthy squire contemplated these fan-tastic sports and this resurrection of his oldwardrobe with the simple relish of childish de-light. He stood chuckling and rubbing hishands, and scarcely hearing a word the parsonsaid, notwithstanding that the latter was dis-coursing most authentically on the ancient andstately dance of the Pavon, or peacock, fromwhich he conceived the minuet to be derived. *For my part, I was in a continual excite-ment from the varied scenes of whim andinnocent gayety passing before me. It wasinspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from amongthe chills and glooms of winter, and old agethrowing off his apathy and catching once

".Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called thePavon, from "pavo," a peacock, says, "It is a graveand majestic dance; the method of dancing it ancientlywas by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords. bythose of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers intheir mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with longtrains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled thatof a peacock."-History of Music.

2~ Sketch Book

I

I 330 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 331

more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. Ifelt also an interest in the scene from the con-sideration that these fleeting customs wereposting fast into oblivion, and that this wasperhaps the only family in England in whichthe whole of them was still punctiliously ob-served. There was a quaintness, too, mingledwith all this revelry that gave it a peculiarzest: it was suited to the time and place; andas the old manor-house almost reeled withmirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back thejoviality of long departed years. *

But enough of Christmas and its gambols; itis time for me to pause in this garrulity. Me.thinks I hear the questions asked by mygraver readers, "To what purpose is all this?how is the world to be made wiser by thistalk?" Alas! is there not wisdom enough ex-tan t for the instruction of the world? And ifnot, are there not thousands of abler pens lab-oring for its improvement? It is so muchpleasanter to please than to instruct-to playthe companion rather than the preceptor.

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that Icould throw into the mass of knowledge? orhow am I sure that my sagest deductions may

* At the time of the first publication of this paper thepicture of an old-fashioned Chnstmas III the countrywas pronounced by some as out of date. The authorhad afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost allthe customs above described, existing in unexpectedvigor in the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, wherehe passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will findsome notice of them in the author's account of hissojourn at Newstead Abbey.

be safe guides for the opinions of others? Butin writing to amuse, if I fail the only evil isin my own disappointment. If, however, Ican by any lucky chance, in these days of evil,rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care orbeguile the heavy heart of one moment of sor-row; if I can now and then penetrate throughthe gathering film of misanthropy, prompt abenevolent view of human nature, and makemy reader more in good-humor with his fel-low-beings and himself-surely, surely, I shallnot then have written entirely in vain.

:>32 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 333

LONDON ANTIQUES.--I do walk

Methinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn,Stealing to set the town o' fire; i' th' countryI should be taken for William o' the Wisp.Or Robin Goodfellow.

Fletcher.

I am somewhat of an antiquity-hunter, andam fond of exploring London in quest of therelics of old times. These are principally tobe found in the depths of the city, swallowedup and almost lost in a wilderness of brickand mortar, but deriving poetical and roman-tic interest from the commonplace, prosaicworld around them. I was struck with aninstance of the kind in the course of a recentsummer ramble into the city; for the city isonly to be explored to advantage in sum-mer-time, when free from the smoke and fogand rain and mud of winter. I had beenbuffeting for some time against the current ofpopulation setting through Fleet Street. Thewarm weather had unstrung my nerves andmade me sensitive to every jar and jostle anddiscordant sound. The flesh was weary. thespirit faint, and I was getting out of humorwith the bustling busy throng through which 1had to struggle, when in a fit of desperation1 tore my way through the crowd, plunged

into a by-lane, and, after passing through sev-eral. obscure nooks and angles, emerged into aquaint and quiet court with a grassplot in thecentre overhung by elms, and kept perpetu-ally fresh and green by a fountain with itssparkling jet of water. A student with bookin hand was seated on a stone bench, partlyreading, partly meditating on the movementsof two or three trim nursery-maids with. theirinfant charges.

I was like an Arab who had suddenly comeupon an oasis amid the panting sterility of thedesert. By degrees the quiet and coolness ofthe place soothed my nerves and refreshed rnvspirit. I pursued my walk, and came, hardby, to a very ancient chapel with a low-browed Saxon portal of massive and richarchitecture. The interior was circular andlofty and lighted from above. Around weremonumental tombs of ancient date on whichwere extended the marble effigies of warriors inarmor. Some had the hands devoutly crossedupon the breast; others grasped the pommelof the sword, menacing hostility even in thetom b, while the crossed Iezs of several indi-

lId' bcated so iers of the Faith who had been oncrusades to the Holy Land.

I was, in fact, in the chapel of the KnightsTemplars,. strangely situated in the very cen-tre of sordid traffic' and I do not know a moreimpressive lesson 'for the man of the worldthan thus .suddenlv to turn aside from thehighway of busy money-seeking life, and sit

334 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 33[';.

down among these shadowy sepulchres, whereall is twilight, dust, and forgetfulness.

In a subsequent tour of observaton I encoun-tered another of these relics of a "foregoneworld" locked UD in the heart of the city. Ihad been wandering for some time throughdun monotonous streets, destitute of anythingto strike the eye or excite the imagination,when I beheld before me a Gothic gateway ofmouldering antiquity. It opened into a spa-cious quadrangle forming- the courtJ:ard of astately Gothic pile, the portal of which stoodinvitingly open.

It was apparently a public edific~, and, as Iwas antiquity-hunting, I ,:entured in, .though-vith dubious steps. Meetmg no one either tooppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued onuntil I found myself in a great hall with alofty arched roof and oaken gallery, all ofGothic architecture. At one end of the hanwas an enormous fireplace, with wooden set-tles on each side; at the other end was araised platform, or dais, th~ seat of stat~,above which was the portrait of a man 10

antique garb with a long robe, a ruff, and avenerable gray beard. .

The whole establishment had an air of mo-nastic quiet and seclusion, and what gave it amysterious charm was, that I had not metwith a human being since I had passed thethreshold.

Encouraged by this loneliness,. I seated ~y-self in a recess of a large bow window, whichadmitted a broad flood of yellow sunshine,

checkered here and there by tints from panes;of colored glass, while an open casement letin the soft summer air. Here, leaning myhead on my hand and my arm on an old oakentable, I indulged in a sort of reverie aboutwhat might have been the ancient uses ofthis edifice. It bad evidently been of monas-tic origin; perhaps one of those collegiateestablishments built of yore for the promotionof learning, where the patient monk, in theample solitude of the cloister, added page topage and volume to volume, emulating in theproductions of his brain the magnitude of thepile he inhabited.

As I was seated in this musing mood a smallpaneled door in an arch at the upper end ofthe hall was opened, and a number of gray.headed old men, clad in long black cloaks,came forth one by one, proceeding in thatmanner through the hall, without uttering aword, each turning a pale face on me as hepassed, and disappearing through a door at thelower end.

I was singularly struck with their appear-ance; their black cloaks and antiquated aircomported with the style of this most vener-able and mysterious pile. It was as if theghosts of the departed years, about which Ihad been musing, were passing in review be-fore me. Pleasing myself with such fancies,I set out, in the spirit of romance, to explorewhat I pictured to myself a realm of shadowsexisting in the very centre of substantial reali-ties.

/'

THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 337

My ramble led me through a labyrinth ofinterior courts and corridors and dilapidatedcloisters, for the main edifice had many addi-tions and dependencies, built at various timesand in various styles. In one open space anumber of boys, who evidently belonged tothe establishment, were at their sports, buteverywhere I observed those mysterious oldgray men in black mantles, sometimes saun-tering alone, sometimes conversing in groups;they appeared to be the pervading genii of theplace. I now called to mind what I had readof certain colleges in old times, where judicialastrology, geomancy, necromancy, and otherforbidden and magical sciences were taught.Was this an establishment of the kind, andwere these black-cloaked old men really pro-fessors of the black art?

These surmises were passing through mymind as my eye glanced into a chamber hunground with all kinds of strange and uncouth ob-jects-implements of savage warfare, strangeidols and stuffed alligators; bottled serpentsand monsters decorated the mantelpiece; whileon the high tester of an old-fashioned bedsteadgTinnec1 a human skull, flanked on each sidebya dried cat.

I approached to regard more narrowly thismystic chamber, which seemed a fitting labora-torv for a necromancer, when I was startled at

, beholding a human countenance staring at mefrom a dusky corner. It was that of a small,shriveled old man with thin cheeks, brighteyes, and gray, wiry, projecting eyebrows. I

at ~rst doubted whether it were not a mummycuriously preserved, but it moved and I sawthat it was alive. It was another of these black-c1oa~ed old men,. and, as I regarded his quaintphysiognomy, hIS obsolete garb, and the hide-ous and sinister objects by which he was sur-rounded, I began to persuade myself that I hadcome upon the arch-mago who ruled over thismagical fraternity.

Seeing me pausing before the door he roseand invi~ed me to enter. I obeyed with singu-lar hardihood, for how did I know whether a~vave of his wand might not metamorphose meinto some strange monster or conjure me intoone of the bottles on his mantelpiece? Heprove~, h<;>wever,to be.anythingbut a conjurer,and hIS SImple garrulity soon dispelled all themagic and mystery with which I had envelopedthis antiquated pile and its no less antiquatedinhabitants.

It appeared that I had made my way into thecentre of an ancient asylum for superannuatedtradesmen and decayed householders withwhich was connected a school for a l'imitednumber of boys. It was founded upwards oftwo centuries since on an old monastic estab-lishment, and retained somewhat of the con-ventual air and character. The shadowy lineof old men in black mantles who had passedbefore me in the hall, and whom I had elevatedinto n::agi, turned out to be the pensionersreturnmg from morning service in the chapel.

John Hallum, the little collector of curiositieswhom I had made the arch magician, had been

338 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 339

for six years a resident of the place, and haddecorated this final resting-place of his old agewith relics and rarities picked up in the courseof his life. According to his own account, hehad been somewhat of a traveler, having beenonce in France, and very near making a visit toHolland. He regretted not having visited thelatter country, "as then he might have said hehad been there." He was evidently a travelerof the simple kind.

He was aristocratical too in his notions, keep-ing aloaf, as I found, from the ordinary run ofpensioners. His chief associates were a blindman who spoke Latin and Greek, of both whichlanguages Hallum was profoundly ignorant,and a broken-down gentleman who had runthrough a fortune of forty thousand pounds,left him by his father, and ten thousandpounds, the marriage portion of his wife.Little Hallum seemed to consider it an indubi-table sign of gentle blood as well as of loftyspirit to be able to squander such enormoussums.

P. S.-The picturesque remnant of old timesinto which I have thus beguiled the reader iswhat is called the Charter House, originally theChartreuse. It was founded in r o r r , on theremains of an ancient convent, by Sir ThomasSutton, being one of those noble charities set onfoot by individual munificence, and kept upwith the quaintness and sanctity of ancienttimes amidst the modern changes and innova-tions of London. Here eighty broken-downmen, who have seen better days, are provided

in their old age with food, clothing, fuel, and ayearly allowance for private expenses. Theydine together, as did the monks of old, in thehall which had been the refectory of the originalconvent. Attached to the establishment is aschool for forty-four boys.

Stow, whose work I have consulted on thesubject, speaking of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says, "They are not to inter-meddle with any business touching the affairsof the hospital, but to attend only to the ser-vice of God, and take thankfully what is pro-vided for them, without muttering, murmuring,or grudging. None to wear weapon, long hair,colored boots, spurs, or colored shoes, feathersin their hats, or any ruffian-like or unseemlyapparel, but such as becomes hospital-men towear. " "And in truth," adds Stow, "happyare they that are so taken from the cares andsorrows of the world, and fixed in so good aplace as these old men are; having nothing tocare for but the good of their souls, to serveGod, and to live in brotherly love. "

For the amusement of such as have been in-terested by the preceding sketch, taken downfrom my own observation. and who may wishto know a little more about the mysteries ofLondon, I subjoin a modicum of local historyput into my hands by an odd-looking oldgentleman, in a small brown wig and a snuff-colored coat, with whom I became acquaintedshortly after my visit to the Charter House. Iconfess I was a little dubious at first whether

340 THE SKETCH BOOK.

it was not one of those apocryphal tales of~enpassed off upon inquiring travelers likemyself and which have brought our gen~ralcharacter for veracity into such unmeritedreproach. On making proper inquiri.es, how-ever I have received the most satisfactoryassu~'ances of the author's probity, and inde~dhave been told that he is actually enga~ed III

a full and particular accoun tof the ver~ inter-esting region in which he resides, of which thefollowing may be considered merely as a fore-taste.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 341

LITTLE BRITAIN.

What I write is most true .... I have a whole bookeof cases lying by me, which if I should sette foorth,some grave auntients (within the hearing of Bow Bell)would be out of charity with me.s--Nash.

In the centre of the great City of Londonlies a small neighborhood, consisting of a clus-ter of narrow streets and courts, of very ven-erable and debilitated houses, which goes bythe name of Little Britain. Christ ChurchSchool and St. Bartholomew's Hospital boundit on the west; Smithfield and Long Lane onthe north; Aldersgate Street, like an arm ofthe sea, divides it from the eastern part of thecity; whilst the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Laneand the regions of Newgate. Over this littleterritory, thus bounded and designated, thegreat dome of St. Paul's, swelling above theintervening houses of Paternoster Row, AmenCorner, and Ave-Maria Lane, looks down withan air of motherly protection.This quarter derives its appellation from

having been, in ancient times, the residence ofthe Dukes of Brittany. As London increased,however, rank and fashion rolled off to thewest, and trade, creeping on at their heels,took possession of their deserted abodes. For

J _

~12 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 343

some time Little Britain became the greatmart of learning, and was peopled by thebusy and prolific race of book-sellers: thesealso gradually deserted it, and, emigratingbeyond the great strait of Newgat; Stree~,settled down in Paternoster Rowand St. Paul sChurchyard, where they continue to increaseand multiply even at the present day.

But, though thus fallen. into decline, LittleBritain still bears traces of Its former splendor.There are several houses ready to tumbledown the fronts of which are magnificentlyenriched with old oaken carvings of hideousfaces unknown birds, beasts, and fishes. andfruit~ and flowers which it would perplex anaturalist to classify. There are also, in AId-era ate Street certain remains of what wereon"ce spacious' and lordly family ma1?'s~ons,,butwhich have in latter days been subdivided intoseveral tenements. Here may often b~ fou~dthe family of a petty tradesman, WIth Itstrumpery furniture, burrowing among ~herelics of antiquated finery. m great ran:~hngtime-stained apartments WIth fretted ceilings,gilded cornices, and enormous mar~le fire-places. The lanes and courts also con tam manysmaller houses, not on so grand a s~ale, b~t,like your small ancient gentry, .StU!dIly main-taining their claims to equal antiquity. Thesehave their gable ends to the stree~, great bowwindows with diamond panes set in lead, gro-tesque carvings, and low arched doorways. *-*It ISevident that the author of this int~resting c?m-munication has included. in his general title of LIttle

In this most venerable and sheltered littlenest have I passed several quiet years of exist-ence, comfortably lodged in the second floor ofo?e. of the s~allest but oldest edifices. Mysitting-room IS an old wainscoted chamberwith small panels and set off with a miscel lane-ous array of furniture. I have a particularrespect fo~ three or four high-backed, claw-footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocadewhich bear the marks of having seen bette;'days, and have doubtless figured in some ofthe old palaces of Little Britain. They seemto me to keep together and to look down withsovereign contempt upon their leathern-bot-tomed nei?,hbors, as I have seen decayed gentryca;rry a ~Igh head among the plebeian societyWIth which they were reduced to associate.The whole front of my sitting-room is takenup with a bow window, on the panes of whichare recorded the names of previous occupantsfor ~an.f generations, mingled with scraps ofyery indifferent g~ntleman-like poetry, writtenin characters WhICh I can scarcely decipherand ~hich ex.tol. the charms of many a beautyof LIttle Britain who has long, long sincebloomed, faded. and passed away. As I aman idle personage, with no apparent occupa-tion, and pay my bilI regularly every week, Iam looked upon as the only independentgeD:t1eman of the neighborhood, and, beingcurious to learn the internal state of a com-

Britain, many of those little lanes and courts that belongImmediately to Cloth Fair.

•344 THE SKETCH BOOK.

munity so apparently shut up within itself, Ihave managed to work my way into all theconcerns and secrets of the place.Little Britain may truly be called the heart's

core of the city, the stronghold of true JohnBullism. It is a fragment of London as it wasin its better days, with its antiquated folks andfashions. Here flourish in great preservationmany of the holiday games and customs of yore.The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakeson Shrove Tuesday, hot cross-buns on GoodFriday, and roast goose at Michaelmas; theysend love-letters on Valentine's Day, burn thePope on the Fifth of November, and kiss allthe girls under the mistletoe at Christmas.Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held insuperstitious veneration, and port and sherrymaintain their grounds as the only true Eng-lish wines, all others being considered vile out-landish beverages.Little Britain has its long catalogue of city

wonders, which its inhabitants consider thewonders of the world, such as the great bell ofSt. Paul's, which sours all the beer when ittolls; the figures that strike the hours at St.Dunstan's clock. the Monument; the lions inthe Tower; and the wooden giants in Guild-hall. They still believe in dreams and fortune-telling, and an old woman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsist.ence by detecting stolen goods and promisingthe girls good husbands. They are apt to berendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses,and if a dog howls dolefully at night it is looked

THE SKETCH BOOK. 345

upon as a sure sign of death in the place.There are even many ghost-stories current.particularly concerning the old mansion.houses in several of which it is said strangesights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies,the former in full-bottomed wigs, hangingsleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets,stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seenwalking up and down the great waste cham-bers on moonlight nights, and are supposed tobe the shades of the ancient proprietors in theircourt-dresses.Little Britain has likewise its sages and great

men. One of the most important of the for-mer is a tall dry old gentleman of the nameof Skryme,' who keeps a small apothecary'sshop. He has a cadaverous countenance, fullof cavities and projections, with a brown circleround each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles.He is much thought of by the old women, whoconsider him as a kind of conjurer because hehas two or three stuffed alligators hanging upin his shop and several snakes in bottles. Heis a great reader. of almanacs and newspap~rs,and is much grven to pore over alarmingaccounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earth-quakes. and volcanic eruptions; which lastphenomena he considers as signs of the times.He has always some dismal tale of the kind todeal out to his customers with their doses, andthus at the same time puts both soul and bodyinto an uproar. He is a great believer inomens and predictions; and has the propheciesof Robert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart.

THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 347

No man can make so much out of an eclipse,or even an unusually dark day; and he shoo.kthe tail of the last comet over the heads of hIScustomers and disciples until they were nearlyfrightened out of their wits. He has latelygot hold of a popular legend or prophecy, onwhich he has been unusually eloquent. There~las been a saying current among the ancientcibyls, who treasure up these things, that whenthe grasshopper on the top of the Exchangeshook hands with the dragon on the top ofBow Church steeple, fearful events would takeplace. This strange conjunction, it seems,has as strangely come to pass. The saI?earchitect has been engaged lately on the reparrsof the cupola of the Exchange and the steepleof Bow Church; and, fearful to relate, thedragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheekby jole, in the yard of his workshop.

"Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed tosay, "may go star-gazing, and l~ok for. con-junctions in the heavens, but here ISa corijunc-tion on the earth, near at home and l:nder ourown eyes, which surpasses all ~he SIgns andcalculations of astrologers," Since these por-tentous weathercocks have thus laid their headstogether, wonderful events had. alreadyoccurred. The good old king, notwIthstand-ing that he had lived eighty- two years,. had allat once given up the ghost; another kmg hadmounted the throne; a royal duke had diedsuddenly, another, in France, had 1;>een:nur-dered : there had been radical meetings in allparts 'of the kingdom; the bloody scenes at

Manchester; the great plot in Cato Street·and, above all, the queen had returned to Eng:land! All these sinister events are recountedby Mr. Skyrme with a mysterious look and ad~smal shake of the head; and being taken withhIS ~irugs, a~d associated in the minds of hieauditors with stuffed-sea-monsters hot tledserpents, and his own visage which' is a title-page of tribulation, t~ey ha~e spread greatgl.oom t~ro.ugh the minds of the people ofLIttle Br itain. They shake their heads when-ever they go by Bow Church, and observe that!hey never expected any good to come of tak-111g~own that steeple, which in old times toldnot~lI:g but glad. ti~ings, as the history ofWhItt111~ton and hIS Cat bears witness.

Th~ rival oracle of Little Britain is a sub-stantial cheesemonger, who lives in a frag-mentof ~ne of the old family mansions, and isas. m~gmficen.tly lodged as a round-belliedmite 111the :nIdst of one of his own Cheshires.!ndeed, he IS a man of no little standing andImpor~ance. and his renown extends throughHugg111 lane and ~ad lane, and even untoAlder~an~u~y. HIS opinion is very muchtaken 111affairs of state, having read the Sun-d~y paper~ for the last half century, together;YIt~ the 'Gentleman's Magazine," Rapin's. HI~~ory o.f Englan?," and the" Naval Chron-icle, . HI~ head IS stored with invaluablemaxims which have borne the test of time and~~e . for centu~ies. .It is his firm opinion that. It IS a ''Uorallmposslble,'' so long as EnglandIS true to herself, that anything can shake

348 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 349

her: and he has much to say on the subject 01the national debt, which, somehow or other,he proves to be a great national bulwark andblessing. He passed the greater part of hislife in the purlieus of Little Britain until oflate years, when, having become rich andgrown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, hebegins to take his pleasure and see the world.He has, therefore, made several excursions toHampstead, Highgate, and other neighboringtowns, where he has passed whole afternoonsin looking back upon the metropolis through atelescope and endeavoring to descry the steepleof St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coachmanof Bull-and-Mouth Street, but touches his hatas he passes, and he is considered quite apatron at the coach-office of the Goose andGridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His familyhave been very urgent for him to make anexpedition to Margate, but he has great doubtsof those' new gimcracks, the steamboats, andindeed thinks himself too advanced in life toundertake sea-voyages.

Little Britain has occasionally its factionsand divisions, and party spirit ran very highat one time, in consequence of two rival"Burial Societies" being set up in the place.One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse-Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger;the other at the Cock and Crown, under theauspices of the apothecary: it is needless tosay that the latter was the most flourishing.I have passed an evening or two at each, andhave acquired much valuable information as to

the best mode of being buried, the comparativemerits of churchyards, together with divershints on the subject of patent iron coffins. Ihave heard the question discussed in all itsbearings as to the legality of prohibiting thelatter on account of their durability. Thefeuds occasioned by these societies have hap-pily died of late; but they were for a long timeprevailing themes of controversy, the peopleof Little Britain being extremely solicitous offuneral honors and of lying comfortably intheir graves.

Besides these two funeral societies there is athird of quite a different cast, which tends tothrow the sunshine of good-humor over thewhole neighborhood. It meets once a week ata little old-fashioned house kept by a jollypublican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearingfor insignia a resplendent half-moon, with amost seductive bunch of grapes. The wholeedifice is covered with inscriptions to catch theeye of the thirsty wayfarer; such as "Truman,Hanbury, and Co's Entire," "Wine, Rum, andBrandy Vaults," "Old Tom, Rum, and Com-pounds," etc. This indeed has been a templeof Bacchus and Momus from time immemorial.It has always been in the family of the Wag-staffs, so that its history is tolerably preservedby the present landlord. It was much fre-quented by the gallants and cavalieros of thereign of Elizabeth, and was looked into nowand then by the wits of Charles the Second'sday. But what Wagstaff principally pridesYimself upon is that Henry the 'Eighth, in one

350 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 351

of his nocturnal rambles broke the head ofone of his .ancestors wi~h 'his famous walking-staff. ThIS, however, IS considered as rathera dubious and vain-glorious boast of the land-lord.

The club which now holds its weekly ses-SIOns here. goes ~y ~he,,name of ., the RoaringLads of LIttle Britain, They abound in oldcatches, glees, and choice stories that are tra-ditional in the place and not to be met with inany other part of the metropolis. There is amadcap undertaker who is inimitable at amerry song, but the life of the club and in-deed the prime wit of Little Britain' is bullyWagstaff himself. His ancestors ~ere all~ags before him, and he has inherited with the1U? a .large stock of s~mgs and jokes, which gowith It from generation to generation as heir.looms. He is a dapper little fellow withba~dy legs and pot belly, a red face' with am01?t merry eye, and a.1ittle shock of gray hairbehI?d. At .the op~nlUg of every club nighthe IS called 10 to sing his ,. Confession ofFaith," which is the famous old drinkingt:owl ~rom "Gammer Gurton's Needle." HeSlUgSIt, to be sure, with many variations ashe received it from his father's lips' for it' hasbeen a standing favorite at the Half-Moon andBunch of Grapes ever since it was written'nay, he affirms that his predecessors hav~ofte? had the honor of singing it before thenobility and gentry at Christmas mummerieswhen Little Britain was in all its glory. * '

* As mine host of the Half Moon's Confession of

It would do one's heart good to hear, on aclub night, the shouts of merriment, thesnatches of song, and now and then the choralbursts of half a dozen discordant voices, whichissue from this jovial mansion. At such timesthe street is lined with listeners, who enjoy adelight equal to that of gazing into a confec-tioner's window or snuffing up the steams of acook-shop.

There 'are two annual events which producegreat stir and sensation in Little Britain:these are St. Bartholomew's Fair and the Lord

Faith may not be familiar to the majority of readers,and as it is a specimen of the current songs of LittleBritain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. IwouU observe that the whole club always join in thechorus with a fearful thumping on the table and clatter-ing of pewter pots.

I cannot eate but lytle meate,My stomacke is not good,

But sure I thinke that I can drinkeWith him that weares a hood.

Though I go bare, take ye no care,I nothing am a colde,

I stuff my skyn so full within,Of joly good ale and olde,

Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare,Both foote and hand go colde,

But, belly, God send thee good ale ynougne,Whether it be new or olde,

I have no fast, but a nut brawne teste,And a crab laid in the fyre;

A little breade shall do me steade,Much breade I not desyre.

No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe,Can hurte me. if I walde.

THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 355

Mayor's Day. During the time of the Fair,which is held in the adjoining regions ofSmithfield, there is nothing going on but gos-siping' and gadding about. The late quietstreetc of Little Britain are overrun with anirruptio; of strange figures and faces; everytavern is ~ scene of rout and revel. The fiddleand the cong are heard from the taproommorning, noon, and night; and at each windowmay be seen some group of boon companions,with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe inmouth and tankard in hand, fondling and pros-ing, and singing maudlin songs over theirliquor. Even the sober decorem of private

I am so wrapt and throwly laptOf joly good ale and olde.

Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe,Loveth well good ale to seeke,

Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see.The tears run downe her cheeke,

Then doth shee trowle to me the bowie,Even as a mault-worrne sholde,

And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parteOf this jolly good ale and olde,

Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke,

Even as goode fellowes shoJde doe,They shall not mysse to have the blisse,

Good ale doth bring men to;And all poore soules that have scowred bowles,

Or have them lustily trolde,God save the lives of them and their wives,

Whether they be yonge or olde.Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

families, which I must say is rigidly kept U!J atother times among my neighbors, is no proofagainst this saturnalia. There is no suchthing as keeping maid-servants within doors.Their brains are absolutely set madding withPunch and the Puppet-Show, the FlyingHorses, Signior Polito, the Fire- Eater, thecelebrated Mr. Paap, and the Irish Giant.The children too lavish all their holiday moneyin toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the housewith the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets,and penny whistles.

But the Lord Mayor's Day is the greatanniversary. The Lord Mayor is looked upto by the inhabitants of Little Britain as thegreatest potentate upon earth, his gilt coachwith six horses as the summit of human splen-dor, and his procession, with all the sheriffsand aldermen in his train, as the grandest ofearthly pageants. How they exult in the idea.that the king himself dare not enter the citywithout first knocking at the gate of TempleBar and asking permission of the LordMayor; for if he did, heaven and earth! thereis no knowing what might be the consequence.The man in armor who rides before the LordMayor, and is the city champion, has ordersto cut down everybody that offends against thedignity of the city; and then there is the littleman with a velvet porringer on his head, whosits at the window of the state-coach and holdsthe city sword, as long as a pike-staff. Odd'sblood! if he once draws that sword, Majestyitself is not safe.

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354 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 355

Under the protection of this mighty poten-tate, therefore, the good people of LittleBritain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is aneffectual barrier against all interior foes; andas to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has butto throw himself into the Tower, call in thetrain-bands, and put the standing army ofBeef-eaters under arms, and he may bid defi-ance to the world!

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, itsown habits, and its own opinions, Little Britainhas long flourished as a sound heart to thisgreat fungous metropolis. I have pleased my-self with considering it as a chosen spot,where the principles of sturdy John Bul1ismwere garnered up, like seed corn, to re-new the national character when it had run towaste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced alsoin the general spirit of harmony that pre-vailed throughout it; for though there mightnow and then be a few clashes of opinion be-tween the adherents of cheesemonger and theapothecary, and an occasional feud betweenthe burial societies, yet they were but tran-sient clouds and soon passed away. Theneighbors met with good-will, parted with ashake of the hand, and never abused eachother ex cept behind their backs.

I could give rare descriptions of snug junket-ing parties at which I have been present,where we played at All-Fours, Pope-Joan,Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice oldgames, and where we sometimes had a good oldEnglish country dance to the tune of Sir

Roger de Coverley. Once a year also theneighbors would g-ather together and go on agypsy party to Epping Forest. It would havedone any nun's heart good to see the merri-ment that took place here as we banqueted onthe grass under the trees. How we made thewoods ring with bursts of laughter at the songsof little Wagstaff and the merry undertaker!After dinner, too, the young folks would playat blindmarr's-buff and hide-and-seek, and itwas amusing to see them tangled among thebriers, end to hear a fine romping girl nowancJ then squeak from among the bushes. Theelder folks would gather round the cheese-monger and the apothecary to hear them talkpolitics, for they generally brought out a news-paper in their pockets to pass away time ill thecountry. They would now and then, to besure, get a little warm in argument; but theirdisputes were always adjusted by reference toa worthy old umbrella-maker in a double chin,who, never exactly comprehending the sub-ject, managed somehow or other to decide infavor of both parties.

All empires, however, says some philoso-pher or historian, are doomed to changes andrevolutions. Luxury and innovation creep in,factions arise, and families now and thenspring up whose ambition and intrigues throwthe whole system into confusion. Thus inlatter days has the tranquillity of Little Britainbeen grievously disturbed and its golden sim-plicity of manners threatened with total sub-

356 THE SKETCH BOOK.

version by the aspiring family of a retiredbutcher.

The family of the Lambs han long been~mong the most thriving and popular in theneighborhood: the Miss Lambs were the bellesof Little Britain, and everybody was pleasedwhen Old Lamb had made money enough 10shut up shop and put his name on a brass plateall his door. In an evil hour, however, one ofthe Miss Lam bs had the honor of being a ladyin attendance on the Lady Mayoress at hergrand annual ball, on which occasion shewore three towering ostrich feathers on herhead. The family never got over it; theywere immediately smitten with a passion forhigh life; set up a one-horse carriage, put abit of gold lace round the errand-boy's hat,and have been the talk and detestation of thewhole neighborhood ever since. They couldno longer he induced to play at Pope-Joan orblindman's-buff; thev could endure no dancesbut quadrilles, which nobody had ever heardof in Little Britain; and they took to readingnovels, talking bad French, and playing uponthe piano. Their brother, too, who had beenarticled to an attorney, set up for a dandy anda critic, characters hitherto unknown in theseparts, and he confounded the worthy folks ex-ceedingly by talking about Kean, the Opera,and the" Edinburgh Review."

What was still worse, the Lambs gave agrand ball, to which they neglected to inviteany of their old neighbors; but they had agreat deal of goenteel company £r0111Theobald's

THE SKETCH BOOK. 357

Road, Red Lion Square, and other partstowards the west. There were several beau.: oftheir brother's acquaintance from Grays InnLane and Hatton Garden, and not less thanthree aldermen's ladies with their daughters.This was not to be forgotten nor forgiven.All Little Britain was in an uproar with thesmacking of whips, the lashing of miserablehorses, and the rattling and jingling of hack-ney-coaches. The gossips of the neighborhoodmight be seen popping their night-caps out atevery window, watching the crazy vehiclesrumble by and there was a knot of virulent oldcronies that kept a look-out from a house justopposite the retired butcher's and scannedand criticised everyone that knocked at thedoor.

This dance was a cause of almost open war,and the whole neighborhood declared theywould have nothing more to say to the Lambs.It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had noengagements with her quality acquaintance,would give little humdrum tea-junketings tosome of her old cronies, "quite," as she wouldsay, "in a friendly way;" and it is equally truethat her invitations were always accepted, inspite of all previous vows to the contrary.Nay, the good ladies would sit and be de-lighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, whowould condescend to strum an Irish melodyfor them on the piano; and they would listenwith wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anec-dotes of Alderman Plunket's family, of Port-soken Ward, and the Misses Timberlake, the

358 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 359

rich heiresses of Crutched Friars; but thenthey relieved their consciences and averted thereproaches of their confederates by canvass-ing at the next gossiping convocation every-thing that had passed, and pulling the Lambsand their rout all to pieces.

The only one of the family that could not bemade fashionable was the retired butcher him-self. Honest Lamb, in spite of the meeknessof his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow,with the voice of a lion, a head of black hairlike a shoe- brush, and a broad face mottledlike his own beef. It was in vain that thedaughters always spoke of him as "the old gen-tleman," addressed him as "papa" in tones .ofinfinite softness, and endeavored to coax hirninto a dressing-gown and slippers and othergentlemanly habits. Do what they might,there was no keeping down the butcher. Hissturdy nature would break through all theirglozings. He had a hearty vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible. His very jokesmade his sensitive daughters shudder, and hepersisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of amorning, dining at two o'clock, and having a"bit of sausage with his tea ..•

He was doomed, however, to share the un-popularity of his family. He found his oldcomrades gradually growing cold and civil tohim, no longer laughing at his jokes, and nowand then throwing out a fling at "some peo-ple" and a hint about "quality binding."This both nettled and perplexed the honestbutcher; and his wife and daughters, with the

consummate policy of the shrewder sex, tak-ing advantage of the c~rcumstar:-ce, at lengt,hprevailed upon him to give up ,hIS2.ft;:l1~on spipe and tankard at W agst~ff~, to ~srt afterdinner by himself and take hIS pI.Ht~r por~-:-2.liquor he detested-and. ~o nod in hIS chair 111

solitary and dismal gentility,The Miss Lambs might now be seen flau~lt-

ing along the streets in ~rcnch boni1ct~ WIthunknown beaux, and talking and laughing soloud that it distressed the nerves of everygood lady within hearing. They even wentso fai as to attempt patronage, and actual~yinduced a French dancing-master to set up mthe neizhborhood : but the worthy folks ofLittle Britain took fire at it, and did so perse-cute the poor Gaul that he was fain to pa;ckup fiddle and dancing-pumps and decamp WIthsuch precipitation that he absolutely forgot topay for his lodgings. ..

I had flattered myself, at first, WIth the Ideathat all this fiery indignation on the par~ ofthe community was merely the overflowingof their zeal for good old English mannersand their horror of innovation, and I applaudedthe silent contempt they were so vociferousin expressing for upstart pride, Frenc? fash-ions and the Miss Lambs. But I gneve tosay 'that I soon perceived the infection hadtaken hold and that my neighbors, after con-demning, ~ere beginning to foll?w their ~x-ample. I overheard my landlady importunmgher husband to let their daughters have onequarter at French and music, and that they

860 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 361

IIImight take a few lessons in quadrille. I evensaw in the course of a few Sundays, no lessthan five French bonnets, precisely like thoseof the Miss Lambs, parading about LittleBritain.

I still had my hopes that all this folly wouldgradually die away, that the Lambs mightmove out of the neighborhood, might die, ormight run away with attorney's apprentices,and that quiet and simplicity might be againrestored to the community. But unluckily arival power arose. An opulent oilman diedand left a widow with a large jointure and afamily of buxom daughters. The youngladies had long been repining in secret at theparsimony of a prudent father, which keptdown all their elegant aspirings. Their ambi-tion, being now no longer restrained, brokeout into a blaze, and they openly took thefield against the family of the butcher. It istrue that the Lambs, having had the fir~tstart, had naturally an advantage of them mthe fashionable career. They could speak alittle bad French play the piano, dance quad-, .rilles, and had formed high acquaintances ;but the Trotters were not to be distanced.When the Lambs appeared with two feathersin their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted fourand of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gavea dance the Trotters were sure not to be be-hindhand: and, though they might not boastof as good company, yet they had double thenumber and were twice as merry.

The whole community has at length divided

itself into fashionable factions under the ban-ners of these two families. The old games ofPope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are en-tirely discarded; there is no such thing as get-ting up an honest country dance; and on myattempting to kiss a young lady under themistletoe last Christmas, I was indignantlyrepulsed, the Miss Lambs having pronouncedit "shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has alsobroken out as to the most fashionable part ofLittle Britain, the Lambs standing up for thedignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the Trottersfor the vicinity of S1, Bartholomew's.

Tints is this little territory torn by factionsand internal dissensions, like the great empirewhose name it bears; and what will be theresult would puzzle the apothecary himself,with all his talent at prognostics, to determine,thouvh I apprehend that it will terminate inthe t~tal downfall of genuine John Bullism.

The immediate effects are extremely un-pleasant to me. Being a single man, and, asI observed before, rather an idle good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered theonly gentleman by profession in the place. Istand, therefore, in high favor with both par-ties, and have to hear all their cabinet coun-sels and mutual backbitings. As I am toocivil not to agree with the ladies on all occa-sions, I have committed myself most horriblywith both parties by abusing their opponents.I might manage to reconcile this to my con-science, which is a truly accommodating one,but I cannot to my apprehension: if the

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862 THE SKETCM BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 363

Lam bs and Trotters ever come to a reconcil-iation and compare notes, I am ruined.

I have determined, therefore, to beat a re-treat in time, and am actually looking out forsome other nest in this great city where oldEnglish manners are still kept up, whereFrench is neither eaten, drunk, danced, norspoken, and where there are no fashionablefamilies of retired tradesmen. This found, Iwill, like a veteran rat, hasten away before Ihave an old house about my ears) bid a long,though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode,and leave the rival factions of the Lambs andthe Trotters to divide the distracted empire ofLittle Britain.

STRATFORD-ON-A VON.Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver streamOf things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would

dream;The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed,For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.

-Garrick.

To a homeless man, who has no spot on thiswide world which he can truly call his own,there is a momentary feeling of somethinglike independence and territorial consequencewhen, after a weary day'S travel, he kicks offhis boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, andstretches himself before an inn fire. Let theworld without go as it may, let kingdoms riseor fall, so long as he has the wherewithal topay his bill he is, for the time being, the verymonarch of all he surveys. The arm-chair ishis throne, the poker his sceptre, and the littleparlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputedempire. It is a morsel of certainty snatchedfrom the midst of the uncertainties of life; itis a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on acloudy day; and he who has advanced somewayan the pilgrimage of existence knows theimportance of husbanding even morsels andmoments of enjoyment. "Shall I not takemine ease in mine inn?" thought I, as I gave.the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair.

364 THE SKETCH BOOK.

and cast a complacent look about the little par-lor of the Red Horse at Stratford-an-Avon ..

The words of sweet Shakespeare were Justpassing through my mind as the c1oc.k str~ckmidnight from the tower of the church III whichhe lies buried. There was a gentle ta~ at t~edoor and a pretty cham ber~aid, puttI.ng . IIIher 'smiling face, inquired, with a hesl~atIllgair, whether I had rung. I. understoo.d It as amodest hint that it was time to retire, Mydream of absolute dominion was at an end; soabdicating my throne, like a prudent. poten-tate, to avoid being deposed, and putting t~eStratford Guide-Book under my arm as a pil-low companion, I went to bed, and dreamt 3;11night of Shakespeare, the Jubilee, and DavidGarrick. . k

The next morning was one of t.hose qmc e?-ina- mornings which we sornetrrnes ~ave IIIea~ly spring, for it was about. the middle ofMarch. The chills of a long .wmter had s~d-denly given way; ~he n?rth wind had.s~ent Itslast gasD; and a mild air came st~ah?b fromthe west, breathing the breath of hfe into Na-ture, and wooing every bud and flower to burstforth into fragrance and beauty. . .

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pil-. ~ Mv first visit was to the house wherea-nmag, .. - J ". di

Shakespeare was born, and where,. accor m,~to tradition, he was brought ~p to hIS father'scraft of wood-combing. It IS a small mean-lookinv edifice of wood and plaster a tru: ne~t-1ing-p~ce of genius, .whic!l seems to delight 111hatc\-"'ng its offspnng in by-corners. The

THE SKETCH BOOK. 36tJ

walls of its squalid chambers are covered withnames and inscriptions in every language bypilgrims of all nations, ranks and conditions,from the prince to the peasant, and present asimple but striking instance of the spontaneousand universal homage of mankind to the greatpoet of Nature.

The house is shown by a garrulous old ladyin a frosty red face, lighted up by a cold blue,anxious eye, and garnished with artificial locksof flazen hair curling from under an exceed-ingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduousin exhibiting the relics with which this, likeall other celebrated shrines, abounds. Therewas the shattered stock of the very matchlockwith which Shakespeare shot the deer on hispoaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box, which proves that he was a rival smokerof Sir Walter Raleigh; the sword also withwhich he played Hamlet; and the identicallantern with which Friar Laurence discoveredRomeo and Juliet at the tomb. There was anample supply also of Shakespeare's mulberrytree, which seems to have as extraordinarypowers of self-multiplication as the wood ofthe true cross, of which there is enough extantto build a ship of the line.

The most favorite object of curiosity, how-ever, is Shakespeare's chair. It stands in achimney-nook of a small gloomy chamber justbehind what was his father's shop. Here hemay many a time have sat when a boy, watch-ing the slowly revolving spit with all the long-ing of an urchin, or of an evening listening to

B66 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 367

the cronies and gossips of Stratford dealingforth churchyard tales and legendary anec-dotes of the troublesome times of England. Inthis chair it is the custom of everyone thatvisits the house to sit; whether this be donewith the hope of imbibing any of the inspira-tion of the bard I am at a loss to say; I merelymention the fact, and mine hostess privatelyassured me that, though built of solid oak,such was the fervent zeal of devotees the chairhad to be new bottomed at least once in threeyears. It is worthy of notice also, in the his-tory of this extraordinary chair, that it par-takes something of the volatile nature of theSanta Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of theArabian enchanter; for, though sold some fewyears since to a northern princess, yet, strangeto tell, it has found its way back again to theold chimney-corner.

.1 am always of easy faith in such matters,and am very willing to be deceived where thedeceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I am,therefore, a ready believer in relics, legends,and local anecdotes of goblins and great men,and would advise all travelers who travel fortheir gratification to be the same. What is itto us whether these stories be true or false, solong as we can persuade ourselves into the be-lief of them and enjoy all the charm of thereality? There is nothing like resolute good-humored credulity in these masters, and on thisoccasion I went even so far as willingly to be-lieve the claims of mine hostess to a linealdescent from the poet, when, unluckily for my

faith, s~~ put int? my hands a play of her owncomposition, which set all belief in her ownconsanguinity at defiance.

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a fewpaces brought me to his grave. He lies buriedin the chan~el of the parish church, a large andvenerable pile, mouldering with age, but richlyornamented. It stands on the banks of theAvon ...o? .an embowered point, and separatedby aojoinmg gardens from the suburbs of thetown. Its situation is quiet and retired' theriver runs murmuring at the foot of the church-yard, and the elms which grow upon its banksdroop their branches into its clear bosom. Anavenue of limes, the boughs of which are curi-ously interlaced, so as to form in summer anarched way of foliage, leads up from the gateof the yard to the church-porch. The gravesere overgrown with grass; the gray tomb-stones, some of them nearly sunk into theearth, are half covered with moss which haslikewise tinted the reverend old building.Small birds have built their nests among thecornices and fissures of the walls, and keep upa ~~ntinual flutter and chirping; and rooks aresailing and cawing about its lofty gray spire.

In the course of my rambles I met with thegray-headed sexton, Edmonds and accom-panied him home to get the key' of the church.~e had lived in Stratford, man and boy, foreighty years, and seemed still to consider him-self a vigorous man, with the trivial exceptionthat he had nearly lost the use of his legs for afew years past. His dwelling was a cottage

368 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK.

looking out upon the Avon and its borderingmeadows and was a picture of that neatness,order, and comfort which pervade the.humblestdwellings in this country. A low whitewashedroom with a stone floor carefully scrubbed,serve'd for parlor, kitchen, an~ hall. Rows ofpewter and earthen dishes glittered along thedresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbedand polished, lay the family Bible and pray~r-book, and the drawer contained the familylibrary composed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient. clock, . thatimportant article of cottage furlll~ure, tl~kedon the opposite side of the room, .w1th a .bnghtwarming pan hanging on one side of it, andthe old man's horn-handled Sunday cane. on theother. The fireplace, as us~al, was ":1d~ a?ddeep enough to admit a gOSS1pknot wjth in 1~Sjambs. In one corner sat the old ma?- sgranddaughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed glrl,and in the opposite corner was a superannu-ated crony whom he addressed by the name h~fJohn Anze and who, I found, had been lScompanio~ from childhood. They had playedtogether in infancy; they had work ed togetherin manhood; they were now .totterm.g ~boutand <Yossiping away the evelllng of Iife ; a.ndin a ~hort time they wi}l probably be bune.dtocether in the neighbonng churchyard.. It 1Snot often that we see two streams ?f ex~stencerunning thus evenly and. tra,~qUllly side b!,side; it is only in such quiet ~osom scenesof life that they are to be met with. ..

I had hoped to gather some trad1tIonary

anecdotes of the bard from these ancient chron-iclers, but they had nothing new to impart.The long interval during which Shakespeare'swritings lay in comparative neglect has spreadits shadow over his history, and it is his goodor evil lot that scarcely anything remains tohis biographers but a scanty handful of con-jectures.

The sexton and his companion had beenemployed as carpenters on the preparations forthe celebrated Stratford Jubilee, and theyremembered Garrick, the prime mover of thefete, who superintended the arrangements, andwho, according to the sextou, was "a shortpunch man, very lively and bustling." JohnAnge had assisted also in cutting down Shake-speare's mulberry tree, of which he had amorsel in his pocket for sale; no doubt a sov-ereign quickener of literary conception.

I was grieved to hear these two worthywights speak very dubiously of the eloquentdame who shows the Shakespeare house.John Ange shook his head when I mentionedher valuable and inexhaustible collection ofrelics, particularly her remains of the mulberrytree; and the old sexton even expressed adoubt as to Shakespeare having- been born inher house. I soon discovered that he lookedupon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rivalto the poet's tomb, the latter having compar-atively but few visitors. Thus it is that his-torians differ at the very outset, and merepebbles make the stream of truth diverge intodifferent channels even at the fountain-head.

370 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 371

We approached the church throug-h the ave-nue of limes, and entered by a Gothic porch,highly ornamented, with carved doors ofmassive oak. The interior is spacious, andthe architecture and embellishments superiorto those of most country churches. There areseveral ancient monuments of nobility andgentry, over some of which hang- funeralescutcheons and banners dropping piece-mealfrom the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare isin the chancel. The place is solemn and sepul-chral. Tall elms wave before the pointedwindows, and the Avon, which runs at a shortdistance from the walls, keeps up a low per-petual murmur. A flat stone marks the spotwhere the bard is buried. There are fourlines inscribed on it, said to have been writtenby himself, and which have in them somethingextremely awful. If they are indeed his own,they show that solicitude about the quiet of thegrave which seems natural to fine sensibilitiesand thoughtful minds:

ized amo?g his. contemporaries as by the vast-n~ss of his genius. The inscription mentionshis age at the. time of his decease, fifty-threeyears-an untimely death for the world forwhat fruit might not have been expected fromthe. golden autumn of such a mind, shelteredas It was from the stormy vicissitudes of lifeand flourishing in the sunshine of popular anyroyal favor?

The inscription on the tombstone has notbeen without its effect. It has prevented theremoval of his remains from the bosom of hisnative ~lace to Westminster Abbey, "which wasat one time contemplated. A few vears sincealso, as some laborers were diO'O"in'O'to makean adjoining vault, the earth ca~:d i~, so as toleave a vacant space almost like an archthrough which one might have reached into hi;grave. No one, however, presumed to meddlewi~h .his remains so awfully guarded by a mal-ediction , and lest any of the idle or the curi-ous or any collector of relics should be temptedto commit depredations, the old sexton keptwatch over th,e place for two days, until thevau~t was finished and the aperture closedagal:1. He told me that he had made bold tolook in at the hole, but could se« neither coffinnOr bones-nothing but dust. It was some-thing, I thought, to have seen the dust ofShakespeare.

Next to this grave are those or '1is wife hisfavorite daughter, Mrs. Hall, :omG! others of histamily. On a tomb close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe, of

flI

Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeareTo dig the dust inclosed here.Blessed be he that spares these stones,And curst be he that moves my bones.

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall,is a bust of Shakespeare, put up shortly afterhis death, and considered as a resem b1ance.The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely-arched forehead; and I thought I could readin it clear indications of that cheerful, socialdisposition by which he was as much character-

372 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 373

usurious memory, on whom he is said to havewritten a ludicrous epitaph. There are othermonuments around, but the mind refuses todwell on anything that is not connected withShakespeare. His idea pervades the place:the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum.The feelings, no longer checked and thwartedby doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence;other traces of him may be false or dubious,but here is palpable evidence and absolute cer-tainty. As I trod the sounding pavementthere was something intense and thrilling inthe idea that in very truth the remains ofShakespeare were mouldering beneath my feet.It was a long time before I could prevail uponmyself to leave the place; and as I passedthrough the churchyard, I plucked a branchfrom one of the yew trees, the only relic thatI have brought from Stratford.

I had now visited the usual objects of a pil-grim's devotion, but I had a desire to see theold family seat of the Lucys at Charlecot, andto ramble through the park where Shake-speare, in company with some of the roisterersof Stratford, committed his youthful offence ofdeer-stealing. In this hare-brained exploitwe are told that he was taken prisoner and car-ried to the keeper's lodge, where he remainedall night in doleful captivity. When broughtinto the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, histreatment must have been galling and humil-iating; for it so wrought upon his spirit as to

produce a rough pasquinade which was affixedto the park gate at Charlecot. *

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of theknight so incensed him that he applied to alawyer at Warwick to put the severity of thelaws in force against the rhyming deer-stalker.Shakespeare did not wait to brave the unitedpuissance of a knight of the shire and acountry attorney. He forthwith abandonedthe pleasant banks of the Avon and his pater-nal trade; wandered away to London; becamea hanger-on to the theatres; then an actor;and finally wrote for the stage; and thus,through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy,Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber andthe world gained an immortal poet. He re-tained, however, for a long time, a sense of theharsh treatment of the lord of Charlecot, andrevenged himself in his writings, but in thesportive way of a good-natured mind. SirThomas is said to be the original of JusticeShallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon himby the justice's armorial bearings, which, like

*The following is the only stanza extant of this lam-poon:

A parliament member, a justice of peace,At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse,If lowsie is Lucy, as some volks miscalle it,Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it.

He thinks himself great;Yet an asse in his state,

We allow by his ears but with asses to mate,If Lucy is lowsie, as some volks miscalle it,Then sinl2;lowsie Lucy whatever befall it.

3.4 THE SKETCH BOOK.

those of the knight, had white Iuces" in thequarterings.

Various attempts have been made by hisbiographers to soften and explain away thisearly transgression of the poet; but I lookupon it as one of those thoughtless exploitsnatural to his situation and turu of mind.Shakespeare, when young, had doubtless allthe wildness and irregularity of an ardent, un-disciplined and undirected genius. The poetictemperament has naturally something in it ofthe vagabond. When left to itself it runsloosely and wildly, and delights in everythingeccentric and licentious. It is often a turn upof a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, whethera natural genius shall turn out a great rogueor a great poet; and had not Shakespeare'smind fortunately taken a literary bias, hemight have as daringly transcended all civilas he has all dramatic laws.

I have little doubt that, in early life, whenrnnning like an unbroken colt about the neigh-borhood of Stratford, he was to be f .urid in thecompany of all kinds of cdd anomal »us charac-ters, that he associated with all the madcaps ofthe place, and was one of those unlucky ur-chins at mention of whom old men si-ake theirheads and predict that they will one day cometo the gallows. To him the poachirg in SirThomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a forayto a Scottish knight, and struck his 'eag~:r, and

*The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in th-: ,,\-,-,'11about Charlecot.

1

THE SKETCH BOOK. 371)

as yet untamed, imagination as somethingdelightfully adventurous. *

The old mansion of Charlecot and its sur-rounding park still remains in the possession ofthe Lucy family, and are peculiarly interestingfrom being connected with this whimsical but

.~A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and associ-ates in his youthful days may be found in a traditionaryanecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland,and mentioned in his "Picturesque Views on the Avon."

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty littlemarket-town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two soci-eties of the village yeomanry used to meet, under theappellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge thelovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a con-test of drinking. Among others, the people of Strat-ford were called out to prove the strength of their heads;and in the number of the champions was Shakespeare,who, in spite of the proverb that "they who drink beerwill think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to hissack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at thefirst onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet thelegs to carry them off the field. They had scarcelymarched a.mile when, their legs failing them, they wereforced to he down under a crab tree, where they passedthe night. It was still standing, and goes by the nameot Shakespeare's tree.

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, andproposed returning to Bedford, but he declined, sayinghe had enough, having drank with

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston,Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton,Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford,Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford.

"The village here alluded to," says Ireland, "stillbears the epithets thus g-iven them: the people of Peb-worth ar~ still fa!?ed for their skill on the pipe andtabor: Hilborough IS now called Haunted Hilborough ;and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil."

876 THE SKETCH BOOK.

eventful circumstance, in the scanty history ofthe bard. As the house stood at little morethan three miles' distance from Stratford, I re-solved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I mightstroll leisurely through some of those scenesfrom which Shakespeare must have derived hisearliest ideas of rural imagery.

The country was yet naked and leafless, butEnglish scenery is always verdant, and thesudden change in the temperature of theweather was surprising in its quickeningeffects upon the landscape. It was inspiringand animating to witness this first awakeningof spring; to feel its warm breath stealingover the senses; to see the moist mellow earthbeginning to put forth the green sprout andthe tender blade, and the trees and shrubs, intheir reviving tints and bursting buds, givingthe promise of returning foliage and flower.The cold snow-drop, that little borderer on theskirts of winter, was to be seen with its chastewhite blossoms in the small gardens before thecottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambswas faintly heard from the fields. The spar-row twittered about the thatched eaves andbudding hedges; the robin threw a liveliernote into his late querulous wintry strain; andthe lark, springing up from the reeking bosomof the meadow, towered away into the brightfleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody.As I watched the little songster mounting uphigher and higher, until his body was a merespeck on the white bosom of the cloud, whilethe ear was still filled with his music, it called

THE SKETCH BOOK. 377

to mind Shakespeare's exquisite little song inCymbeline:

Hark! hark! the lark at heav'u's gate singsAnd Phoebus 'gins arise, '

His steeds to water at those springs,On chaliced flowers that lies.

And winking mary-buds begin';£'0 ope their golden eyes;

With everything that pretty bin,My lady sweet arise!

~ndeed, the whole country about here is po-etic ground; everything is associated with theidea of Sha~esp.eare. Every old cottage thatI saw I fancied into some resort of his boy-hood, where he had acquired his intimateknowledge of rustic life and manners, andh.eard th~se legendary tales and wild supersti-tions which he has woven like witchcraft intohis dramas. For in his time, we are told, itwas a popular amusement in winter evenings"to sit ro~nd the fire, and tell merry tales ofe~rant kmghts, queens, lovers, lords, ladies,~Iants, d.warfs. thieves, cheaters, witches, fair-res, goblins, and friars. *

*Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumeratesa number ?f these fireside fancies: "And they have sofraid us with host bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins,elyes, hags, fa~ries, s~tyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit;oV1ththe can st1ck~, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes,Imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incu-bus. Robm-goodfellow, the spoorne, the mare, the manm the oke, the hell-warne, the fier drake, the puckle.Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, andsuch other bugs, that we were afraid of our own shad.owes,"

378 THE SKETCH BOOK.

My route for a part of the way lay in sightof the Avon, which made a variety of the mostfancy doublings and windings through a wideand fertile valley-sometimes glittering fromamong willows which fringed its borders;sometimes disappearing among groves or be-neath green banks; and sometimes ramblingout into full view and making an azure sweepround a slope of meadow-land. This beautifulbosom of country is called the Vale of the RedHorse. A distant line undulating blue hillsseems to be its boundary, whilst all the softintervening landscape lies in a manner en-

. chained in the silver links of the Avon.After pursuing the road for about three

miles, I turned off into a footpath, which ledalong the borders of fields and under hedge-rows to a private gate of the park; there was astile, however, for the benefit of the pedes-trian, there being a public right of waythrough the grounds. I delight in these hos-pitable estates, in which everyone has a kindof property-at least as far as the footpath isconcerned. It in some measure reconciles apoor man to his lot, and, what is more, to thebetter lot of his neighbor, thus to have parksand pleasure-grounds thrown open for his rec-reation. He breathes the pure air as freelyand lolls as luxuriously under the shade as thelord of the soil, and if he has not the privilegeof calling all that he sees his own, he has not,at the same time, the trouble of paying for itand keeping it in order,

I now found myself among noble avenues of

THE SKETCH BOOK. 379

oaks and elms, whose vast size bespoke thegrowth of centuries. The wind sounded sol-emnly among their branches, and the rookscawed from their hereditary nests in the tree-tops. The eye ranged through a long lessen-ing vista, with nothing to interrupt the viewbut a distant statue and a vagrant deer stalk-ing like a shadow across the opening.

There is something about these stately oldavenues that has the effect of Gothic architect-ure, not merely from the pretended similarityof form, but from their bearing the evidenceof long duration, and of having had their originin a period of time with which we associateideas of romantic grandeur. They betokenalso the long-settled dignity and proudly-con-centrated independence of an ancient family;and I have heard a worth v but aristocratic oldfriend observe, when speaking of the sumptu-ous palaces of modern gentry, that "moneycould do much with stone and mortar butthank Heaven! there was no such thing as sud-denly building up an avenue of oaks."

It was from wandering in early life amongthis rich scenery, and about the romantic soli-tudes of the adjoining park of Fullbroke, whichthen formed a part of the Lucy estate, thatsome of Shakespeare's commentators havesupposed he derived his noble forest medita-tions of Jaques and the enchanted woodlandpictures in "As You Like It." It is in lonelywanderings through such scenes that the minddrinks deep but quiet draughts of inspiration,and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty

380 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 381

Unto the greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with meAnd tune his merry throatUnto the sweet bird's note,Come hither, come hither, come hither.

Here shall he seeNo enemy,

But winter and rough weather.

I had now come in sight of the house. It isa lar~e. building C?fbrick with stone quoins,and IS in the Gothic style of Queen Elizabeth'sday, having been built in the first year of herreign. The exterior remains very nearly inits original state, and may be considered a fairspecimen of the residence of a wealthy countrygentleman of those days. A great gatewayopens from the park into a kind of courtyardin front of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gatewayis in imitation of the ancient barbacan being aki~d of outpost and flanked by tower;, thoughevidently for mere ornament, instead of de-fence. The front of the house is completely in

the old style with stone-shafted casements, agreat bow-window of heavy stone-work, and aportal with armorial bearings over it carved instone. At each corner of the building is anoctagon tower surmounted by a gilt ball andweather-cock.

The Avon, which winds through the park,makes a bend just at the foot of a gently-slop-ing bank which sweeps down from the rear ofthe house. Large herds of deer were feed-ing or reposing upon its borders, and swanswere sailing majestically upon its bosom. AsI contemplated the venerable old mansion Icalled to mind Falstaff's encomium on JusticeShallow's abode, and the affected indifferenceand real vanity of the latter:

and majesty of Nature. The imaginationkindles into reverie and rapture, vague butexquisite images and ideas keep breaking uponit, and we revel in a mute and almost incom-municable luxury of thought. It was in somesuch mood, and perhaps under one of thosevery trees before me, which threw their broadshades over the grassy banks and quiveringwaters of the Avon, that the poet's fancy mayhave sallied forth into that little song whichbreathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary:

"Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling, and a rich."Shallow. Barren, barren, barren: beggars all, beg-

gars all, Sir John:-marry, good air."

Whatever may have been the joviality ofthe old mansion in the days of Shakespeare, ithad now an air of stillness and solitude. Thegreat iron gateway that opened into the court-yard was locked; there was no show of ser-vants bustling about the place; the deer gazedquietly at me as I passed, being no longerharried by the moss-troopers of Stratford.The only sign of domestic life that I met withwas a white cat stealing with wary look andstealthy pace towards the stables, as if onsome nefarious expedition. I must not omitto mention the carcass of a scoundrel crowwhich I saw suspended against the barn-wall,

382 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 383

as it shows that the Lucys still inherit thatlordly abhorrence of poachers and maintainthat rigorous exercise of territorial powerwhich was so strenuously manifested in thecase of the bard.

After prowling about for some time, I atlength found my way to a lateral portal, whichwas the every-day entrance to the mansion. Iwas courteously received by a worthy oldhousekeeper, who, with the civility and com-municativeness of her order, showed me theinterior of the house. The greater part hadundergone alterations and been adapted tomodern tastes and modes of living: there is afine old oaken staircase, and the great hall,that noble feature in an ancient manor-house,still retains much of the appearance it musthave had in the days of Shakespeare. Theceiling is arched and lofty, and at one end is agallery in which stands an organ. Theweapons and trophies of the chase, which for-merly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family portraits.There is a wide, hospitable fireplace, calcu-lated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, for-merly the rallying-place of winter festivity.On the opposite side of the hall is the hugeGothic bow-window, with stone shafts, whichlooks out upon the courtyard. Here are em-blazoned in stained glass the armorial bearingsof the Lucy family for many generations, somebeing dated in 1558. I was delighted to observein the quarterings the three white luces bywhich the character of Sir Thomas was first

identified with that of Justice Shallow. Theyare mentioned in the first scene of the "MerryWives of \Vindsor," where the justice is in arage with Falstaff, for having "beaten hismen, killed his deer, and broken into his lodge."The poet had no doubt the offences of himselfand his comrades in mind at the time, and wemay suppose the family pride and vindictivethreats of the puissant Shallow to be a carica-ture of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas

"Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will makea Star-Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty JohnFalstaffs, he shall not abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq.

Slender. In the county of Goster, justice of peace andcoram.

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum,Slender. Ay, and ratolorum too, and a gentleman

born, master parson; who writes himself Armigero inany bill, warrant, quittance. cr obligation, Armigero.

Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done any timethese three hundred years.

Slender. All his successors gone before him havedone't, and all his ancestors that come after him may;they may give the dozen white luces in their coat. . . . .

Shallow. The council shall-hear it; it is a riot.Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot;

there is no fear of Got in a riot; the council, hear you,shall desire to hear. the fear of Got, and not to hear ariot; take your vizaments in that.

Shallow, Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, thesword should end it!"

Near the window thus emblazoned hung aportrait, by Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucyfamily, a great beauty of the time of Charlesthe Second: the old housekeeper shook herhead as she pointed to the picture, and in-formed me that this lady had been sadly

THE SKETCH BOOK.584 THE SKETCH BOOK.

addicted to cards, and had gambled away agreat portion of the family estate, amongwhich was that part of the park where Shakes-peare and his comrades had killed the deer.The lands thus lost had not been entirelyregained by the family even at the presentday. It is but justice to this recreant dameto confess that she had a surpassing fine handand arm.

The picture which most attracted my atten-tion was a great painting over the fireplace,containing likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy andhis family who inhabited the hall in the latterpart of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at firstthought that it was the vindictive knight him-self, but the housekeeper assured me that itwas his son; the only likeness extant of theformer being an effigy upon his tomb in thechurch of the neighhoring hamlet of Charle-cot.* The picture gives a lively idea of the

* This effigy is in white marble, and represents theknight in complete armor. Near him lies the effigy ofhis wife. and on her tomb is the following inscription;which, if really composed by her husband, places himquite above the intellectual level of Master Shallow:

Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir ThomasLucyof Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight,Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton m yecounty of Worcester Esquire who departed out of thiswretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye 10 day ofFebruary in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 and of herage 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true andfaythful servant of her good God, never detected of anycryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to herhusband most faythful and true. In friendship mostconstant; to what in trust was committed unto her mostsecret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of ;:H

costume and manners of the time. SirThomas is dressed in ruff and doublet whiteshoes with roses in them, and has a peakedyellow, or, as Master Slender would say, "acane-colored beard." His lady is seated onthe opposite side of the picture in wide ruffand long stomacher, and the children have amost venerahle stiffness end formality of dress.Hounds and spaniels arc mingled in the familygroup; a hawk is seated on his perch in theforeground, and one of the children holds abow, all intimating the knight's skill in hunt-ing, hawking, and archery, so indispensableto an accomplished gentleman in those days. *house, brins-ing up of youth in ye fear of God that didconverse With her most rare and singular. A greatmaintayne~ <;Ifhospitality. Greatly esteemed of herbett~rs; misliked of none unless of the envyous. Whenall IS spoken that can be saide a woman so garnishedwith virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to beequalled by any. As shee lived most virtuously so sheedied most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowewhat hath byn written to be true.

Thomas Lucye.

.* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentlemen ofhis tlI~e, observes,.. "His housekeeping is seen much inthe different families of dogs and serving-men atten-dant on their kennels; and the deepness of their throatsis the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems thetrue burden of no?i1ity, and is exceedingly ambitious tose.emdelighted ::vlth the s~r~, a?d have his fist glovedWith his )esses. And Gilpin, III his description of aMr. Hastings, remarks, "He kept all sorts of houndsthat run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and hadhawks of all kinds both long and short winged. Hisgreat hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones,and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers.

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I regretted to find that the ancient furni-ture of the hall had disappeared; for I hadhoped to meet with the stately elbo:v-chair ofcarved oak in which the country sqmre of for-mer days was wont to sw::,-ythe sc~ptr€ o.f e~-pire over his rural domains, and Ir: which Itmizht be presumed the redoubted SIr Thomassat enthroned in awful state when the rec-reant Shakespeare was brought before him.As I like to deck out pictures for my own en-tertainment, I pleased myself with the ideathat this very hall had been the scene of ~heunlucky bard's examination on the mO!ll1ngafter his captivity in the lodge. I fancied tomyself the rural potentate surrounded by hisbody-guard of butler, pages, and .blue-coatedservin a-men with their badges, while the luck-less c~lprit was brought in, forlorn and chop-fallen, in the custody of game-keepers, hunts-men, and whippers-in, and followed by: arabble rout of country clowns. I fanciedbright faces of curious housemaids peepingfrom the half-opened doors, while from thegallery the fair daughters of the knight lean~dgracefully forward, eyeing the you~hful pns-oner with that pity "that dwells 1ll woman-

On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of thechoicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels." .

"By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not away to-night..... I will not excuse you; you shall not be excused;excuses shall not be admitted; there is no excuse shallserve; you shall not be excused .... '. ~ome pigeons,Davy, a couple of short-legged hens; a joint of m~t~on:and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell 'WIlhamCook.' "

hood." Who would have thought that thispoor varlet, thus trembling before the briefauthority of a country squire, and the sport ofrustic boors, was soon to become the delightof princes, the theme of all tongues and ages,the dictator to the human mind, and was toconfer immortality on his oppressor by a cari-cature and a lampoon?

I was now invited by the butler to walk intothe garden, and I felt inclined to visit theorchard and harbor where the justice treatedSir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence" to a lastyear's pippin of his own grafting, with a dishof caraways;" but I had already spent somuch of the day in my ramblings that I wasobliged to give up any further investigations.When about to take my leave I was gratitiedby the civil entreaties of the housekeeper andbutler that I would take some refreshment-an instance of good old hospitality which Igrieve to say, we castle-hunters seldom meetwith in modern days. I make no doubt it isa virtue which the present representative ofthe Lucys inherits from his ancestors; forShakespeare, even in his caricature, makesJustice Shallow importunate in this respect, aswitness his pressing instances to Falstaff:I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old

hal1. My mind had become so completelypossessed by the imaginary scenes and char-acters connected with it that I seemed to beactually living among them. Everythingbrought them as it were before my eyes, andas the door of the dining-room opened I almost

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expected to hear the feeble voice of MasterSilence quavering forth his favorite ditty:

my spirit in many a lonely hour with all thecordial and cheering sympathies of social life!

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon onmy return, I paused to contemplate the dis-tant church in which the poet lies buried, andcould not but exult in the malediction whichhas kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet andhallowed vaults. What honor could his namehave derived from being mingled in dustycompanionship with the epitaphs and escutch-eons and venal eulogiums of a titled multi-tude? What would a crowded corner in "Vest-minster Abbey have been, compared with thisreverend pile, which seems to stand in beauti-fulloneliness as his sole mausoleum! The soli-tude about the grave may be but the offspringof an over-wrought sensibility; but humannature is made up of foibles and prejudices,and its best and tenderest affections are min-gled with these factitious feelings. He whohas sought renown about the world, and hasreaped a full harvest of worldly favor, will find,after all that there is no love, no admiration,no applause, so sweet to the soul as that whichsprings up in his native place. It is there thathe seeks to be gathered in peace and honoramong his kindred and his early friends.And when the weary heart and failing headbegin to warn him that the evening of life isdrawing on, he turns as fondly as does theinfant to the mother's arms to sink to sleep inthe bosom of the scene of his childhood.

How would it have cheered the spirit of theyouthful bard when, wandering forth in dis-

" 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all,And welcome merry Shrove-tide!"

On returning to my inn I could not but reofleet on the singular gift of the poet, to be ablethus to spread the magic of his mind over thevery face of Nature, to give to things andplaces a charm and character not their own,and to turn this "working-day world" into aperfect fairy-land. He is indeed the true en-chanter, whose spell operates, not upon thesenses, but upon the imagination and theheart. Under the wizard influence of Shakes-peare I had been walking all day in a completedelusion. I had surveyed the landscapethrough the prism! of poetry, which tingedevery object with the hues of the rainbow. Ihad been surrounded with fancied beings.with mere airy nothings conjured up by poeticpower, yet which, to me, had all the charm ofreality. I had heard Jacques soliloquize be-neath his oak; had beheld the fair Rosalindand her companion adventuring through thewoodlands; and, above all had been once morepresent in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and hiscontemporaries, from the august Justice Shal-low down to the gentle Master Slender andthe sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honorsand blessings on the bard who has thus gildedthe dull realities of life with innocent illu-sions, who has spread exquisite and unboughtpleasures in my chequered path, and beguiled

8\10 THE SKETCH BOO~. THE SKETCH BOOK. 391grace upon a doubtful world, he cast back aheavy look upon his paternal home, could hehave foreseen that before many years he shouldreturn to it covered with renown; that hisname should become the boast and glory ofhis native place; that his ashes should be relig-iously guarded as its most precious treasure;and that its lessening spire, on which his eyeswere fixed in tearful contemplation, shouldone day become the beacon towering amidstthe gentle landscape to guide the literary pil-grim of every nation to his tomb!

TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER."I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's

cabin hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever hecame cold and naked, and he clothed him not." -Speechof an Indian Chief.

There is something in the character andhabits of the North American savage. taken inconnection with the scenery over which he isaccustomed to range, its vast lakes, boundlessforests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains,that is, to my mind, wonderfully striking andsublime. He is formed for the wilderness, asthe Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern,simple, and enduring, fitted to grapple withdifficulties and to support privations. Thereseems but little soil in his heart for the sup-port of the kindly virtues; and yet, if wewould but take the trouble to penetratethrough that proud stoicism and habitual tac-iturnity which look up his character from cas-ual observation, we should find him linked tohis fellow- man of civilized Iife by more ofthose sympathies and affections them are usu-ally ascribed to him.

It has been the lot of the unfortunate abor-igines of America in the early periods of colo-nization to be doubly wronged IlY the whitemen. They have been dispossessed of theirhereditary possessions by mercenary and fre-

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quently wanton warfare, and their charactershave been traduced by bigoted and interestedwriters. The colonists often treated them likebeasts of the forest, and the author has en-deavored to justify him in his outrages. Theformer found it easier to exterminate than tocivilize; the latter to vilify than to discrimi-nate. The appellations of savage and paganwere deemed sufficient to sanction the hostil-ities of both; and thus the poor wanderers ofthe forest were persecuted and defamed, notbecause they were guilty, but because theywere ignorant.

The rights of the savage have seldom beenproperly appreciated or respected by the whiteman. In peace he has too often been the dupeof artful traffic; in war he has been regardedas a ferocious animal whose life or death was aquestion of mere precaution and convenience.Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his ownsafety is endangered and he is sheltered byimpunity, and little mercy is to be expectedfrom him when he feels the sting of the reptileand is conscious of the power to destroy.

The same prejudices, which were indulgedthus early, exist in common circulation at thepresent day. Certain learned societies have,it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavoredto investigate and record the real charactersand manners of the Indian tribes; the Ameri-can government, too, has wisely and humanely'exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and for-bearing spirit towards them and to protect

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them from fraud and injustice. * The currentopinion of the Indian character, however, istoo apt to be formed from the miserable hordeswhich infest the frontiers and hang on thoskirts of the settlements. These are too corn-monly composed of degenerate beings, cor-rupted and enfeebled by the vices of society,without being benefited by its civilization.That proud independence which formed themain pillar of savage virtue has been shakendown, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins.Their spirits are humiliated and debased by asense of inferiority, and their native couragecowed and daunted by the superior knowledgeand power of their enlightened neighbors. So-ciety has advanced upon them like one of thosewithering airs that will sometimes breed deso-lation over a whole region of fertility. It hasenervated their strength, multiplied their dis-eases, and superinduced upon their originalbarbarity the low vices of artificial life. It hasgiven them a thousand superfluous wants,whilst it has diminished their means of mereexistence. It has driven before it the animalsof the chase, who fly from the sound of theaxe and the smoke of the settlement and seek

*The American Government has been indefatigablein its exertions to ameliorate the situation of the Indi-ans, and to introduce among them the arts of civiliza-tion and civil and religious knowledge. To protectthem from the frauds of the white traders no purchaseof land from them by individuals is permitted. nor isany person allowed to receive lands from them as a pres-ent without the express sanction of government. Theseprecautions are strictly enforced.

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refuge in the depths of remoter forests and yetuntrodden wilds. Thus do we too often findthe Indians on our frontiers to be the merewrecks and remnants of once powerful tribes,who have lingered in the vicinity of the settle-ments and sunk into precarious and vagabondexistence. Poverty, repining and hopelesspoverty, a canker of the mind unknown in sav-age life, corrodes their spirits and blightsevery free and noble quality of their natures.They become drunken, indolent, feeble, thiev-ish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like vag-rants about the settlements, among spaciousdwellings replete with elaborate comforts,which only render them sensible of the com-parative wretchedness of their own condition.Luxury spreads its ample board before theireyes, but they are excluded from the banquet.Plenty revels over the fields, but they are starv-ing in the midst of its abundance; the wholewilderness has blossomed into a garden, butthey feel as reptiles that infest it.

How different was their state while yet theundisputed lords of the soil! Their wants werefew and the means of gratification within theirreach. They saw everyone round them shar-ing the same lot, enduring the same hardships,feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in thesame rude garments. No roof then rose butwas open to the homeless stranger; no smokecurled among the trees but he was welcome tosit down by its fire and join the hunter in hisrepast. "For," says an old historian of NewEngland, "their life is so void of care, and they

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are so loving also, that they make use of thosethings they enjoy as common goods, and aretherein so compassionate that rather than oneshould starve through want, they would starveall; thus they pass their time merrily, not ~e-garding our pomp, but are better content Withtheir own which some men esteem so meanlyof. " Such were the Indians whilst in tbpride and energy of their primitive natu:r~c,they resembled those wild plants which thr~vebest in the shades of the forest, but shrinkfrom the hand of cultivation and perish beneath the influence of the sun.

In discussing the savage character writer:have been too prone to indulge in vulgar prej-udice and passionate exaggeration, instead ofthe candid temper of true philosophy. Th.eyhave not sufficiently considered the peculiarcircumstances in which the Indians have beenplaced and the peculiar principles under whichthey have been educated. No be~ngs ac~smore rigidly from rule than the Indian. Hiswhole conduct is regulated according to somegeneral maxims early implanted in his mind.The moral laws that govern him are, to besure but few' but then he conforms to themall, 'the white'man abounds in laws of religion,morals and manners, but how many does heviolate!

A frequent ground of accusation .against theIndians is their disregard of treaties, and thetreachery and wantonness with which, in timeof apparent peace, they will suddenl! fly tohostilities. The intercourse of the white men

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with the Indians, however, is too apt to becold distrustful, oppressive, and insulting.They seldom treat them with that confidenceand frankness which are indispensable to realfriendship, nor is sufficient caution observednot to offend against those feelings of pride orsuperstition which often prompt the Indian tohostility quicker than mere considerat~ons ofinterest. The solitary savage feels silently,but acutely. His sensibilities are not diffusedover so wide a surface as those of the whiteman, but they run in steadier and deeper chan-nels. His pride, his affections, his supersti-tions, are all directed towards fewer objects,but the wounds inflicted on them are propor-tionately severe, and furnish motives of hostil-ity which we cannot sufficiently appreciate.Where a community is also limited in number,and forms one great patriarchal family, as inan Indian tribe, the injury of an individual isthe injury of the whole, and the sentiment ofvengeance is almost instantaneously diffused.One council-fire is sufficient for the discussionand arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Hereall the fighting-men and sages assemble. Elo-quence and superstition combine to inflamethe minds of the warriors. The orator awak,ens their martial ardor, and they are wroughtup to a kind of religious desperation by thevisions of the prophet and the dreamer.

An instance of one of those sudden exasper-ations, arising from a motive peculiar to theIndian character, is extant in an old record ofthe early settlement of Massachusetts. The

planters of Plymouth had defaced the moriu-ments of the dead at Passonagessit, and hadnlundered the grave of the Sachem's mother~f some skins with which it had been decor-ated. The Indians are remarkable for the rev-erence which they entertain for the sepulchresof their kindred .. Tribes that have passed gen-erations exiled from the abodes of their ances-tors, when by chance they have been traveli,ngin the vicinity, have been known to turn aside:rom the highway, and, guided by wonderfullyaccurate tradition, have crossed the countryfor miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps inwoods, where the bones of their tribe were an-ciently deposited, and there have passed. hon~'f,in silent meditation. Influenced by this ::3UO-

lime and holy feeling, the Sachem whosemother's tom b had been violated gathered hismen together, and addressed them in tho fol-lowing beautifully simple and pathetic haran-gue-'a curious specimen of Indian eloquenceand an affecting instance of filial piety in asavage:

"When last the glorious light of all the skywas underneath this globe and birds grewsilent, I began to settle.' as my custom is: totake repose. Before mme eyes were rastclosed methought I saw a vision, .at which myspirit was much troubled; and trembling atthat doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, •Behold,my son whom I have cherished, see the breaststhat gave thee suck, the hands that lappedthee warm and fed thee oft. Canst thou for-~et to take revenge of those wild people who

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have defaced my monument .i1!-a uespitefulmanner, disdaining our antlqmtles an~ honor-able customs? See, now, the Sachem s gravelies like the common people, defaccd.bY anignoble race. Thy mother d.oth ~om'plam andimplores thy aid against this thIeVIsh peoP1.ewho have newly intruded on ou~ la1!-d. If thisbe suffered. I shall not rest quiet in ~Y:ever-lasting habitation.' This said, the spirit van-ished, and I, all in a sweat. not able scar.cc tospeak, began to get some strength and I~col-lect my spirits that were fled, <l;nddete~mmedto demand your counsel and assIstance.

I have adduced this anecdote at some length,as it tends to show how these sndden acts. ofhostility which have been attributed to capnceand perfidy, may ofte~ arise f:om de~p andgenerous motives, which our mattentIOn toIndian character and customs prevents ourptoperly appreciating. . .

Another ground of viol erit outcry a~amstthe Indians is their barbar ity to t~e vanqmshed.This had its oriz in partly 111 policy and p~rtlyin superstition. "'The tribes, though s~metIm~scalled nations, were never so tormldable. intheir numbers but that the loss of seve~al war-riors was sensibly felt; this was partIcnlarlythe case when they had been freque~tly en-o-acyed in warfare; and many an ~nstance~c;urs in Indian history wh~re a. tribe thathad long been formida1;Jle to ItS neighbors hasbeen broken up and dn,ven away by the ?ap-ture and massacre of ItS principal fightlllg-men. There was a strong temptation; there-

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fore, to the victor to be merciless, not so muchto gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide forfuture security. The Indians had also thesuperstitious belief, frequent among barbarousnations and prevalent also among the ancients,that the manes of their friends who had fallenin battle were soothed by the blood of the cap-tives. The prisoners, however, who are notthus sacrificed are adopted into their familiesin the place of the slain, and are treated withthe confidence and affection of relatives andfriends; nay, so hospitable and tender is theirentertainment that when the alternative isoffered them they will often prefer to remainwith their adopted brethren rather than returnto the home and the friends of their youth.

The cruelty of the Indians towards theirprisoners has been heightened since the colo-nization of the whites. What was formerly acompliance with policy and superstition hasbeen exasperated into a gratification of ven-geance. They cannot but be sensible that thewhite men are the usurpers of their ancientdominion, the cause of their degradation, andthe gradual destroyers of their race. They goforth to battle smarting with injuries andindignities which they have individuallysuffered, and they are driven to madness anddespair by the wide-spreading desolation andthe overwhelming ruin of European warfare.The whites have too frequently set them anexample of violence by burning their villagesand laying waste their slender means of sub-sistence, and yet they wonder that savages do

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not show moderation and magnanimity towardsthose who have left them nothing but mereexistence and wretchedness.

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardlyand treacherous, because they use stratagemin warfare in preference to open. force; but mthis they are fully justified by their rude codeof honor. They are early taught that stra~a-gem is praiseworthy ; th~ b.ravest warn orthinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, an~ takeevery advantage of his fo~: he triu~phs m thesuperior craft and sagacity by WhICh he hasbeen enabled to surprise and destroy anenemy. Indeed, man is naturally mor~ proneto subtiltv than open valor, owmg to his phy~-ical weakness in comparison with other am-mals. They are endowed with natural. weaponsof defence, with horns, with tusks, with hoofs,and talons; but man has to depend on ~llS

superior sagacity. In. all his encounters withthese, his proper enemies, he resorts to .strata-gem; and when he perversely turns his hos-tility against his fellow-man, he at first con-tinues the same subtle mode of warfare.

The natural principle of war is to do the mostharm to our enemy with the least harm to our-selves; and this of course is to be effected .bystratagem. That chivalrous courage whichinduces us to despise the suggestlO~s of pru-dence and to rush in the face of certain dangeris the offspring of society and produced ~yeducation. It is honorable, because It IS infact the triumph of lofty sentiment over aninstinctive repugnance to pain, and over those

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yearnings after personal ease and securitywhich society has condemned as ignoble. It iskept alive by pride and the fear of shame; and.hus the dread of real evil is overcome bv thesuperior dread of an evil which cx ist s but inthe imagination. It has been cherished andstimulated also by various means. It has beenthe theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrousstory. The poet and minstrel have delightedto shed round it the splendors of fiction, andeven the historian has fo'-gotten the sobergravity of narration and broken forth intoenthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. Tri-umphs and gorgeous pageants have been itsreward: monuments, on which art has ex-hausted its skill and opulence its treasures,have been erected to perpetuate a nation'sgratitude and admiration. Thus artificiallyexcited, courage has risen to an extraordinaryand factitious degree of heroism, and, arrayedin all the glorious "pomp and circumstance ofwar," this turbulent quality has even been ableto eclipse many of those quiet but invaluablevirtues which silently ennoble the humancharacter and swell the tide of human happi-ness.

But if courage intrinsically consists in thedefiance of danger and pain, the life of theIndian is a continual exhibition of it. Helives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk.Peril and adventure are congenial to hisnature, or rather seem necessary to arousehis faculties and to give an interest to his ex-istence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose

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mode of warfare is by ambush and surprisal,he is always prepared for fight and lives withhis weapons in his hands. As the ship careersin fearful singleness through the solitudes ofocean, as the bird mingles among clouds andstorms, and wings its way, a mere speck,across the pathless fields of air, so the Indianholds his course, silent, solitary, but un-daunted, through the boundless bosom of thewilderness. His expeditions may vie in dis-tance and danger with the pilgrimage of thedevotee or the crusade of the knight-errant.He traverses vast forests exposed to the haz-ards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, andpining famine. Stormy lakes, those greatinland seas, are no obstacles to his wander-ings: in his light canoe of bark he sports likea feather on their waves, and darts with theswiftness of an arrow down the roaring rapidsof the rivers. His very subsistence is snatchedfrom the midst of toil and peril. He gainshis food by the hardships and dangers of thechase: he wraps himself in the spoils of thebear, the panther, and the buffalo, and sleepsamong the thunders of the cataract.

No hero of ancient or modern days can sur-pass the Indian in his lofty contempt of deathand the fortitude with which he sustains hiscruelist affliction. Indeed, we here beholdhim rising superior to the white man in con-sequence of his peculiar education. The latterrushes to glorious death at the cannon's mouth;the former calmly contemplates its approach,and triumphantly endures it amidst the varied

torments of surrounding foes and the pro-tracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pridein taunting his persecutors and provoking theiringenuity of torture; and as the devouringflames prey on his very vitals and the fleshshrinks from the sinews, he raises his las ~songof triumph, breathing the defiance of an u neon-quered heart and invoking the spirits of hisfathers to witness that he dies without a groan.

Notwithstanding the obloquy with whichthe early historians have overshadowed thecharacters of the unfortunate natives, somebright gleams occasionally break throughwhich throw a degree of melancholy lustre ontheir memories. Facts are occasionally to 'Demet with in the rude annals of the easternprovinces which, though recorded with thecoloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speakfor themselves, and will be dwelt on withapplause and sympathy when prejudice shallhave passed away.

In one of the homely narratives of theIndian wars in New England there is a touch-ing account of the desolation carried into thetribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanityshrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indis-criminate butchery. In one place we read ofthe surprisal of an Indian fort in the night,when the wigwams were wrapped in flames andthe miserable inhabitants shot down and slainin attempting to escape, "all being despatchedand ended in the course of an hour." Aftera series of similar transactions "our soldiers, "as the historian piously observes, "being

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resolved by God's assi __tance to make a finalde~truction of them," the unhappy savagesbeing hunted from their homes and fortressesand pursued with fire arid sword, a scanty butgalla,nt band,. the ~ad r:emnant of the Pequodwarnor~, WltJ1 their wives and children tookrefuge III a swamp.

Burning with indignation and rendered sul-len by despair, with hearts burs tin « with zriefat the destruction of t.heir tribe, ~ll1d sI~ritsgalled and sore at the fancied iO'nominy of theirdefeat, they refused to ask tb~ir Jives at thehands of an insulting foe, and preferred deathto submission.

As the night grew en the>; were surrounded~n their .dismal retreat, so as to render escapeimpracticable, Thus situated, their enemy" l' d 1 . 1pde t rern WIt 1 shot all the time, bv whichmeans many were kilJed and buried in themire." In the darkness and foO' that precededthe dawn of day some few br~ke throuo h thebesiegers and escaped into the woods ~ "therest were left to the conquerors of whichmany were killed in the swamp,' like sullendorrs who would rather, in their self-wiliednessand madness, sit still and be shot throuvh orcut to pieces" than implore for mercy. Whenthe day broke upon this handful of forlornbut dauntless spirits. the soldiers we are toldenterin~ ~he swamp, "saw sev~ral heaps oft~em sitting close together, upon whom theydischarged their pieces, laden with ten ortwelve pistol b~llets at a time. putting themuzzles of the pieces under the boughs, within

a few yards of them; so as, besides those thatwere found dead, many more were killed andsunk into the mire, and never were mindedmore by friend or foe .••

Can anyone read this plain unvarnished talewithout admiring the stern resolution theunbending pride, the loftiness of spirit thatseemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taughtheroes and to raise them above the instinctivefeelings of human nature? When the Gaulslaid waste the city of Rome, they found thesenators clothed in their robes and seated withstern tranquillity in their curule chairs' inthis manner they suffered death withoutresistance or even supplication. Such conductwas in them applauded as noble and maznani-mous; in the hapless Indian it was reviled asobstinate and sullen. How truly are we thedupes of show and circumstance! How differ-ent is virtue clothed in purple and enthroned instate, from virtue naked and destitute andperishing obscurely in a wilderness!

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pic-tures. The eastern tribes have long since dis-appeared; the forests that sheltered them havebeen laid low, and scarce any traces remain ofthem in the thickly-settled States of New Eng.land, excepting here and there the Indianname of a village or a stream, And such must,sooner or later, be the fate of those othertribes which skirt the frontiers, and have occa-sionally been inveigled from their forests tomingle in the wars of white men. In a littlewhile, and they will go the way that their

406 THE SKETCH BOOK.

,

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brethren have gone before. The few hordeswhich still linger about the shores of Huronand Superior and the tributary streams of theMississippi will share the fate of those tribesthat once spread over Massachusetts and Con-necticut and lorded it along the proud banksof the Hudson, of that gigantic race said tohave existed on the borders of the Susque-hanna, and of those various nations thatflourished about the Potomac and the Rap-pahannock and that peopled forests of thevast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanishlike a vapor from the face of the earth; theirvery history will be lost in forgetfulness; andthem no more forever. " Or if, perchance, some"the places that now know them will knowdubious memorial of them should survive, itmay be in the romantic dreams of the poet. topeople in imagination his glades and groves,like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities ofantiquity .. But should he venture upon thedark story of their wrongs and wretchedness,should he tell how they were invaded, cor-rupted, despoiled, driven from their nativeabodes and the sepulchres of their fathers,hunted like wild beasts about the earth, andsent down with violence and butchery to thegrave, posterity will either turn with horrorand incredulity from the tale or blush withindignation at the inhumanity of their fore-fathers. "We are driven back," said an oldwarrior, "until we can retreat no farther-ourhatchets are broken, our bows are snapped,

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407

our fires are nearly extinguished; a littlelonger and the white man will cease to per-secute us, for we shall cease to exist!"

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, I

408 'YHE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 409 II

1

PHILIP OF POKANOKET.

much upon the opinion of his fellow-men, he isconstantly acting a studied part. The boldand peculiar traits of native character arerefined away or softened down by the levelinginfluence of what is termed good-breeding, andhe practices so many petty deceptions andaffects so many generous sentiments for thepurposes of popularity that it is difficult to dis-tinguish his real from his artificial character.The Indian, on the contrary, free from therestraints and refinements of polished life, andin a great degree a solitary and independentbeing, obeys the impulses of his inclination or ,.the dictates of his judgment; and thus theattributes of his nature, being freely indulged,grow singly great and striking. Society is likea lawn, where every roughness is smoothed,every bramble eradicated, and where the eyeis delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvetsurface; he, however, who would study Naturein its wildness and variety must plunge intothe forest, must explore the glen, must stemthe torrent, and dare the precipice.

These reflections arose on casually lookingthrough a volume of early colonial historywherein are recorded, with great bitterness,the outrages of the Indians and their wars withthe settlers of New England. It is painful toperceive, even from these partial narratives,how the footsteps of civilization may be tracedin the blood of the aborigines; how easily thecolonists were moved to hostility by the lust ofconquest; how merciless and exterminatingwas their warfare. The imagination shrinks

AN INDIAN MEMOIR.

As monumental bronze unchanged his look:A s<.mlthat pit):' touch'd, but never shook;Tram'd from hIS tree-rock'd cradle to his bier.The fierce extremes of good and ill to brookImpassive-fearing but the shame of fear-A stoic of the woods-a mall without a tear.

-Campbell.

It is to be regretted that those early writerswho treated of the discovery and settlementof America have not given us more particularand candid accounts of the remarkable charac-ters that flour~shed in savage life. The scantyanecdotes which have reached us are full ofpeculiarity and interest; they furnish us withnearer glimpses of human nature and showwhat man is in a comparatively pri~itive stateand what he owes to civilization. There is~omething of the charm of discovery in light-1l1g upon these wild and unexplored tracts ofhuman nature-in witriessinz as it were the

. b"?ahve growth of moral sentiment, and perceiv-mg. those generous and romantic qualitieswh~ch have b~en artificially cultivated bySOCIety vegetating in spontaneous hardihoodand rude magnificence.. In civilized life, where the happiness, andindeed almost the existence, of man depends so

(10 THE SKETCH BOOK.

at the idea of how many intellectual beingswere hunted from the earth, how manybrave and noble hearts, of Nature's sterlingcoinage, were broken down and trampled inthe dust.Such tvas the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an

Indian warrior whose name was once a terrorthroug-hout Massachusetts and Connecticut.He was the most distinguished of a number ofcontemporary sachems who reigned over thePequods, the Narragansetts, the Wampanoags,and the other eastern tribes at the time of the

• first settlement of New England-a band ofnative untaught heroes who made the mostgenerous struggle of which human nature iscapable, fighting to the last gasp in the causeof their country, without a hope of victory ora thought of renown. 'Worthy of an age ofpoetry and fit subjects for local story androm~tic fiction," they have left scarcely anyauthe1M.ic traces on the page of history, butstalk like gigantic shadows in the dim twilightof tradition. '*When the Pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers

are caned by their descendants, first tookrefus-e on the shores of the New World fromthe "'religious persecutions of the Old, th~irsituation was to the last degree gloomy and dIS-heartening. Few in number, and that numberrapidly perishing away through sickness and

* While correcting the proof-sheets of this article theauthor is informed that a celebrated English poet hasnearly finished an heroic poem on the story of Philip ofPok anoket,

THE SKETCH BOOK. 411

hardships, surrounded by a howling wildernessand savage tribes, exposed to the rigors ot analmost arctic winter and the vicissitudes of an'ever-shifting climate, their minds were filledwith doleful forebodings, and nothing pre-served them from sinking into despondencybut the strong excitement of religious enthus-iasm. In this forlorn situation they were vis-ited by Massasoit chief sagamore of the Warn-panoags, a powerful chief who reigned over agreat extent of country. Instead of takingadvantage of the scanty number of the strang-ers and expelling them from his territories,into which they had intruded, he seemed atonce to conceive for them a generous friend-ship, and extended towards them the rites ofprimitive hospitality. He came early in thespring to their settlement of New Plymouth,attended by a mere handful of followers,entered into a solemn league of peace andamity, sold them a portion of the soil, andpromised to secure for them the good-will ofhis savage allies. Whatever may be said ofIndian perfidy, it is certain that the integrityand good faith of Massasoit have never beenimpeached. He continued a firm and magnan-imous friend of the white men, suffering themto extend their possessions and to strengthenthemselves in the land, and betraying no jeal-ousy of their increasing power and prosperity.Shortly before his death, he came once moreto New Plymouth with his son Alexander, forthe purpose of renewing the covenant of peaceand of securing it to his posterity.

412 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 413

At this conference he endeavored to protectthe religion of his forefathers from theencroaching zeal of the missionaries, and stip-ulated that no further attempt should be madeto draw off his people from their ancient faith;but, finding the English obstinately opposedto any such condition, he mildly relinquishedthe demand. Almost the last act of his lifewas to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip(as they had been named by the English), tothe residence of a principal settler recom-mending mutual kindness and confidence, andentreating that the same love and amity whichhad existed between the white men and him-self might be continued afterwards with hischildren. The good old sachem died in peace,and was happily gathered to his fathers beforesorrow came upon his tribe; his childrenremained behind to experience the ingratitudeof white men.

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him.He was of a quick and impetuous temper, andproudly tenacious of his hereditary rights anddignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorialconduct of the strangers excited his indigna-tion, and he heheld with uneasiness theirexterminating wars with the neighboringtribes. He was doomed soon to incure theirhostility, being accused of plotting with theNarragansetts to rise against the English anddrive them from the land. It is impossible tosay whether this accusation was warranted byfacts or was grounded on mere suspicions. Itis evident, however, by the violent and over-

bearing measures of the settlers that they hadby this time begun to feel conscious of therapid increase of their power, and to growharsh and inconsiderate in their treatment ofthe natives. They despatched an armed forceto seize upon Alexander and to bring himbefore their courts. He was traced to hiswoodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting-house where he was reposing with a band ofhis followers, unarmed, after the toils of thechase. The suddenness of his arrest and theoutrage offered to his sovereign dignity sopreyed upon the irascible feelings of thisproud savage as to throw him into a ragingfever. He was permitted to return home oncondition of sending his son as a pledge for hisre-appearance; but the blow he had receivedwas fatal, and before he reached his home hefell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit.

The successor of Alexander was Metamocet,or King Philip, as he was called by the settlerson account of his lofty spirit and ambitioustemper. These, together with his well-knownenergy and enterprise, had rendered him anobject of great jealousy and apprehension, andhe was accused of having always cherished asecret and implacable hostility towards thewhites. Such may very probably and verynaturally have been the case. He consideredthem as originally but mere intruders into thecountry, who had presumed upon indulgenceand were extending an influence baneful tosavage life. He saw the whole race of hiscountrymen melting before them from the

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face of the earth, their territories slipping fromtheir hands, and their tribes becoming feeble,scattered and dependent. It may be said thatthe soil was originally purchased by thesettlers; but who does not know the nature ofIndian purchases in the early periods of colo-nization? The Europeans always made thriftybargains through their superior adroitness intraffic, and they gained vast accessions of ter-ritory by easily-provoked hostilities. Anuncultivated savage is never a nice inquirerinto the refinements of law by which an injurymay be gradually and legal1y inflicted. Lead-ing facts are al1 by which he judges; and itwas enough for Philip to know that before theintrusion of the Europeans his coutrymen werelords of the soil, and that now they werebecoming vagabonds in the land of theirfathers.

But whatever may have been his feelings ofgeneral hostility and his particular indigna-tion at the treatment of his brother, he sup-pressed them for the present. renewed the con-tract with the settlers, and resided peaceablyfor many years at Pokanoket, or as it wascalled by the English, Mount Hope, * theancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspic-ions, however, which were at first but vagueand indefinite, began to acquire form and sub-stance, and he was at leng.:h charged withattempting to instigate the various easterntribes to rise at once, and by a simultaneous

* Now Bristol, Rhode Island.

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effort to throw off the yoke of their oppressors.It is difficult at this distant period to assignthe proper credit due to these early accusationsagainst the Indians, . There was a pronenessto suspicion and an aptness to acts of violenceon the part of the whites that gave weight andimportance to every idle tale. Informersabounded where tale-bearing met with counte-nance and reward, and the sword was readilyunsheathed when its success was certain andit carved out empire.

The only positive evidence on record againstPhilip is the accusation of one Sausaman arenegade Indian, whose natural cunning hadbeen quickened by a partial education whichhe had received among the settlers. Hechanged his faith and his allegiance two orthree times with a facility that evinced thelooseness of his principles. He had acted forsome time as Philip's confidential secretaryand counselor, and had enjoyed his bountyand protection. Finding, however, that thedouds of adversity were gathering round hispatron, he abandoned his service and wentover to the whites, and in order to gain theirf~vor ch~rged hi.s former benefactor with plot-tmg agamst their safety. A rigorous investi-gation took place. Philip and several of hissubjects submitted to be examined, but nothingwas proved against them. The settlers, how-ever, had now gone too far to retract· theyhad previously determined that Philip' was adangerous ueighbor; they had publicly evinced~heir distrust, and had done enough to insure

416 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 417

his hostility; according, therefore, to the usualmode of reasoning in these cases, his destruc-tion had become necessary to their security.Sausaman, the treacherous ~nformer, wasshortly afterwards found dead III a pond, ha~-ing fallen a victim to the vengeance of hIStribe. Three Indians, one of whom was afriend and counselor of Philip, were appre-hended and tried, and on the testimony of onevery questionable witness were condemned andexecuted as murderers.

This treatment of his subjects and igno-minious punishment of his friend outraged thepride and exasperated the passion of Philip.The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feetawakened him to the gathering storm, a.nd hedetermined to trust himself no longer III thepower of the white men. The fat~ of hisinsulted and broken-hearted brother still rank-led in his mind; and he had a further warningin the tragi cal story of Miantonimo, a greatSachem of the Narragansetts, who, after man-fully facing his accusers before a tribunal ofthe colonists, exculpating himself from acharge of conspiracy and receiving assurancesof amity, had been perfidiously despatched attheir instigation. Philip therefore gatheredhis fighting-rnen about him, persuaded allstrangers that he could to join his cause, sentthe women and children to the Narragansettsfor safety, and wherever he appear~d was con-tinually surrounded by armed warnors.

When the two parties were thus in a state ofdistrust and irritation, the least spark was;

sufficient to set them in a flame. The Indians,having weapons in their hands, grew mischiev-ous and committed various petty depredations.In one of their maraudings a warrior was firedon and killed by a settler. This was the sig-nal for open hostilities; the Indians pressed torevenge the death of their comrade, and thealarm of war resounded through the Plymouthcolony.

In the early chronicles of these dark andmelancholy times we meet with many indica-tions of the diseased state of the public mind.The gloom of religious abstraction and thewildness of their situation among trackless for-ests and savage tribes had disposed the colon-ists to superstitious fancies, and had filled theirimaginations with the frightful chimeras ofwitchcraft and spectrology. They were muchgiven also' to a belief in omens. The troubleswith Philip and his Indians were preceded, weare told, by a variety of those awful warningswhich forerun great and public calamities.The perfect form of an Indian bow appearedin the air at New Plymouth, which was lookedupon by the inhabitants as a "prodigious appa-rition." At Hadley, Northampton, and othertowns in their neighborhood, "was heard thereport of a great piece of ordnance, with ashaking of the earth and a considerable echo. ,,*Others were alarmed on a still sunshinv morn-ing by the discharge of guns and ~uskets;bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the

*The Rev. Increase Mather's "History."t7 Sketch Book

r --

418 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 419

noise of drums resounded in the air, seemingto pass away to the westward; others fanciedtha~ they heard the galloping of horses overtheir heads; and certain monstrous birthswhich took place about the time filled thesuperstitious in some towns with doleful fore-bodings. Many of these portentous sights andsounds may be ascribed to natural phenomena-to the northern lights which occur vividly inthose latitudes, the meteors which explode inthe air, the casual rushing of a blast throughthe top branches of the forest the crash offallen trees or disrupted rocks,' and to thoseother uncouth sounds and echoes which willsometimes strike the ear so strangely amidstthe profound stillness of woodland solitudes.These may have startled some melancholy im-aginations, may have been exaggerated by thelove for the marvelous, and listened to with thatavidity with which we devour whatever is fear-ful and mysterious. The universal currency ofthese superstitious fancies and the grave rec-ord made of them by one of the learned men ofthe day are strongly characteristic of thetimes.

The nature of the contest that ensued wassuch as too often distinguishes the warfare be-twe.en civil.ized !lien and savages. On the partof the whites It was conducted with superiorskill and success, but with a wastefulness ofthe blood and a disregard of the natural rightsof their antagonists; on the part of the Indi-ans it was waged with the desperation of menfearless of death, and who had nothing to ex-

pect from peace but humiliation dependenceand decay. "

The events of the war are transmitted to usby a worthy clergyman of the time who dwellswith horror and indignation on every hostileact of the Indians, however justifiable whilsthe m~~tions with applause th~ !li~st sanguinaryatrocities of the whites, Philip IS reviled as amurderer and a traitor, without considering~hat he was a true-born prince gallantly fight-ing at the head of his subjects to avenge thewrongs of ~is f~mily, to retrieve the totteringpower of hIS Iine, and to deliver his nativeland from t?e oppressi~m of usurping strangers.

The project of a WIde and simultaneous re-volt, if such had really been formed was wor-thy of a capacious mind, and had it not beenprematurely discovered might have been over-whelming in its consequences. The war thatactually broke out was but a war of detail amere succession of casual exploits and uncon-nected enterprises. Still, it sets forth the mil-itary geniu? and darin~ p~owess of Philip, andwhere:rer, m the prejudiced and passionatenar.ratIOns ~hat have been given of it, we canarn~e at slm1?le facts, w.e.find him displayinga VIgorous mind, a fer'tility of expedients acontempt of sufferin~ and hardship, and ~nunconquerable resolution that command oursympathy and applause.

Driven from his paternal domains at MountHope, he threw himself into the depths ofthose vast and trackless forests that skirtedthe settlements and were almost impervious to

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anything but a wild beast or an Indian. Herehe gathered together his forces, like the stormaccumulating its stores of mischief in thebosom of the thunder-cloud, and would sud-denly emerge at a time and place least ex-pected, carrying havoc and dismay into the vil-lages. There were now and then indicationsof these impending ravages that filled theminds of the colonists with awe and apprehen-sion. The report of a distant gun would per-haps be heard from the solitary woodland,where there was known to be no white man'the cattle which had been wandering in thewoods would sometimes return home wounded'or an Indian or two would be seen lurking aboutthe skirts of the forests and suddenly disappear-ing, as the lightning will sometimes be seenplaying silently about the edge of the cloudthat is brewing up the tempest.

Though sometimes pursued and even sur-rounded by the settlers, yet Philip as often es-caped almost miraculouslv from their toilsand, plunging into the wilderness, would belost to all search or inquiry until he againemerged at some far distant quarter, layingthe country desolate. Among his strongholdswere the great swamps or morasses which ex-tend in some parts of New England, composedof loose bogs of deep black mud, perplexedwith thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shat-tered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees,overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. Theuncertain footing and the tangled mazes ofthese shaggy wilds rendered them almost irn-

practicable to the white man, though the In-dian could thread their labyrinths with theagility of a deer. Into one of these, the greatswamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip oncedriven with a band of his followers. TheEnglish did not dare to pursue him, fearing toventure into these dark and frightful recesses,where they might perish in fens and miry pitsor be shot down by lurking foes. They, there-fore, invested the entrance to the Neck, andbegan to build a fort with the thought of starv-ing out the foe; but Philip and his warriorswafted themselves on a raft over an arm of thesea in the dead of night, leaving the womenand children behind, and escaped away to thewestward, kindling the flames of war amongthe tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuckcountry and threatening the colony of Con-necticut.

In this way Philip became a theme of univer-sal apprehension. The mystery in which hewas enveloped exaggerated his real terrors.He was an evil that walked in darkness, whosecoming none could foresee and against whichnone knew when to be on the alert. Thewhole country abounded with rumors andalarms. Philip seemed almost possessed ofubiquity, for in whatever part of the widely-extended frontier an irruption from the foresttook place, Philip was said to be its leader.Many superstitious notions also were circulatedconcerning him. He was said to deal in nec-romancy, and to be attended by an old Indianwitch or prophetess, whom he consulted and

422 THE SKETCH BOOK.

who assisted him by her charms and incanta-ti?ns. T.his, i~deed, .was frequently the casewith I.ndlan chiefs, either through their owncredulity or to act upon that of their followers'and the influence of the prophet and thedreamer over Indian superstition has beenfully evidenced in recent instances of savagewarfare.

At the time that Philip effected his escapefrom. ~ocasset .his fortunes were i: 1 a desperatecondition. H1S forces had been thinned byrepeated fights and he had lost almost thewhole of his resources. In this time of adver-sity he found a faithful friend in Canonchetchief Sachem of all the Narragansetts. H~was the son and heir of Miantonirno, the greatsachem who, as already mentioned after anhonorable acquittal of the charge of conspiracyhad been privately put to death at the perfidi:ous instigations of the settlers. "He was theheir," says the old chronicler, "of all hisfather's pride and insolence as well as of hismalice. towar?s the English ;,', he certainly wast~e. heir of hIS insults and injuries and the le-grtimate avenger of his murder. Though hehad forborne to take an active part in thishopeless war, yet he received Philip and hisbroken forces with open arms and gave themthe. most generous countenance and support.ThIS at ~nce dre~v upon him the hostility ofthe Eng'lish, and It was determined to strike asignal blow that should involve both the sa-chems in one common ruin. A great force wastherefore, gathered together from :Massachu:

THE SKETCH BOOK. 423

setts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and wassent into the Narragansett country in the depthof winter, when the swamps, being frozen andleafless, could be traversed with comparativefacility and would no longer afford dark andimpenetrable fastnesses to the Indians.

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had con-veyed the greater part of his stores, togetherwith the old, the infirm, the women and chil-dren of his tribe, to a strong fortress where heand Philip had likewise drawn up the flower oftheir forces. This fortress, deemed by theIndians impregnable, was situated upon a ris-ing mound or kind of island of five or six acresin the midst of a swamp; it was constructedwith a degree of judgment and skill vastly su-perior to what is usually displayed in Indianfortification, and indicative of the martialgenius of these two chieftains.

Guided by a renegado Indian, the Englishpenetrated, through December snows, to thisstronghold and came upon the garrison by sur-prise The fight was fierce and tumultuous.The assailants were repulsed in their first at-tack, and several of their bravest officers wereshot down in the act of storming the fortresssword ill hand. The assault was renewed witl;greater success. A lodgment was effected.The Indians were driven from one post to an·other. They disputed their ground inch byinch, fighting with the fury of despair. Mostof their veterans were cut to pieces, and aftera long and bloody battle, Philip and Canon-chet, with a handful of surviving warriors, re-

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424 THE SKETCH BOOK.

treated from the fort and took refuge in thethickets of the surrounding forest.

The victors set fire to the wigwams and thefort; the whole was soon in a blaze; many ofthe' old men, the women, and the childrenperished in the flames. This last outrag~overcame even the stoicism of the savage.The neighboring woods resounded with theyells of rage and despair uttered by the fugi-tive warriors, as they beheld the destruction oftheir dwellings and heard the agonizing criesof their wives and offspring. "The burning ofthe wigwams," says a contemporary writer,"the shrieks and cries of the women and chil-dren, and the yelling of the warriors, exhibiteda most horrible and affectinc- scene so that itgreatly moved some of the b soldiers, " Thesame writer cautiously adds, "They were inmuch doubt then, and afterwards seriouslyinquired, whether burning their enemies alivecould be consistent with humanity, and thebenevolent principles of the gospel."*

The fate of the brave and generous Canon-chet is worthy of particular mention; the lastscene of his life is one of the noblest instanceson record of Indian rnagriimity,

Broken down in his power and resources bythis signal defeat, yet faithful to his ally andto.the hapless cause which he had espoused, herejected all overtures of peace offered on con-dition of betraying Philip and his followers,and declared that "he would fight it out to the

*MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles.

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last man, rather than become a servant to theEnglish. " His home being destroyed, hiscountry harassed and laid waste by the incur-sions of the conquerors, he was obliged to wan-der away to the banks of the Connecticut,where he formed a rallying-point to the wholebody of western Indians, and laid waste sev-eral of. the English settlements.

Early in the spring he departed on a hazard-ous expedition, with only thirty chosen men,to penetrate to Seaconck, in the vicinity ofMount Hope, and to procure seed corn to plantfor the sustenance of his troops. This littleband of adventurers had passed safely throughthe Pequod country, and were in the centre ofthe Narragansett, resting at some wigwamsnear Pautucket River, when an alarm "vasgiven of an approaching enemy. Having butseven men by him at the time, Canonchet de-spatched two of them to the top of a neigh bor-ing hill to bring intelligence of the foe.

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop ofEnglish and Indians rapidly advancing, theyfled in breathless terror past their chieftain,without stopping to inform him of the danger.Canonchet sent another scout, who did thesame. He then sent two more, one of whom,hurrying back in confusion and affright, toldhim that the whole British army was at hand.Canonchet saw there was no choice butimmediate flight. He attempted to escaperound the hill, but was perceived and hotlypursued by the hostile Indians and a few ofthe fleetest of the English. Finding the swift-28 Sketch Book

426 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 427

est pursuer close upon his heels, he threw off,first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat andbelt of peag. by which his enemies knew himto be Canonchet, and redoubled the eagernessof pursuit.

At length, in dashing through the river, hisfoot slipped upon a stone, and he fell so deepas to wet his gun. This accident so struckhim with despair that, as he afterwards con-fessed, "his heart and his bowels turnedwithin him, and he became like a rotten stick,void of strength."

To such a degree was he unnerved that,being seized by a Pequod Indian within ashort distance of the river, he made no resist-ance, though a man of great vigor of body andboldness of heart. But on being made pris-oner the whole pride of his spirit arose withinhim, and from that moment we find, in theanecdotes given by his enemies, nothing butrepeated flashes of elevated and prince-likeheroism. Being questioned by one of the Eng-lish who first came up with him, and who hadnot attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted warrior, looking with lofty contemptupon his youthful countenance, replied, "Youare a child-you cannot understand mattersof war; let your brother or your chief come:him will I answer."

Though repeated offers were made to him athis life on condition of submitting with hi"nation to the English, yet he rejected themwith disdain, and refused to send any proposalsof the kind to the great body of his subjects,

saying that he knew none o.f the!? would com:ply Beinz reproached WIth his breach offaith towa~ds the whites, his boast that hewould not deliver up a \Vampanoag ,nor theparing of a vVampanoag's nail, atl~ hl~ thre~tthat he would burn the Engl~sh ::lIve l~l theirhouses, he disdained to justify himself,haughtily answering that otherswer~ as forwardfor the war as himself, and "he desired to hearno more thereof."

So noble and unshaken a. spir~t, so tn~e afidelity to his cause and hIS friends, nughthave touched the feelings of the generOl~s andthe brave' but Canonchet was an Iridian, abeing to~ards whon~ :war had no ~~.urt:sy,humanity no law, rehglOn no com passion : h.ewas condemned to die. The lsat words of hISthat are recorded are worthy the greatness ofhis soul. 'When sentence of deat~ wasyassedupon him, he observed "t~at he lIked It well,_for he should die before hIS heart wa~ sof\ 0,1,he had spoken anythi,ng unworthy of himsel ...His enemies cave him the death of a soldier,for he was sh;t at Stoningham by three youngSachems of his own rank.

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress andthe death of Canonchet were fatal blow~ to thefortunes of King Philip. He made an m.e~ec-tual attempt to raise a head of war by stirrmgup the Mohawks to take arms; but, thoughpossessed of the native talents of a stat~sman,his arts were counteracted by the supenor artsof his enlightened enemies, and the terror oftheir warlike skill began to subdue the resolu-

THE SKETCH BOOK. 4291~8 THE SKETCH BOOK.

tion of the neighboring tribes. The unfortu-nate chieftain saw himself daily stripped ofpower, and his ranks rapidly thinning aroundhim. Some were suborned by the whites:others fell victims to hunger and fatigue andto the frequent attacks by which they wereharassed. His stores were all captured; hischosen friends were swept away from beforehis eyes; his uncle was shot down by his side;his sister was carried into captivity; and in oneof his narrow escapes he was compelled toleave his beloved wife and only son to themercy of the enemy. "His ruin," says thehistorian, "being thus gradually carried on, hismisery was not prevented, but augmentedthere by; being himself made acq uain ted withthe sense and experimental feeling of the cap-tivity of his children, loss of friends, slaughterof his subjects, bereavement of all familv rela-tions, and being stripped of all outward com-forts before his own life should be takenaway. "

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes,his own followers began to plot against his life,that by sacnficing him they might purchasedishonorable safety. Through treachery a num-ber of his faithful adherents, the subjects ofWetarnoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, anear kinswoman and confederate of Philipwere betrayed into the hands of the enemy.Wetamoe was among them at the time, andattempted to make her escape by crossing aneighboring river: either exhausted by swim-ming or starved with cold and hunger, she was

found dead and naked near the water-side.But persecution ceased not at the grave.Even death, the refuge of the wretched, wherethe wicked commonly cease from troubling,was no protection to this outcast female, whosegreat crime was affectionate fidelity to herkinsman and her friend. Her corpse was theobject of unmanly and dastardly vengeance:the head was severed from the body and setupon a pole, and was thus exposed at Tauntonto the view of her captive subjects. Theyimmediately recognized the features of theirunfortunate queen, and were so affected at thisbarbarous spectacle that we are told theybroke forth into the "most horrid and diaboli-cal lamentations."

However Philip had borne up against thecomplicated miseries and misfortunes that sur-rounded him, the treachery of his followersseemed to wring his heart and reduce him todespondency. It is said that "he never rejoicedafterwards, nor had success in any of his de-signs. " The spring of hope was broken-theardor of enterprise was extinguished; he lookedaround and all was danger and darkness; therewas no' eye to pity nor any arm that could bringdeliverance. With a scanty band of followers,who still remained true to his desperate for-tunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back tothe vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwell-ing of his fathers. Here he lurked about likea spectre among the scenes of former powerand prosperity, now bereft of home, of faJ?-ily, and of friends. There needs no better plC·

43v THE SKETCH BOOK.

ture of his destitute and piteous situation thanthat furnished by the homely pen of thechronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feel-ings of the reader in favor of the hapless war-rior whom he reviles. "Philip," he says,"like a savage wild beast, having been huntedby the English forces through the woodsabove a hundred miles backward and forward,at last was driven to his own den upon MountHope, where he retired with a few of his bestfriends, into a swamp, which proved but aprison to keep him fast till the messengers ofdeath came by divine permission to executevengeance upon him. " .

Even in this last refuge of desperation an?despair a sullen grandeur gathers round hISmemory. Vie picture him to ourselvesseated among his care-worn followers, brood-inv in silence over his blasted fortunes, andacquiring a savage sublimity from the wild-ness and dreariness of his lurking-place. De-feated, but not dismayed-crushed to theearth but not humiliated-he seemed to growmore'haughty beneath disaster, and to experi-ence a fierce satisfaction in draining the lastdregs of bitterness. Little minds are ta~edand subdued by misfortunes, but great mindsrise above it. The very idea of submissionawakened the fury of Philip, and he smote todeath one of his followers who proposed anexpedient of peace. The brother of the vic-tim made his escape, and in revenge betray.edthe retreat of his chieftain. A body of whitemen and Indians were irnmediately despatched

THE SKETCH BOOK. 431

to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, glar-ing with fury and despair. Before he wasaware of their approach they had begun to sur-round him. In a little while he saw five of histrustiest followers laid dead at his feet; allresistance was vain; he rushed forth from hiscovert, and made a headlong attempt to es-cape, but was shot through the heart by a rene-gado Indian of his own nation.

Such is the scanty story of the brave but un-fortunate King Philip, persecuted while living,slandered and dishonored when dead. If.however, we consider even the prejudicedanecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we mayperceive in them traces of amiable and loftycharacter sufficient to awaken sympathy for hISfate and respect for his memory. We findthat amidst all the harassing cares and fero-cious passions of constant warfare he was aliveto the softer feelings of connubial love andpaternal tenderness and to the generous senti-ment of friendship. The captivity of his"beloved wife and only son" are mentionedwith exultation as causing him poignant mis-ery: the death of any new friend is triumph"antly recorded as a new blow on his sensibil.ities; but the treachery and desertion of manyof his followers in whose affections he hadconfided, is said' to have desolated his heartand to have bereaved him of all further comfort.He was a patriot attached to his native soil-aprince true to his subjects and indignant oftheir wrongs-a soldier daring in battle, firmin adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of

432 THE SKETCH BOOK.

every variety of bodily suffering, and ready toperish in the cause he had espoused. Proudof heart and with an untamable love of natu-ral liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among thebeasts of the forests or in the dismal and fam-ished recesses of swamps and morasses, ratherthan bow his haughty spirit to submission andlive dependent and despised in the ease andluxury of the settlements. With heroic quali-ties and bold achievements that would havegraced a civilized warrior, and have renderedhim the theme of the poet and the historian,he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in hisnative land, and went down, like a lonely barkfoundering amid darkness and tempest, with-om: a pitying eye to weep his fall or a friendlyhand to record his struggle.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 433

JOHN BULL.An old song, made by an aged old pate,Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate,That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate.

With an old study fill'd full of learned old books,With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by

his looks,With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks,And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old

cooks.Like an old courtier, etc.--Old Song.

There is no species of humor in which theEnglish more excel than that which consistsin caricaturing and giving ludicrous appella-tions or nick-names. In this way they havewhimsically designated, not merely individu-als, but nations, and in their fondness for push-ing a joke they have not spared even them-selves. One would think that in personifyingitself a nation would be apt to picture some-thing grand, heroic, and imposing; but it ischaracteristic of the peculiar humor of theEnglish, and of their love for what is blunt,comic, and familiar, that they have embodiedtheir national oddities in the figure of asturdy, corpulent old fellow with a three-cor-nered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, andstout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a

ill

434 THE SKETCH BOOK.

singular delight in exhibiting their most pri-vate foibles in a laughable point of view, andhave been so successful in their delineationsthat there is scarcely a being in actual exist-ence more absolutely present to the publicmind than that eccentric personag;e, John Bull.

Perhaps the continual contemplation of thecharacter thus drawn of them has contributedto fix it upon the nation, and thus to o"ivcreality to what at first may have been pail~tedin a great measure from the imagination.Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that arecontinually ascribed to them. The commonorders of English seem wonderfully captivatedwith the beau ideal which they have formed ofJohn Bull, and endeavor to act up to thebroad caricature that is perpetually beforetheir eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes maketheir boasted Bullism an apology for theirprejudice or grossness; and this I have espe-cially noticed among those truly homebred andgenuine sons of the soil who have nevermigrated beyond the sound of Bow bells. Ifone of these should be a little uncouth inspeech and apt to ut~er impertinent truths, heconfesses that he IS a real John Bull andalways speaks his mind. If he now and thenflies into an unreasonable burst of passionabout trifles, he observes that John Bull is acholeric old blade, but then his passion is overin a moment and he bears no malice. If hebetrays a coarseness of taste and an insensibil-ity to foreign refinements, he thanks Heavenfor his ignorance-he is a plain John Bull and

THE SKETCH BOOK. 4~)·)

has no relish for frippery and knick-knacks.His very proneness to be gulled by strangersand to pay extravagantly for absurdities is ex-cused under the plea of munificence, for Johnis always more generous than wise.

Th us, under the name of John Bull he willcontrive to argue every fault into a merit, andwill frankly convict himself of being thehonestest fellow in existence.

However little, therefore, the charactermav have suited in the first instance, it hasgra"dually adapted itself to the nation, orrather they have adapted themselves to eachother; and a stranger who wishes to studyEnglish peculiarities may gather much valu-able information from the innumerable por-craits of John Bull as exhibited in the windO\v:sof the caricature-shops. Still, however, he IS

one of those fertile humorists that are continu-ally throwing out new portraits and presentingdifferent aspects from different points ofviiew ; and, often as he has been described, Icannot resist the temptation to give a slightsketch of him such as he has met my eye.

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain,downright, matter-of-fact fellow, with muchless of poetry about him than rich prose.There is little of romance in his nature, but avast deal of strong natural feeling. He excelsin humor more than in wit; is jolly ratherthan gay; melancholy ra ther than morose; caneasily be moved to a sudden tear or surprisediuto a broad Iaujrh ; but he loathes sentiment.

b IT .and has no turn for light pleasantry.~e IS 2-

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boon companion, if you allow him to have hishumor and to talk about himself; and he willstand by a friend in a quarrel with life andpurse, however soundly he may be cudgelled.

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he hasa propensity to be somewhat too ready. Heis a busy-minded personage, who thinks notmerely for himself and family, but for all thecountry round, and is most generously dis-posed to be everybody's champion. He is con-tinually volunteering his services to settle hisneighbor's affairs, and takes it in great dudgeonif they engage in any matter of consequencewithout asking his advice, though he seldomengages in any friendly office of the kind with-out finishing by getting into a squabble withall parties, and then railing bitterly at theiringratitude. He unluckily took lessons in hisyouth in the noble science of defence, and hav-ing accomplished himself in the use of hislimbs and his weapons and become a perfectmaster at boxing and cudgel-play, he has had atroublesome life of it ever since. He cannothear of a quarrel between the most distant ofhis neighbors but he begins incontinently tofumble with the head of his cudgel, and con-sider whether his interest or honor does notrequire that he should meddle in the broil.Indeed, he has extended his relations of prideand policy so completely over the wholecountry that no event can take place withoutinfringing some of his finely-spun rights anddignities. Couched in his little domain, withthese filaments stretching forth in every direc-

tion, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied oldspider who has woven his web over a wholechamber, so that a fiy cannot buzz nor a bre~zeblow without startling his repose and causinghim to sally forth wrathfully from his den.

Thoug'h really a good-hearted: g.ood-tem-pered old fellow at bottom, yet he IS sl?gularlyfond of being in the midst of contention, Itis one of his peculiarities, however, that heonly relishes the beginning ~f an aff~ay; healways goes into a fight WIth alaent~, bu.tcomes out of it arumblina even when victori-

b b 1ous : and though no one fights ,."'ith more 0,)-

stinacv to carry a contested p0111t, yet whenthe battle is over and he cernes to the recon-ciliation he is so much taken up with the mereshaking of hands that he is apt to let hisantazonist pocket all that they have beenquar~eling about. It is not, therefor~, fight-ina that he ouzht so much to be on hIS guardaa~inst as makina friends. It is difficult toc~dgel him out of a farthing; but put him ina good humor and yO? may bargain ?in: outof all the money in hIS pocket. He IS Iike astout ship which will weather the rougheststorm uninjured, but roll its masts overboardin the succeeding calm.

He is a little fond of playing the magnificoabroad, of pulling out a long purse, flinginghis money bravely about at boxing-matches,horse-races cock-fights, and carrying a highhead among "gentlemen of the fancy:" butimmediately after one of these fits of extrava-gance he will be taken with violent qualms of

438 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 439economy; stop short at the most trivial ex-penditure; talk desperately of being ruinedand brought upon the parish; and in suchmoods will not pay the smallest tradesman'sbill without violent altercation. He is, infact, the most punctual and discontented pay-master in the world, dr awintr his coin out ofhis breeches pock~t with infinite reluctance,paying to the uttermost farthing, but accom-panying every guinea with a growl.

With all his talk of economy, however, he isa bountiful provider and a hospitable house-keeper. His economy is of a whimsical kind,its chief object being to devise how he mayafford to be extravagant; for he will begrudgehimself a beefsteak and pint of port one daythat he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogs-head of ale, and treat all his neighbors on thenext.

His domestic establishment is enormouslyexpensive, not so much from any great outwardparade as from the great consumption of solidbeef and pudding, the vast number of follow-ers he feeds and clothes, and his singular dis-position to pay hugely for small services. Heis a most kind and indulgent master, and, pro-vided his servants humor his peculiarities,flatter his vanity a little now and then, and donot peculate grossly on him before his facethey may manage him to perfection. Every-thing that lives on him seems to thrive andgrow fat. His house-servants are well paidand pampered and have little to do. Hishorses are sleek and lazy and prance slowly

before his state carriage; and his house-dogssleep quietly about the door and will hardlybark at a housebreaker.

His family mansion is an old castellatedmanor-house, gray with age, and of a mostvenerable though weather- beaten app<!aranc~.It has been built upon no regular p~an, ))1:t Ita vast accumulation of parts erected In "I ]:IOUStastes and ages. The centre l)~ars en.denttraces of Saxon architecture. and IS as solid asponderous stone and old En~:l;sh oa~ c~n makeit. Like all the relics of that style, It IS full ofobscure passages, intricate mazes, and dustychambers, and, though these have been par-tially lighted up in modern days.' yet the:-el aremany places where you must s1111grope 111 t.hedark. Additions have been made to the ong-inal edifice from time to time, and great alter-ations have taken place; towers and battle-ments have been erected during wars andtumults: wings built in time of peace; an~ out-houses, lodges, and offices run up according tothe whim or convenience of different genera-tions until it has become one of the most spa-cious' rambling tenements imaginable. Anentir~ wing is taken up with the family chapel,a reverend pile that must have been exceed-ingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of ~av-ing been altered and simplified at v~r:ousperiods, has still a look of solen:n re~lglOuspomp. Its walls within are stoned WIth themonuments of John's ancestors, and it is sn~glyfitted up with soft e~shion.s and w~l1-l:nedchairs where such of hIS family as are inclined,

440 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 441

to church services may doze comfortably in thedischarge of their duties.

To keep up this chapel has cost John muchmoney; but he is staunch in his religion andpiqued in his zeal, from the circumstance thatmany ~issenting chapels have been erected inhis vicinity, and several of his neighbors, withwhom he has had quarrels, are strong papists.

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains,at a large expense, a pious and portly familychaplain. He is a most learned and decorouspersonage and a truly well-bred Christian, whoalways backs the old gentleman in his opin-ions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes,rebukes the children when refractory, and isof great use in exhorting the tenants to readtheir Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all,to pay their rents punctually and withoutgrumbling.

The family apartments are in a very anti-quated taste, somewhat heavy and often incon-venient, but full of the solemn magnificence offormer times, fitted up with rich though fadedtapestry, unwieldly furniture, and loads ofmassy, gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces,ample kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptu-ous banqueting-halls all speak of the roaringhospitality of days of yore, of which the mod-ern festivity at the manor-house is but ashadow. There are, however, complete suitesof rooms apparently deserted and time-worn,and towers and turrets that are tottering todecay, so that in high winds there is danger oftheir tumbling about the ears of the household.

John has frequently been advised to havethe old edifice thoroughly overhauled, and tohave some of the useless parts pulled down,and the others strengthened with their mate-rials: but the old gentleman always grows testyon this subject. He swears the house is anexcellent house; that it is tight and weather-proof, and not to be shaken by tempests; thatit has stood for several hundred years, andtherefore is not likely to tumble down now;that as to its being inconvenient, his family isaccustomed to the inconveniences and wouldnot be comfortable without them; that as toits unwieldly size and irregular construction,these result from its being the growth of cen-turies and being improved by the wisdom ofevery generation; that an old family, like his,requires a large house to dwell in; new, upstartfamilies may live in modern cottages and snug-boxes; but an old English family should inhabitan old English manor-house. If you point outany part of the building as superfluous, heinsists that it is material to the strength ordecoration of the rest and the harmony of thewhole, and swears that the parts are so builtinto each other that if you pull down one, yourun the risk of having the whole about yourears.

The secret of the matter is, that John has agreat disposition to protect and pa~ro~ize. Hethinks it indispensable to the dignity of anancient and honorable family to be bourrteousin its appointments and to be eaten up bydependents; and so, partly from pride and

142 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 443partly from kind-heartedness, he makes it arule always to give shelter and maintenance tohis superannuated servants.

The consequence is, that, like many othervenerable family establishments, his manor isincumbered by old retainers whom he cannotturn off, and an old style which he cannot laydown. His mansion is like a great hospital ofinvalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not awhit too large for its inhabitants. Not a nookor corner but is of use in housing some uselesspersonage. Groups of veteran beef-eaters,gouty pensioners, and retired heroes of thebuttery and the larder are seen lolling about itswalls, crawling over· its lawns, dozing underits trees, or sunning themselves upon thebenches at its doors. Every office and out-house is garrisoned by these supernumerariesand their families; for they are amazingly pro-lific; and when they die off are sure to leaveJohn a legacy of hungry mouths to be providedfor. A mattock cannot be struck against themost mouldering tumble-down tower but outpops, from some cranny or loop-hole, the graypate of some superannuated hanger-on, whohas lived at John's expense all his life, andmakes the most grievous outcry at their pull-ing down the roof from over the head of aworn-out servant of the family. This is anappeal that John'S honest heart never canwithstand; so that a man who has faithfullyeaten his beef and pudding all his life is sureto be rewarded with a pipe and tankard in hisold days.

A great part of his park also is turned intopaddocks, where his broken-down chargers areturned loose to graze undisturbed for theremainder of their existence - a worthyexample of grateful recollection which, ifsome of his neighbors were to imitate, wouldnot be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one ofhis great pleasures to point out the~e oldsteeds to his visitors, to dwell on their goodqualities, extol their past services, and b?ast.with some little vain-glory, of the penlousadventures and hardy exploits through whichthey have carried him.

He is O'iven however, to indulge his venera-tion for family usages and family incumbrancesto a whimsical extent. His manor is infestedby gangs of gypsies; yet he will not suff.er themto be driven off, because they have infestedthe place time out of mind and been regularpoachers upon every generation of the family.He will scarcely permit a dry branch to helopped from the great trees that surround thehouse, lest it should molest the rooks that havebred there for centuries. Owls have takenpossession of the dovecote, but they are hered-itarv owls and must not be disturbed. Swal-lows have nearly choked up every chimneywith their nests; martins build in every friezeand cornice; crows flutter about the towersand perch on every weather-cock; and old gray-headed rats may he seen in every q uarter ofthe house, running in and out of their holesundauntedly in broad daylight. In short,John has such a reverence for everything that

444 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 445

has been long in the family that he will nothear even of abuses being reformed, becausethey are good old family abuses.

All these whims and habits have concurredwoefully to drain the old gentleman's purse:and as he prides himself on punctuality inmoney matters and wishes to -maintain hiscredit in the neighborhood, they have causedhim great perplexity in meeting his engage-ments. This, too, has been increased by thealtercations and heart-burnings which arecontinually taking place in his family. Hischildren have been brought up to differentcallings and are of different ways of thinking;and as they have always been allowed to speaktheir minds freely, they do not fail to exercisethe privilege most clamorously in the presentposture of his affairs. Some stand up for thehonor of the race, and are clear that the oldestablishment should be kept up in all its state,whatever may be the cost; others, who aremore prudent and considerate, entreat the oldgentleman to retrench his expenses and to puthis whole system of housekeeping on a moremoderate footing. He has, indeed, at times,seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, buttheir wholesome advice has been. completelydefeated by the obstreperous conduct of one ofhis sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow,of rather low habits, who neglects his busi-ness to frequent ale-houses-is the orator ofvillage clubs- and a complete oracle among thepoorest of his father's tenants. No soonerdoes he hear any of his brothers mention

reform or retrenchment than up he jumps,takes the words out of their mouths, and roarsout for an overturn. When his tongue is oncegoing nothing can stop it. He rants about theroom; hectors the old man about his spend-thrift practices; ridicules his tastes and pur-suits; insists that he shall turn the old serv-ants out of doors, give the broken-down horsesto the hounds, send the fat chaplain packing,and take a field-preacher in his place: nay,that the whole family mansion shall be leveledwith the ground, and a plain one of brick andmortar built in its place. He rails at everysocial entertainment and family festivity, andskulks away growling to the ale-house when-ever an equipage drives up to the door.Though constantly complaining of the empti-ness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spendall his pocket-money in these tavern convoca-tions, and even runs up scores for the liquorover which he preaches about his father'sextravagance.

It may readily be imagined how little suchthwarting agrees with the old cavalier's fierytemperament. He has become so irritable fromrepeated crossings that the mere mention ofretrenchment or reform is a signal for a brawlbetween him and the tavern oracle. As thelatter is too sturdy and refractory for paternaldiscipline. having grown out of all fear of thecudgel, they have frequent scenes of wordywarfare, which at times runs so high that Johnis fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, anofficer who has served abroad, but is at present

446 THE SKETCH BOOK.

living at home on half-pay. This last is sureto stand by the old gentleman, right or wrong,likes nothing so much as a racketing, roisteringlife, and is ready at a wink or nod to out-sabreand flourish it' over the orator's head if hedares to array himself against parental au-thority.

These family dissensions, as usual, have gotabroad, and are rare food for scandal in John'sneigh b orhood. People begin to look wise andshake their heads whenever hrs affairs arementioned. They all "hope that matters arenot so bad with him as represented; but whena man's own children begin to rail at his extrav-agance, things must be badly managed. Theyunderstand he is mortgaged over head andears and is continually dabbling with money-lenders. He is certainly an open-handed oldgentleman, but they fear he has lived too fast;indeed, they never knew any good come of thisfondness for hunting, racing, reveling, andprize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate isa very fine one and has been in the family along while, but, for all that, they have knownmany finer estates come to the hammer."

What is worst of all, is the effect which thesepecuniary embarrassments and domestic feudshave had on the poor man himself. Instead ofthat jolly round corporation and smug rosy facewhich he used to present, he has of late becomeas shriveled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple.His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which belliedout so bravely in those prosperous days whenhe sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely

THE SKETCH BOOK. 447

about him like a mainsail in a calm. Hisleather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles,and apparently have much ado to hold up theboots that yawn on both sides of his once sturdylegs.

Instead of strutting about as formerly withhis three-cornered hat on one side, flourishinghis cudgel, and bringing it down every momentwith a hearty thump upon the ground, lookingeveryone sturdily in the face, and trolling outa stave of a catch or a drinking-song, he nowgoes about whistling thoughtfully to himself,with his head drooping down, his cudgel tuckedunder his arm, and his hands thrust to thebottom of his breeches pockets, which are evi-dently empty.

Such is the plight of honest John Bull atpresent, yet for all this the old fellow's spiritis as tall and as gallant as ever. If you dropthe least expression of sympathy or concern,he takes fire in an instant; swears that he isthe richest and stoutest fellow in the country;talks of laying out large sums to adorn hishouse or buy another estate; and with a valiantswagg~r and grasping of his cudgel longsexceedingly to have another bout at quarter-staff.

Though there may be something ratherwhimsical in all this, yet I confess I cannotlook upon John'S situation without strong feel-ings of interest. With all his odd humors andobstinate prejudices he is a sterling-hearted oldblade. He may not be so wonderfully fine afellow as he thinks himself, but he is at least

448 THE SKETCH BOOK.

twice as good as his neighbors represent him.His virtues are all his own-all plain, home-bred, and unaffected. His very faults smackof the raciness of his good qualities, Hisextravagance savors of his generosity, .iis quar-relsomeness of his courage, his credulity of hisopen faith, his vanity of his pride, and hisbluntness of his sincerity. They are all theredundancies of a rich and liberal character. Heis like his own oak, rough without, but soundand solid within; whose bark abounds withexcrescences in proportion to the growth andgrandeur of the timber; and whose branchesmake a fearful groaning and murmuring in theleast storm from their very magnitude and lux-uriance. There is something, too, in theappearance of his old family mansion that isextremely poetical and picturesque; and aslong as it can be rendered comfortably habit-able I should almost tremble to see it meddledwith during the present conflict of tastes andopinions. Some of his advisers are no doubtgood architects that might be of service; butmany, I fear, are mere levelers, who, whenthey had once got to work with their mattockson .this venerable edifice, would never stopuntil they had brought it to the ground andperhaps buried themselves among the ;uins.All that I wish is, that John'S present troublesmay teach him more prudence in future-thathe may cease to distress his mind about otherpeople's affairs; that he may give up the fruit-less attempt to promote the good of his neigh-bors and the peace and happiness of. the world.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 449

by dint of the cudgel; that he may remainquietly at home; gradually get his house intorepair; cultivate his rich estate according tohis fancy; husband his income-if he thinksproper; bring his unruly children into order-if he can; renew the jovial scenes of ancientprosperity; and long enjoy on his paternallands a green, an honorable, and a merry oldage.

5 Bketen»00&

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THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE.

May,no wolfe howle; no screech owle stirA wmg about thy sepulchre!No boysterous winds or stormes come hither

To starve or wither 'Thy soft s'Yeet earth! but, like a spring,Love kept It ever flourishing.

-Herrick.

In the course of an excursion through one of~he remote counties of England, I had struckmto one of those cross-roads that lead throughthe more secluded parts of the country, andstoppe? one afternoon at a village the situationof which was beautifully rural and retired:rh~re w~s an air of primitive simplicity aboutIts inhabitants not to be found in the villagesw~ich lie on the great coach-roads. I deter.mined to p,ass the night there, and, having takenan ~arly dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neigh-bonng scenery.

My ramble, as it usually the case with travel-ler~, soo~ led me to the church, which stood ata little dlst.ance from the village. Indeed, itw3;s an object of some curiosity, its old towerbeing completely overrun with ivy, so that onlyhere and there a jutting buttress, an angle ofgray wall, or a fantastically carved ornamentpeered through the verdant covering. It wasa lovely evening. The early part of the day

THE SKETCH BOOK. 451

nad been dark and showery, but in the after-noon it had cleared up, and, though sullenclouds still hung overhead, yet there was abroad tract of golden sky in the west, fromwhich the setting sun gleamed through thedrippi-vg leaves and lit up all Nature into amelancholy smile. It seemed like the partinghour of a good Christian smiling on the sinsand sorrows of the world, and giving, in theserenity of his decline, an assurance that hewill rise again in glory.

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tomb-stone, and was musing, as one is apt to do atthis sober-thoughted hour, on past scenes andearly friends-on those who were distant andthose who were dead-and indulging in thatkind of melancholy fancying which has in itsomething sweeter even than pleasure. Everynow and then the stroke of a be: I from theneigh boring- tower fell on my ear; its toneswere in unison with the scene, and, instead ofjarring, ch~med in with my feelings; and itwas some time before I recollected that it m listbe tolling the knell of some new tenant of thetomb.

Presently I saw a funeral train movinz acrossthe village green: it wound slowly ~long alane, was lost, and reappeared through thebreaks of the hedges, until it passed the placewhere I was sitting. The pall was supportedby young girls dressed in white, and another,about the age of seventeen, walked before,bearing a chaplet of white flowers-a tokenthat the deceased was a young and unmarried

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female. The corpse was followed by the par.ents. They were a venerable couple of thebetter order of peasantry. The father seemedto repress his feelings, but his fixed eye, con.tracted brow, and deeply-furrowed face showedthe struggle that was passing within. Hiswit, hung on his arm, and wept aloud withthe coivulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow.

I followed the funeral into the church. Thebier was placed in the centre aisle, an thechaplet of white flowers, with a pair of whitegloves, was hung over the seat which thedeceased had occupied.

Everyone knows the soul-subduing pathos ofthe funeral service, for who is so fortunate asnever to have followed some one he has lovedto the tomb! But when performed over theremains of innocence and beauty, thus laid lowin the bloOI11of existence, what can be moreaffectinz? At that simple but most solemnconsignment of the body to the grave-" Earthto earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!" -thetears of the youthful companions of thedeceased flowed unrestrained. The father stillseemed to struggle with his feelings, and tocomfort himself with the assurance that thedead are blessed which die in the Lord; butthe mother only thought of her child as aflower of the field cut down and withered in themidst of its sweetness; she was like Rachel,"mourning over her children, and would notbe comforted. ' ,

On returning to the inn I learnt the wholestory of the deceased. It was a simple one,

and such as has often been told.. She had beenthe beauty and pride of the village. Herfather had once been an opulent farmer, butwas reduced in circumstances. This was anonly child, and brought u~ entirely at homein the simplicity of rural Iife, She had be~nthe pupil of the village pastor, the favontelamb of his little flock. The good man watchedover her education with paternal care; it waslimited and suitable to the sphere in which shewas to move for he only sought to make ~eran ornament to her station in life, not to raiseher above it. The tenderness and indulgenceof her parents and the exemption from allordinary occupations had fostered a naturalgrace and delicacy of .character that accor~edwith the fragile lovelmess of her form. Sheappeared like some tender plant of t.he gar:denblooming accidentally amid the hardier nativesof the fields.

The superiority of her charms was felt andacknowledged by her companions, but with~)Utenvy for it was surpassed by the unassummggentleness ~nd winning k~ndness of her man-ners. It might be truly said of her:

"This is the prettiest low-born lass, that everRan on the green-sward: nothing she does or seemsBut smacks of something greater than herself;Too noble for this place."

The village was o?e of those ~equesteredspots which still retain som.e vestiges of. oldEnzlish customs. It had Its rural festivalsand'" holiday pastimes, and still kept up some

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454 THE SKETCH BOOK.THE SKETCH BOOK. 455

faint observance of the once popular rites ofMay. These, indeed, had been promoted byits present pastor, who was a lover of old cus-toms and one of those simple Christians thatthink their mission fulfilled by promoting joyon earth and good-will among mankind.Under his auspices the May-pole stood fromyear to year in the centre of the village green;on May-day it was decorated with garlands andstreamers, and a queen or lady of the. May wasappointed, as in former times, to preside at thesports and distribute the prizes and rewards.The picturesque situation of the village and thefancifulness of its rustic fetes would oftenattract the notice of casual visitors, Amongthese, on one May-day, was a young officerwhose regiment had been recently quarteredin the neighborhood. He was charmed withthe native taste that pervaded this villagepageant, but, above all, with the dawning.1ove-liness of the queen of May. It was the VIllagefavorite who was crowned with flowers, andblushing and smiling in all the beautiful con-fusion of girlish diffidence and delight. Theartlessness of rural habits enabled him readilyto make her acquaintance; he gradually wonhis way into her intimacy, and paid his court toher in that unthinking way in which youngofficers are too apt to trifle with rustic sim-plicity.

There was nothing in his advances to startleor alarm. He never even talked of love, butthere are modes of making it more eloquentthan language, and which convey it subtilely

and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of theeye, the tone of voice, the thousand tender-nesses which emanate from every word andlook and action,-these form the true elo-quence of love, and can always be felt andunderstood but never described. Can wewonder that they should readily win a heartYOUlW guileless, and susceptible? As to her,she l~~ed almost unconsciously; she scarcelyinquired what was the growing passio,n thatwas absorbing every thought and feeling, orwhat were to be its consequences. She, indeed,looked not to the future. When present, hislooks and words occupied her whole attention;when absent, she thought but of what hadpassed at their recent interview. She wouldwander with him through the green lanes andrural scenes of the vicinity. He taught herto see new beauties in Nature; he talked inthe language of polite and. culti;rated life, andbreathed into her ear the witcheries of romanceand poetry. .

Perhaps there could not have been a pa~slOnbetween the sexes more pure than this inno-cen. ~rir1's. The gallant figure of her youthfuladmi~:er and the snleudor of his military attiremight at first hav~ charmed her eye, but it wasnot these that had captivated her heart. Herattachment had something in it of idolatry.She looked up to him as to a being of a supe-rior order. She felt in his society the enthu-siasm of a mind naturally delicate and poetical,and now first awakened to a keen perceptionof the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid

455 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 459

her home and be the companion of his for.tunes.

He was quite a novice in seduction andbl ushed and faltered at his own bas~ness'but so innocent of mind was his intendedvictim that she was at first at a loss to com-prehend his meaning, and why she shouldleave her native village and the humble roofof her parents. When at last the nature of hisproposal flashed upon her pure mind thee~ect was witherin~. She did not weep'; shedid not break forth into reproach; she said nota word, but she shrunk back azhast as from avipe:-, gave him a look of angu~h that piercedto hIS very soul, and, clasping her hands inagony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father'scottage.

The officer retired confounded humiliatedand repentant. It is uncertain' what mia-hthave been the result of the conflict of his f~el-ings, had not his thoughts been diverted bythe bustle of departure. New scenes, newp!easures, and new companions soon dissipatedhIS self-reproach and stifled his tenderness'yet, .amidst the stir of camps, the revelries ofgarnsons, the array of armies and even thedin of battles, his thoughts would sometimessteal back to the scenes of rural quiet and vil-lage simplici.ty-the white cottage, the footpathalong the silver brook and up the hawthornhedge,. and ~he little village maid loiteringa~ong !t, leaning on. his arm and listening tohim WIth eyes beaming with unconscious affec-tion

The shock which the poor girl had receivedin the destruction of all her ideal world hadindeed been cruel. Faintings and hystericshad at first shaken her tender frame, and weresucceeded by a settled and pining melancholy.She had beheld from her window the march ofthe departing troops. She had seen her faith-less lover borne off, as if in triumph, amidstthe sound of drum and trumpet and the pompof arms. She strained a last aching gaze afterhim as the morning sun glittered about hisfigure and his plume waved in the breeze; hepassed away like a bright vision from her sight.and left her all in darkness.

It would be trite to dwell on the particu-lars of her after-story. It was, like other talesof love, melancholy. She avoided society andwandered out alone in the walks she had mostfrequented with her lover. She sought, likethe stricken deer, to weep in silence and lone-liness and brood over the barbed sorrow thatrankled in her soul. Sometimes she would beseen late of an evening sitting in the porch ofthe village church, and the milkmaids, return-ing from the fields, would now and then over-hear her singing some plaintive ditty in thehawthorn walk. She became fervent in herdevotions at church, and as the old people sawher approach, so wasted away, yet with ahectic gloom and that hallowed air which mel-ancholy diffuses round the form, they wouldmake way for her as for something spiritual,and looking after her, would shake their headsin gloomy foreboding.

'160 THE SKETCH BOOK.

She felt a conviction that she was hasteningto the tomb, but looked forward to it as a placeof rest. The silver cord that had bound her toexistence was loosed, and there seemed to beno more pleasure under the sun. If ever hergentle bosom had entertained resentmentagain~t her lover, it was extinguished. Shewas incapable of angry passions, and in a~oment of saddened tenderness she pennedhim a farewell letter. It was couched in thes~mpl~s.t language, but touching from its veryslmpl~clty. She told him that she was dying,and did not conceal from him that his conduct:vas the .cause. She even depicted the suffer-mgs which she had experienced but concludedwit~ saying that she could not die in peaceuntil she had sent him her forgiveness and herblessing.

By degrees her strength declined that shecould no longer leave the cottage. She could~lllly totter .to .the window, where, propped upIII her chair, It was her enjoyment to sit allday and look out upon the landscape. Stillshe uttered no complaint nor imparted to anyone the malady that was preying on her heart.She never even mentioned her lover's namebut would lay her head on her mother's bosom~nd weep in silence. Her poor parents hungIII :nute anxle.ty over this fading blossom oftheir hopes, still flattering themselves that itmight again revive to freshness and that thebright unearthly bloom which sometimesflushed her cheek might be the promise ofreturning health.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 461

In this way she was seated between them oneSunday afternoon; her hands were clasped intheirs, the lattice was thrown open, and the softair that stole in brought with it the fragranceof the clustering honeysuckle which her ownhands had trained round the window.

Her father had just been reading a chapterin the Bible; it spoke of the vanity of worldlythings and of the joys of heaven; it seemed tohave diffused comfort and serenity through herbosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant vil-lage church; the bell had tolled for the even-ing service; the last villager was lagging in tothe porch, and everything had sunk into thathallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest.Her parents were gazing on her with yearninghearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass soroughly over some faces, had given to hers theexpression of a seraph's. A tear trembled inher soft blue eye. Was she thinking of herfaithless lover? or were her thoughts wanderingto that distant churchyard, into whose bosomshe might soon be gathered?

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard; ahorseman galloped to the cottage; he dis-mounted before the window; the poor girlgave a faint exclamation and sunk back in herchair; it was her repentant lover. He rushedinto the house and flew to clasp her to his bos-om; but her wasted form, her deathlike coun-tenance-so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation-smote him to the soul, and he threw himselfin agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise;she attempted to extend her trembling hand-

462 THE SKETCH BOOK.

her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word wasarticulated; she looked down upon him with asmile of unutterable tenderness, and closed hereyes forever.

Such are the particulars which I gathered ofthis village story. They are but scanty, and Iam conscious have little novelty to recommendthem. In the present rage also for strange in-cident and high-seasoned narrative they mayappear trite and insignificant, but they inter-ested me strongly at the time; and, taken inconnection with the affecting ceremony whichI had just witnessed, left a deeper impressionon my mind than many circumstances of amore striking nature. I have passed throughthe place since, and visited the church againfrom a better motive than mere curiosity. Itwas a wintry evening; the trees were strippedof their foliage, the churchyard looked nakedand mournful, and the wind rustled coldlythrough the dry grass. Evergreens, however,had been planted about the grave of the vil-lage favorite, and osiers were bent over it tokeep the turf uninjured.

The church-door was open and I stepped in.There hung the chaplet of flowers and thegloves, as on the day of the funeral; the flow-ers were withered, it is true, but care seemed tohave been taken that no dust should soil theirwhiteness. I have seen many monumentswhere art has exhausted its powers to awakenthe sympathy of the spectator, but I have metwith none that spoke more touchingly to myheart than this simple but delicate memento ofdeparted innocence.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 463

THE ANGLER.

This day Dame Nature seem'd in love,The lusty sap began to move,Fresh ~uicedid stir th' embracing vines,And birds had drawn their valentines.The jealous trout that low did lie,Rose at a well-dissembled fiie,There ~tood my friend,.with patient skill,Attending of hIStrembling quill.

-Sir H. Wotton.

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is in-duced to run away from his family and betakehimself to a seafaring life from reading the his-tory of Robinson Crusoe; and I suspect that inlike manne~, many of those worthy gentlen'Ienwho are given to haunt the sides of pastoralstreams with angle-rods in hand may trace theorigin of their passion to the seductive pagesof honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studyinghis "Complete Angler" several years since i~company with a knot of friends in AmericaaJ?-d, mo:-eover, that we were all completelybitten WIth the angling mania. It was earlyin the year, but as soon as the weather was~uspicious, and that the spring began to meltinto the verge of summer, we took rod in handand sallied into the country, as stark mad aswas ever Don Quixote from reading books ofchivalry.

One of our party had equaled the Don in the

466 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK.

from off the stone or log on which he is sunninghirnself; and the panic-struck frog plumpingm headlong as they approach, and spreadingan alarm throughout the watery world around.

I recollect also that, after toiling and watch-ing and creeping about for the greater part ofa day, with scarcely any success in spite of allour admirable apparatus, a lubberly countryurchin came down from the hills, with a rodmade from a branch of a tree, a few yards oftwine, and, as Heaven shall help me! I believea crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vileearthworm, and in half an hour caught morefish than we had nibbles throughout the day!

But, above all, I recollect the "good, honest,wholesome, hungry" repast which we madeunder a beech tree just by a spring of pure,sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill,and how, when it was over, one of the partyread old Izaak Walton's scene with the milk-maid, while I lay on the grass and built castlesin a bright pile of clouds until I fell asleep.All this may appear like mere egotism, yet Icannot refrain from uttering these recollectionswhich are passing like a ~train of music ave;my mind and have been called up by an agree-able scene which I witnessed not long since.

In the morning's stroll along the banks of theAlun, a beautiful little stream which flows downfrom the Welsh hills and throws itself into theDee, my attention was attracted to a groupseated on the margin. On approaching I foundit to consist of a veteran angler and two rusticdisciples. The former was an old fellow with

a wooden leg, with clothes v~ry much but verycarefully patched betokemng poverty hon-estly come by and decently maintained. Hisface bore the marks of former storms, butpresent fair weat~er, its ~urrow~ ~ad bee~worn into an habitual smile, hIS iron-graylocks hung about his ears, and he had at to-gether the good-humored air. of a corist.itu-tional philosopher who was dIsposed to ~akethe world as it went. One of hIS compamonswas a ragged wight with the skulking look ofan arrant poacher, and I'll warrant coul~ findhis way to any gentleman's fish:pond in theneighborhood in the darkest mght. .Theother was a tall, awkward country lad, WIth alounging gait, and apparently some\:,hat of arustic beau. The old man was busy m ex~m-ining tlre maw of a ~rout which he h~d Justkilled, to discover by ItS contents what l?Sectswere seasonable for bait, and was lecturing onthe subject to his companions, who appearedto listen with infinite deference. I have akind feeling towards all "brothers of theanvle " ever since I read Izaak Walton. Theyar; men, he affirms, of a "mild, sweet andpeaceable spirit ;:' and my est~em for the~ hasbeen increased since I met WIth an old Tre-tyse of Fishing with the Angle," in which areset forth many of the maxims of their inoffens-ive fraternity. "Take goo~ hed~ " sayeth thishonest little tretyse, "that III gomg about yourdisportes ye open no man's gates but that y,eshet .hern again. Also ye shall not use thisforsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to

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the encreasing and sparing of your money only,but principally for your solace, and to causethe helth of your body and specyally of yoursoule. ,,*

I thouzht that I could perceive in the vet-eran an~ler before me an exemplification ofwhat I h~d read; and there was a cheerful con-tentedness in his looks that quite drew metowards him. I could not but remark the gal-lant manner in which he stumped from onepart of the brook to an~ther, waving ~is rodin the air to keep the hne from draggmg onthe ground or catching among the bushes, andthe adroitness with which he would throw hisfly to any particular place, sometimes skim-mine- it lightly along a little rapid, sometimescast~o- it ~to one of those dark holes made bya twisted root or overhanging bank in whichthe large trout are apt to lurk. In the mean-while he was giving instructions to his two dis-ciples, showing them the manner in. whi.ch theyshould handle their rods, fix their flies, andplay them along the surface of the stream.The scene brought to my mind the instructionsof the sage Piscator to his scholar. The

*From this same treatise it would appear that anglingis a more industrious and devout employment than it isgenerally considered. "For when ye purpose to go onyour disportes in fishynge ye will not desyre greatlyemany persons with you, which might let you of yourgame. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayingeffectually your customable prayers. And thus doying,ye shall eschew and also avoy~e many vices, as ydleness.which is pnncipall cause to inducem an to many othervices, as it is right well known."

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THE SKETCH BOOK. 469

country around was of that pastoral kind whichWalton is fond of describing. It was a part ofthe great plain of Cheshire, c:lose by the be~u.tiful vale of Gessford, and Just where the in-ferior Welsh hills begin to swell up fromamong fresh-smelling meadows. The day, too,like that recorded in his work, was mild andsunshiny with now and then a soft-droppingshower that sowed the whole earth with dia-monds.

I soon fell into conversation with the oldangler and was so much entertained that,under' pretext of receiving instructions in hisart I kept company with him almost thewh~le day, wandering along the banks of thestream and listening to his talk. He was very.communicative having all the easy garrulityof cheerful old a<Te,and I fancy was a littleflattered by havi~g an opportunity of displ~y-ing his piscatory lore, for who does not Iikenow and then to play the sage?

He had been much of a rambler in his day,and had passed some years of his youth inAmerica, particularly in Savannah, wher~ hehad entered into trade and had been ruinedby the indiscretion of a partner. He had.aft~r-wards experienced many ups and do~vns m Iifeuntil he got into the navy, where hIS leg wascarried away by a cannon-ball at the battle ofCamperdown. This was the only stroke ofreal <Tood-fortune he had ever experienced, forit g;t him a pension, which, together. wi!hsome small paternal property, brought him ma revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he

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retired to nis native village, where he livedquietly and independently, and devoted theremainder of his life to the "noble art of ang-ling.' ••

I found that he had read Izaac Waltonattentively, and he seemed to have imbibed allhis simple frankness and prevalent good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffetedabout the world, he was satisfied that theworld in itself, was good and beautiful.Though he had been as roughly used in differ-ent countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced byevery hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of everynation with candor and kindness, appearingto look only on the good side of things; and,above all, he was almost the only man I hadever met with who had been an unfortunateadventurer in America and had honesty andmagnanimity enough to take the fault to hisown door, and not to curse the country. Thelad that was receiving his instructions, Ilearnt was the son and heir-apparent of a fatold widow who kept the village inn, and ofcourse a youth of some expectation, and muchcourted by the idle gentleman-like personagesof the place. In taking him under his care,therefore, the old man had probably an eye toa privileged corner in the tap-room and anoccasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense.

There is certainly something in angling-ifwe could forget, which anglers are apt to do,the cruelties and tortures inflicted on wormsand insects-that tends to produce a gentJenessof spirit and a pure serenity of mind As the

English are methodical ~veJ?- in their recrea-tions and are the most scientific of sportsmen,it has been reduced among them to perfect ruleand system. Indeed, it i~ an a~usementpeculiarly adapted to the mild and highly-cul-tivated scenery of England, where everyroughness has been softened away from thelandscape. It is delightful to saun~er alo.ngthose limpid streams which wander, Iike vemsof silver, through the bosom of thi~ bea.utifulcountry, leading one throug? a dlVersity. ofsmall home scenery-sometimes wand~rmgthrough ornamented groun~s; sometimesbrimming along throug~ rich ~asturage,where the fresh green is mmgled ~Ith . sw.eet-smeJIing flowers; sometimes ventunng in sI?,htof villages and ~amlets, and. then runmngcapriciously away into shady retirements. T?esweetness and serenity of Nature and th~ quietwatchfulness of the sport gradually bnng onpleasant fits of musing, which are now andthen agreeably interrupted by the song of abird the distant whistle of the peasant, or per-hap; the vagary of so~e fish leaping out of t?estill water and skimming transiently about ItSglassy surface. "When.~ wou.ld beget con-tent," says Izaak Walton. and mcrease. confi-dence in the power and WIsdom and providenceof Almighty God, I will walk the meadowsby some gliding stream, and there contem-plate the lilies that take no care, and thosevery many other little living creatures that arenot only created, but fed (man knows not how)

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by the goodness of the God of Nature andtherefore trust in Him." '

I cannot forbear to give another quotationf~om on~ of those ancient champions of ang-hng which breathes the same innocent andhappy spirit:

i~te~ior was fitted up in a truly nautical style,hIS Ideas of comfort and convenience havingbeen acquired on the berth-deck of a man-of-wa~. !"- hammock was slung from the ceilingwhich 111 the daytime was lashed up so as to takebut little room. From the centre of the cham-ber h~ng a model of a ship, of his own work-mariship. Two or three chairs, a table, and alarge sea-chest formed the principal mov-ables. About the walls were stuck up navalballads, such as "Admiral Hosier's Ghost ••"All in the Downs," and " Tom Bowling' ..intermingled 'with pictures of sea-fizh ts amo~gwhich the battle of Camperdown h~ld ~ distin-guished place. The mantelpiece was decoratedwith sea-shells, over which hung a quadrant,flanked by two wood-cuts of most bitter-look-ing naval commanders. His implements forangling were carefully disposed on nails andhooks about the room. On a shelf was3;rranged his library, ~ontaining a work on ang-hng, much worn, a BIble covered with canvasan odd volume or two of voyages, a naut'icalalmanac, and a book of songs.

His family consisted of a large black catwith one eye, and a parrot which he hadcaught and tamed and educated himself in thecourse of one of his voyages, and whichuttered a variety of sea-phrases with thehoarse brattling tone of a veteran boatswain.The establishment reminded me of that ofthe renowned Robinson Crusoe; it was keptin neat order, everything being "stowedaway" with the regularity of a ship of war:

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brinkOf Trent or Avon h~vea dwellmg-place:

Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sinkWith eager bite of Pike, or Bleak, or Dace;

And on the world and my Creator think:Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace:

And others spend their time in base excessOf wine, or worse, in war or wantonness.

Let them that will. these pastimes still pursue,And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill;

So I the fields and meadows green may view,And dally by fresh rivers walk at will

Among the daisies and the violets blue 'Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.*

On l?arting with the old angler I inquiredafter hIS place of abode, and, happening to bei~ the neighborhood of the village a few eve-n:ngs afterwards, I had the curiosity to seekhim out. I found him living in a small cot-tage containing only one room, but a perfectcuriosity in its method and arrangement. Itwas on .the skirts of the village, on a greenbank a little back from the road, with a smallgarden in front stocked with kitchen herbs andadorned with a few flowers. The whole frontof the cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle.On the top was a ship for a weathercock. The

* J. Davors.

474 THE SKETCH BOOK.

and he informed me that he "scoured the deckevery morning and swept it between meals.I round him seated on a bench before the

door, smoking his pipe in the soft evening sun-shine. His cat was purring soberly on thethreshold, and his parrot describing somestrange evolutions in an iron ring that swungin the centre of his cage. He had been ang-ling all day, and gave me a history of his sportwith as much minuteness as a general wouldtalk over a campaign, being particularly ani-mated in relating the manner in which he hadtaken a large trout, which had completelytasked all his skill and wariness, and which hehad sent as a trophy to mine hostess of theinn.

How comforting it is to see a cheerful andcontented old age, and to behold a poor fel~owlike this after being tempest-tost through Iifesafely moored in a snug and quiet harbor inthe evening of his days! His happiness, how-ever, sprung from within himself and was in-dependent of external circumstances, for hehad that inexhaustible good-nature which isthe most precious gift of Heaven, spreadingitself like oil over the troubled sea of thought,and keeping the mind smooth and equable inthe roughest weather.

On inquiring further about him, I learntthat he was a universal favorite in the villageand the oracle of the tap-room, where he de-lighted the rustics with his songs, and, likeSindbad astonished them with his stories ofstrange 'lands and shipwrecks and sea-fights.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 475

He was much noticed too by gentlemensportsmen of the neighborhood, had taughtseveral of them the art of angling, and was aprivileged visitor to their kitchens. Thew hole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffen-sive, being principally passed about the neigh-boring streams when the weather and seasonwere favorable; and at other times he em-ployed himself at home, preparing his fishing-tackle for the next campaign or manufacturingrods, nets, and flies for his patrons and pupilsamong the gentry.

He was a regular attendant at church on~undays, though he generally fell asleep dur-mg the sermon. He had made it his particu-lar request that when he died he should beburied in a green spot which he could see fromhis seat in church, and which he had markedout ever since he was a boy, and had thoughtof when far from home on the raging sea indanger of being food for the fishes: it was thespot where his father and mother had beenburied.. I have done, for fear that my reader is grow-mg weary, but I could not refrain from draw-ing the picture of this worthy "brother of theangle, " who has made me more than ever inlove with the theory, though I fear I shallnev~r be adroit in the practice, of his art; andI WIll conclude this rambling sketch in thewords of honest Izaak Walton by craving theblessing of St. Peter's Master ~pon my reader,"and upon all that are true lovers of virtueand dare trust in .His providence and bequiet, and go a-angling.~' '

476 THE SKETCH BOOK.

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW.

(FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIED-

RICH 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 pays,For ever flushing round a summer sky.

Castle of Indolence.

In the bosom of one of those spacious coveswhich indent the eastern shore of the Hudson,at that broad expansion of the river denomi-nated by the ancient Dutch navigators theTappan Zee, and where they al ways prudentlyshortened sail and implored the protection ofSt. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies asmall market-town or rural port which by someis called Greensburg, but which is more gen-erally and properly known by the name ofTarry Town. This name was given, we aretold, in former days by the good housewives ofthe adjacent country from the inveterate pro-pensity of their husbands to linger about thevillage tavern on market days. Be that as itmay, I do not vouch for the fact, but merelyadvert to it for the sake of being precise andauthentic.. Not far from this village, per-haps about two miles, there is a little valley,or rather lap of land, among' hiz h hills, which

THE SKETCH BOOK. 477

is one of the quietest places in the wholeworld. A small brook glides through it, withjust murmur enough to lull one to repose, andthe occasional whistle of a quail or tapping ofa woodpecker is almost the only sound thatever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect that when a stripling my first ex-ploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tallwalnut trees that shades one side of the valley.I had wandered into it at noontide, when allNature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled bythe roar of my own gun as it broke the Sab-bath stillness around and was prolonged andreverberated by the angry echoes. If ever Ishould wish for a retreat whither I might stealfrom the world and its distractions and dreamquietly away the remnant of a troubled life, Iknow of none more promising than this littlevalley.

From the listless repose of the place and thepeculiar character of its inhabitants, who aredescendants from the original Dutch settlers,this sequestered glen has long been known bythe name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic ladsare called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughoutall the neighboring country. A drowsy,dreamy influence seems to hang over the landand to pervade the very atmosphere. Somesay that the place was bewitched by a HighGerman doctor during the early days of thesettlement; others, that an old Indian chief,the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held hispowwows there before the country was dis-covered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain

478 fHE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 47S

it is, the p.lace.still continues under the swayo,f som~ wltchI,ng power that holds a spell overt.ie minds of .the good people, causing themt~ walk in a. continual reverie. They aregwen to all kinds of marvelous beliefs are

l' ,subject to tra~ces and visions, and frequentlysee strange sights and hear music and voicesin the air. The whole neig-hborhood aboundswith lo.c~l tales, haunted spots, and twilightsuperstltlons; stars shoot and meteors glareoftener across the valley than in any otherpart of the ~ountry, and the nightmare, withher whole nine-fold, seems to make it the fav-orite scene of her gambols.

'I'he dominant spirit, however, that hauntsthis enchanted region, and seems to be com-mander-in-chief of all the powers of the air isthe apparition of a figure on horseback with-out a head. It is said by some to be the ghostof a Hessian trooper whose head had been car-ried away by a cannon-ball in some nameless?attle during the Revolutionary War, and whoIS ev:r and an<;lll seen by the country-folkhurry:ng along m t?e gloom of night as if onthe wings of the wind. His haunts are notconfin:d to the valley, but extend at times to~he adjacent roads, and especially to the vicin-ity of a church at no great distance. Indeedcertain of the most authentic historians of thoseparts, who have been careful in collectinr- andcollating the floating facts concernincrb thisspe~tre, allege that the body of the tr~operhavmg been buried in the churchyard theghost rides forth to the scene of battle in

nightly quest of his head, and that the rushingspeed with which he sometimes passes alongthe Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing tohis being belated and in a hurry to get backto the churchyard before daybreak.

Such is the general purport of this legend-ary superstition, which has furnished materialsfor many a wild story in that region ofshadows; and the spectre is known at all thecountry firesides by the name of the HeadlessHorseman of Sleepy Hollow.

It is remarkable that the visionary propen-sity I have mentioned is not confined to thenative inhabitants of the valley, but is uncon-sciously imbibed by everyone who residesthere for a time. However wide awake theymay have been before they entered that sleepyregion, they are sure in a little time to inhalethe witching influence of the air and begin togrow imaginative-to dream dreams and seeapparitions.

I mention this peaceful spot with all possiblelaud, for it is in such little retired Dutch val-leys, found here and there em bosomed in thegreat State of New York, that population,manners, and customs remain fixed, while thegreat torrent of migration and improvement,which is making such incessant changes inother parts of this restless country, sweeps bythem unobserved. They are like those littlenooks of still water which border a rapidstream where we mav see the straw and bubbleriding quietly at anchor or slowly revolvingin their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush

480 THE SKETCH BOOK.

of the passing current. Though many yearshave elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades ofSleepy Hollow, yet I question whether Ishould not still find the same trees and thesame families vegetating in its sheltered bosom.

In this by-place of Nature there abode, ina re- rote period of American history-that is tosay, some thirty years since-a worthy wightof the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned,or, as he expressed it, •'tarried," in SleepyHollow for the purpose of instructing the chil-dren of the vicinity. He was a native of Con.necticut, a State which supplies the Union withpioneers for the mind as well as for the forest,and sends forth yearly its legions of frontierwoodmen and country schoolmasters. Thecognomen of Crane was not inapplicable tohis person. He was tall, but exceedinglylank, with narrow shoulders, long arms andlegs, hands that dangled a mile out of hissleeves, feet that might have served forshovels, and his whole frame most loosely hungtogether. His head was small, and flat attop, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes,and a long snip nose, so that it looked like aweather-cock perched upon his spindle neckto tell which way the wind blew. To see himstriding along the profile of a hill on a windyday, with his clothes bagging and flutteringabout him, one might have mistaken him forthe genius of Famine descending upon theearth or some scarecrow eloping from a corn-field.

His school-house was a low building of one

P11 THE SKETCH BOOK. 481

la!ge room, rudely constructed of logs, thewindows partly glazed and partly patched with~eaves of old copy-books. It was most ingen-iously secured at vacant hours by a withetwisted in the handle of the door and stakesset against the window-shutters, so thatthough a thief might get in with perfect ease:he would find some embarrassment in gettingout-an idea most probably borrowed by thearchitect, Yost Van Houten, from the mysteryof an eel-pot. The school-house stood in arather lonely but pleasant situation, just at thefoot of a woody hill, with a hrook runningclose by and a formidable birch tree growingat one end of it. From hence the l~w mur-mur of his pupils' voices, connino- over theirlesso~s, might be heard in a drow~y summer'sday Iike the hum of a bee hive, interruptednow and then by the authoritative voice of themaster in the tone of menace or command orp~radventure, by the appalling S,Yl1nQ of ' th~birch as he urged some tardy Io.terer along theflowery path?f knowledge, Truth to say, hewas a conscientious man, and ever bore inmind the golden maxim, "Spare the rod andspoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholarscertainly were not spoiled.

I would not have it imagined, however, thathe was one of those cruel potentates of theschool who joy in the smart of their subjects;0';1 th.e ,:ont!ary, he administered justice withdiscrimination rather than severity takin cthe burden off the backs of the weak'an:.llay~ing it on those of the strong. Your mere

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puny stripling, that winced at .the. least flour-ish of the rod, was passed by with Ind.ulgence;but the claims of justice were satisfied byinflictinz a double portion on some Iittletough, ;rong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch ur-chin who sulked and swelled and grewdogged and sullen b~neath the bir<:h. All th~~he called "doing hIS duty by ,theIr par~nts;and he never inflicted a chastIsement withoutfollowing it by the assurance, so consolatoryto the smarting urchin, that "he would re-member it and thank him for it the longest dayhe had to live."

When school-hours were over he was eventhe companion and playmate of the largerboys, and on holiday afternoons would convoysome of the smaller ones home who happenedto have pretty sisters or good housewives formothers noted for the comforts of the cup-board. Indeed it behooved him to keep <;mgood terms with his pupils. The revenue arts-ing from his school was smaJl, an? wo':!ld h~vebeen scarcely sufficient to furnish him WIthdaily bread for he was a huge feeder and,though lank had the dilating powers of ananaconda; b~t to help out his mainte~ance hewas according to country customs III thoseparts boarded and lodged at the houses of t,hefarm~rs whose children he instructed. ~Iththese he lived successively a week at a timethus going the rounds for ~he neI~hborhoodwith all his worldly effects tied up In a cottonhandkerchief.

That all this might not be too onerous on the

1I

THE SKETCH BOOK. 483

purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt toconsider the cost of schooling a grievous bur-den and schoolmasters as mere drones, he hadvarious ways of rendering himself both usefuland agreeable. He assisted the farmers occa-sionally in the lighter labors of their farms,helped to make hay, mended the fences, tookthe horses to water, drove the cows from pas-ture, and cut wood for the winter fire. Helaid aside, too, all the dominant dignity andabsolute sway with which he lorded it in hislittle empire, the school, and became wonder-fully gentle and ingratiating. He found favorsin the eyes of the mothers by petting the chil-dren, particularly the youngest; and like thelion bold, which whilom so magnanimouslythe lamb did hold, he would sit with a child onone knee and rock a cradle with his foot forwhole hours together.In addition to his other vocations, he was

the singing-master of the neighborhood andpicked up many bright shillings by instructingthe young folks in psalmody. It was a matterof no little vanity to him on Sundays to takehis station in front of the church-gallery witha band of chosen singers, where, in his OWl)

mind, he completely carried away the palmfrom the parson. Certain it is, his voice re-sounded far above all the rest of the congrega-tion, and there are peculiar quavers still to beheard in that church, and which may even beheard half a mile off, quite to the opposite sideof the mill-pond on a still Sunday morning,which are said to be legitimately descended

from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, bydivers little makeshifts ill that ingenious waywhich is commonly denominated "by hookand by crook, " the worthy pedagogue got ontolerably enough, and was thought, by all whounderstood nothinc of the labor of headwork,to have a wonderfti:lly easy life of it.

The schoolmaster is generally a man ofsome importance in the female circle of arural neighborhood, being considered a kind ofidle, gentlemanlike personage of vastly supe-rior taste and accomplishments to the roughcountrv swains, and, indeed, inferior in learn-ing 0;11y to the parson. His appeara?ce,therefore, is apt to occasion some little st.t~ atthe tea-table of a farmhouse and the additionof a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweet-meats, or, perad venture, the parade of a silvertea-pot. Our man of letters, therefore, waspeculiarly happy in the smiles of all thecountry' darnsels. How he 'would figureamong thc m in the churchyard between ser-vices on Sundays, gathering grapes for themfrom the wild vines that overrun the surround-inrr trees; reciting for their amusement all theepitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering,with a whole bevy of them, along the banksof the adjacent mill-pond, while the morebashful country bumpkins hung sheepishlyback, envying his superior elegance and ad-

dress'l,1From this half-itinerant life, also, he was a lkind of traveling gazette, carrying the wholebudget of local gossip from house to house, so IJ

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484 THE SKETCH nOOK.

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THE SKETCH nOOK. 485

that his appearance was always greeted withsatisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed bythe women as a man of great erudition, for hehad read several books quite through, and wasa perfect master of Cotton Mather's" Historvof New England Witchcraft," in which, bvthe way, he most firmly and potently believed.

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of smalls~1fewdness and - simple credulity. His appe-tite for the marvelous and his powers of digest-ing it were equally extraordinary, and bothhad been increased by his residence in thisspellbound region. Na tale was too gross ormonstrous for his capacious swallow. It wasoften his delight, after his school was dismissedin the afternoon, to stretch himself on the richbed of clover bordering the little brook thatwhimpered by his schoolhouse, and there canover old Mather's direful tales until the gath-ering dusk of the evening made the printedpage a mere. mist before his eyes. Then, ashe wended his way by swamp and stream andawful woodland to the farm-house where hehappened to be quartered, every sound of N a-ture at that witching hour fluttered his excitedimagination-the moan of the whip-poor-will*from the hillside; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the drearyhooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rust-ling in the thicket of birds frightened fromtheir roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled

*The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard atnight. It receives its name from its note, which isthought to resemble those words.

iI:

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486 THE SKETCH BOOR.

most vividly in the darkest places, now. andthen startled him as one of uncommon bright-ness would stream across his path; and if, bychance, a huge blockhead of a .beetl~ camewinging his blundering flight agalllst hirn, thepoor varlet was ready to give up the ~hos~,with the idea that he was struck with a witch stoken. His only resource on such occasion~,either to drown thought or drive away evilspirits, was to sing psalm tunes; and the goo.dpeople of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by th~lrdoors of an evening, were often ~l.led. withawe at hearing his nasal melody, III linkedsweetness long drawn out," floating from thedistant hill or along the dusky road.

Another of his sources of fearful pleasurewas to pass long winter eve~inf5s with the oldDutch wives as they sat spmning by the fire,with a row of apples roasting and splutteringalong the hearth, and listen to their marveloustales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields,and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, andhaunted houses and particularly of the head-less horseman, 'or Galloping Hessia~ of theHollow, as they sometimes called. him, Hewould delight them equally by hIS anecdotesof witchcraft and of the direful omens and por-tentous sighs and sounds in the air w~ich pre-vailed in the earlier times of Connecticut, andwould frighten them woef~lly with specuJa-tions upon comets and shooting st~rs, and withthe alarrninz fact that the world did absolutelyturn round band that they were half the timetopsy-turvy.

1\IIi.•~

THE SKETCH BOOK. 487"

But if there was a pleasure in all this whilesnugly cuddling in the chimney-corner of achamber that was all of a ruddy glow from thecrackling wood-fire, and where, of course, nospectre dared to show its face, it was dearlypurchased by the terrors of his subsequentwalk homewards. What fearful shapes andshadows beset his path amidst the dim andghastly glare of a snowy night! With whatwistful look did he eye every trembling ray oflight streaming across the waste fields fromsome distant window! How often was heappalled by some shrub covered with snow,which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his verypath! How often did he shrink with curdlingawe at the sound of his own steps on the frostycrust beneath his feet, and dread to look overhis shoulder, lest he should behold some u n-couth being tramping close behind him! Andhow often was he thrown into complete dismayby some rushing blast howling among the trees,in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessianon one of his nightly scourings!

All these, however, were mere terrors of thenight, phantoms of the mind that walk in dark-ness; and though he had seen many spectresin his time, and been more than once beset bySatan in divers shapes in his lonely perambu-lations, yet daylight put an end to all theseevils-, and he would have passed a pleasantlife of it. in despite of the devil and all hisworks, if his path had not been crossed by abeing that causes more perplexity to mortalman than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race

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488 THE SKETCH BOOK.

of witches put together, and that was-awoman.

Among the musical disciples who ~sse~bl.edone eveniuz in each week to receive hIS in-

I:> • \T Tstructions in psalmody was Katrina 'an as-sel, the daughter and only child of a s~bstan-tial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lassof fresh eighteen, plump as a partridge, ripeand rneltinv and rosy-cheeked as one of herfather's pe;ches, and universally famed, notmerely for her beauty, but her vast expecta-tions. She was withal a little of a coquette, asmight be perceived e,,:en in her dress, whichwas a mixture of ancient and modern fash-ions, as most suited to set off her charms. Shewore the ornaments of pure yellow gold whichher great-great-grandmother had brought overfrom Saardarn, the tempting stomacher of theolden time; and withal a provokingly shortpetticoat to display the prettiest foot and anklein the country round.

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish hearttowards the sex, and it is not to be wonderedat that so tcmpting a morsel soon found ~~vorin his eyes more especially after he had VISItedher in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus VanTassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, con-tented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, Itis true, sent either his eyes or his thoughtsbeyond the boundaries of his own farm, butwithin those everything was snug, happy andwell-conditioned. He was satisfied with hiswealth. but not proud of it, and piqued himselfuoon the hearty abundance, rather than the

TIII

THE SKETCH BOOK. 489s~yle, in which he lived. His stronghold wassituated on the banks of the Hudson in one ofthose green, sheltered, fertile nook~ in whichthe Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. Agreat elm tree spread its broad branches overit, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring ofthe softest and sweetest water in a little wellformed of a barrel, and then stole sparklingaway through the grass to a neizhborin« brookth.at bubbled long among ald~rs and'" dwarfwil lows, Hard by the farmhouse was a vastbarn, that might have served for a churchevery window and crevice of which seemedbursting forth with the treasures of the farm'the fl.ail was b\Isily resounding within it fro~rnornmg to night , swallows and martinsskimmed twittering about the eaves' and rowsof pigeons, some with one eye turried up, as ifwatching the weather, some with their headsunder their wings or buried in their bosoms,and others, swellinz and cooinz and bowinc-b . u' b, b

a out their dames, were enjoying the sunshineon th~ ro.of. Sleek, unwieldy porkers weregrunt1l1g III the repose and abundance of theirpens, whence sallied forth, now and thentroops of sucking pIgS as if to snuff the air. Astatcly: squadron of snowy geese were riding inan adJ01l1I~lg pond, convoying whole fleets ofducks; regiments of turkeys were gobblingt?rough the farmyard, and guinea-fowls fret-tI1?-g ab~ut it, .like ill-tempered housewives,WIth their peevish, discontented cry. Beforethe barn-door strutted the gallant cock, thatpattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine

112Sketch Book

490 THE SKETCH BOOK.

gentleman, clapping his burnished wings andcrowing in the pride and gladness of his heart-sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet,and then generously calling his ever-hungryfamily of wives and children to enjoy the richmorsel which he had discovered.

The pedagogue's mouth watered as he lookedupon his sumptuous promise of luxurious win-ter fare. In his devouring mind's eye he pic-tured to himself every roasting-pig runningabout with a pudding in his belly and an applein his mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put tobed in a comfortable pie and tucked in with acoverlet of crust; the geese were swimming intheir own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosilyin dishes, like snug married couples, with adecent competency of onion sauce. In theporkers he saw carved out the future sleek sideof bacon and juicy relishing ham; not a turkeybut he beheld daintily trussed up, with its giz-zard under its wing, and, peradventure, anecklace of savory sausages; and even brightChanticleer himself lay sprawling on his backin a side-dish, with uplifted. claws, as if crav-ing that quarter which his chivalrous spirit dis-dained to ask while living.

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this,and as he rolled his great green eyes over thetat meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, 01rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, which sur-rounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, hisheart yearned after the damsel who was to in-herit these domains, and his imagination ex-panded with the idea how they might be read-

THE SKETCH BJCK. 491

~ly turned int., .sh and the money invested inll~me?se tract:" of wild land and shingle pa;-aces III the .wIlder?ess. Nay, his bus; fancya~ready reahz~d hIS h<;>pes,and prese.aed to~1111 the blooming Katrina, with a wh.."", ram-i'ly of chI!dren, IT.. ouuted on the top 01 a wagonloaded with h?usc:hold trumpery, with pots andkettles d~n~hng beneath, and be beheld him-self bestndlll?, a pacing mare, with a colt ather heels, setting out for Kentucky Tennesseeor the Lord knows where. ' ,

.When he entered the house the conquest ofhIS ~eart was complete. It was one of thosespacious farmhouses with high-ridged butlowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handeddO\,:n ~rom the first Dutch settlers, the lowprojecting eaves forming a pia.iza along thefront capable of being closed up in badweather .. TJnder tt.'s were hung flails, har-ness, v:ano.us utens!ls of husbandry, and netsfor fishl1~g III the neIghboring river. Bencheswere built along the sides for summer useand a great spinning-wheel at one end and ~ch,:rn at. t~e other showed the various uses towhich th:s 1l1:portant porch might be devoted.From this piazza the wondering Ichabod en-tered. the hall, which formed the centre of themansion and the place of usual residence.Here rows of resplendent pewter ranged on along dresser, dazzled his eyes. in one cornerstood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun' inanother a quantity of li?sey-woolsey just fromth~ 100m; ears of Iridian corn and strings ofdned apples and peaches hung in gay festoons

492 THE SKETCH BOOK.

, along the walls, mingled ~vith the g~ud of red" _eppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep'mto the best parlor, where the claw-footedchairs and dark mahogany tables shone l,lkemirrors; andirons, with their accomranylllgshovel and tongs, glistened from their covertof asparagus tops; mock-oranges and. conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece: strings ofvarious-colored birds' eggs were suspendedabove it; a great ostrich egg was hung fromthe centre of the room, and a corner c~pboard,knowingly left open, displayed Imme.nsetreasures of old silver and well-mended china.From the moment Ichabod laid his ey~s uF!0n

these regions of delight the peace of hIS mindwas at an end, and his only study was how togain the affections of the peerless daughter ofVan Tassel. In this enterprise, however,{hehad more real difficulties than generally fel tothe lot of a knio-ht-errant of yore, who seldomhad anything but .giants~ enchanters, fi;rydrao-ons and such-ltke eaSIly-conquered adv e:'sar~s t~ contend with, and had to make hISway merely through gates of iron and brassand walls of adamant to the castle keep, wh~rethe lady of his heart was confined; all WhIC?he achieved as easily as a man would carve hISway to the centre of a Christmas pie, and thenthe lady gave him her hand as a matter ?fcourse. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to wrnhis way to the heart of a country coquette. be-set with a labyrinth of whims and ~apnc~s,which were forever presenting new difficultiesand impediments, and he had to encounter a

THE SKETCH BOOK. 493

host of fearful adversaries of real flesh andblood the numerous rustic admirers who besetevery portal to her heart, keeping a watchfuland angry eye upon each other, but ready tofly out in the common cause against any newcompetitor.Among these the most formidable was a

burly, roaring, roistering blade of the name ofAbraham-or, according to the Dutch abbre-viation, Brom- Van Brunt, the hero of thecountry round, which rang with his feats ofstrength and hardihood. He was broad-shoul-dered and double-jointed, with short curlyblack hair and a bluff but not unpleasant coun-tenance, having a mingled air of fun and arro-gance. From his Herculean frame and greatpowers of limb, he had received the nicknameof Brom Bones, by which he was universallyknown. He was famed for great knowledgeand skill in horsemanship, being as dexterouson horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost atall races and cock-fights, and, with the ascend-ancy which bodily strength acquires in rusticlife, was the umpire in all disputes, .setting hishat on one side and giving his decisions withan air and tone admitting of no gainsay orappeal. He was always ready for either afight or a frolic, but had more mischief thanill-will in his composition; and with all hisoverbearing roughness there was a strong dashof waggish good-humor at bottom. He hadthree or four boon companions who regardedhim as their model, and at the head of whamhe scoured the country, attending every scene

494 THE SKETCH BOOK.

of feud or merriment for miles around. Incold weather he was distinguished by a fur capsurmounted with a flaunting fox's tail; andwhen the folks at a country gathering descriedthis well-known crest at a distance, whiskingabout among a squad of hard ~iders,. they a~-ways stood by for a squall. SometImes hiscrew would be heard dashing along past thefarm-houses at midnight with whoop and hal-loo, like a troop of Don Cossacks, and th~ olddames, startled out of their sleep, would listenfor a moment till the hurry-scurry had clat-tered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goesBrorn Bones and his gang!" The neighborslooked upon him with a mixture of awe, ad-miration and O"ood-will, and when any madcapprank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinityalways shook their heads and warranted BromBones was at the bottom of it.

This rantipole hero had ~or some time ~in-gled out the blooming Katnna for the ?b]ectof his uncouth gallantrIes, and, though his am-orous toyings were something like the ~entlecaresses and endearments of a bear, yet It waswhispered that she did not altogether discour-age his hopes. Certain it is, his advances weresignals for rival candidates to retire who feltno inclination to cross a line in his amours; in-somuch that when his horse was seen tied toVan Ta'ssel's paling on a Sunday night, a ~u~esign that his master was courtmg-or, as .1t 1Stermed "sparking" -within all other suitorspassed 'by in despair and carr'ied the war intoother quarters.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 495

Such was the formidable rival with whomIch abod Crane had to contend and consider-ing all things, a stouter man' tha~ he wouldhave shrunk from the competition and a wiserman would have despaired. He had howevera happy mixture of pliability and perseverancein his nature; he was in form and spirit like asupple jack-yielding, but tough; though hebent, he never broke; and though he bowedbeneath the slightest pressure, yet the mo-ment it was away, jerk! he was as erect andcarried his head as high as ever.

To have taken the field openly against hisrival would have been madness; for he wasnot a man to be thwarted in his amours, anymore than that stormy lover, Achilles. Icha-bod, therefore, made his advances in a quietand gently-insinuating manner. Under coverof his character of singing-master he made fre-quent visits at the farm-house; not that he hadanything to apprehend from the meddlesomeinterference of parents, which is so often astumbling-block in the path of lovers. BaltVan Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul, heloved his daughter better even than his pipeand, like a reasonable man and an excellentfather, let her have her way in everything.His notable little wife, too, had enough to doto attend to her housekeeping and manage herpoultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducksand geese are foolish things and must be lookedafter, but girls can take care of themselves.Thus while the busy dame bustled about thehouse or plied her spinning-wheel at one end

496 THE SKETCH BOOKo

o~ the p.iazza, .honest BaIt would sit smokinghis .evemng pIpe at. the other, watching theachievements of a little wooden warrior whoarmed with a sword in each hand was mostvaliantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle ofthe barn. In tile meantime, Ichabod wouldcarry on h~s suit with the daughter by the side?f the sprmg under the great elm or saunter-ing along in the twilight, that hour so favorableto the lover's eloquence.I profess not to know how women's hearts

are wooed and won. To me they have alwaysbeen matters of riddle and admiration. Someseem to have but one vulnerable point or doorof access, while others have a thousand avenuesand may be captured in a thousand differentways. It is a great triumph of skill to gainthe former, but a still greater proof of gener-alship to maintain possession of the latter, fora man must battle for his fortress at every doorand window. He who wins a thousand com-mon hearts is, therefore, entitled to some re-nown, but he who keeps undisputed sway overthe heart of a coquette is, indeed, a hero. Cer-tain it is, this was not the case with the re-doubtable Brom Bones; and from the momentIchabod Crane made his advances the interestsof the former evidently declined; his horsewas no longer seen tied at the paling on Sun-day nights, and a deadly feud gradu~lly arosebetween him and the preceptor of Sleepv HoI.low. .Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry

in his nature, would fain have carried matters

THE SKETCH BOOK. 497

t? open warfare, and have settled their preten-SIOns to the lady according to the mode ofth<?se most concise and simple reasoners, theknights-errant of yore-?y single combat; "b,ptIC~labod was. too conscious of the superiormight of his adversary to enter the listsagainst him; he had overheard a boast ofBones, that he would "double the schoolmasterup and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house;" ~md he was too wary to give him anopport~ll1t~. T.here was something extremelyprovokmg in this obstinately pacific system' itleft Brom no ~lternative ):mt to draw upon thefunds of rustic waggery m his disposition andto playoff boorish practical jokes upon his rival.Ich~bod became the object of whimsical perse-cution to ~ones .and .his gang of rough riders.They harned his hitherto peaceful domains'smoked out his singing school by stopping upthe chimney; broke into the school-house atnight, in spite of its formidable fastenings ofwithe and window stakes, and turned every-thing topsy-turvy: so that the '"loor schoolmas-ter began to think all the witches in the coun-try held their meetings there. But, what wass~i1l more ~nno~ing> Bro~. took all opportuni-ties of turning him into ridicule in presence ofhis mistress, ~nd.had a scoundrel dog whom hetaught to whine in the most ludicrous mannerand introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to in:struct her in psalmody.In this way matters went on for some time

without producing any material effect on therelative situation of the contending powers. On

498 THE SKETCH BOOK.

a fine autumnal afternoon Ichabod, in pensivemood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whencehe usually watched all the concerns of his littleliterary realm. In his hand he swayed a fer-ule, that sceptre of despotic power; the birchof justice reposed on three nails behind thethrone, a constant terror to evildoers; while onthe desk before him might be seen sundry con-traband articles and prohibited weapons de-tected upon the persons of idle urchins, suchas half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs,fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant littlepaper game-cocks. Apparently there hadbeen some appalling act of justice recently in-flicted, for his scholars were all busily intentupon their books or slyly whispering behindthem with one eye kept upon the master, anda kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughoutthe school-room. It was suddenly interruptedby the appearance of a negro in tow-clothjacket and trousers, a round-crowned fragmentof a hat like the cap of Mercury, and mountedon the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt,which he managed with a rope by way of hal-ter. He came clattering up to the school doorwith an invitation to Ichabod to attend a mer-ry-making or "quilting frolic" to be held thatevening at Mynheer Van Tassel's; and, hav-ing delivered his message with that air of im-portance and effort at fine language which anegro is apt to display on petty embassies ofthe kind, he dashed over the brook, and wasseen scampering away up the hollow, full ofthe importance and hurry of his mission.

THE SKETCH BOOK. 4J9

~ll was now bustle and hubbub in the latequiet school-:-oom. The scholars were hurriedthr~ugh their lessons :vithout stopping at tri-fl~s, ~hose ":,ho were nimble skipped over halfwith Impumt.Y, ~nd those who were tardy hada sm~rt apphc~tlOn now and then in the rearto quicken their speed or help them over a tallword. Books were flung aside without beirivput away on the shelves, inkstands were over"-turned, benches thrown down, and the wholeschool :was turned loose an hour before theusual t~me, bursting forth like a leo-ion fyoung .In:PS, yelpifolg and racketing ab~ut tl~egreen In JOy at their early emancipation.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least ane~tr~ half ho~r at his toilet, brushing and fur-bishing up hIS best, and, indeed, onl v suit ofrusty black, an? arranging his lock~ by a bitof br?ken lookr,ng-glass that hung up in theschool house .. 1ha.t he mi~ht make his appear-ance .before hIS rnistress 111the true style of ~tcCl;vaIJer,he borrowed a horse from the farmerwith whom he was domiciliated, a choleric oldDutchman of the name of H~ns Van Ripper,and, .thus gallantly mounted, Issued forth like~ knight-errant in. quest of adventures, But itIS meet I. should, 111the true spirit of romanticstory, gIve some account of the looks andeq~l1pments of my hero and his steed. Theanimal he bestrode was a broken-down p101Wh:h?rse .t~at had outlived almost everything buthI;> VICIousness. He was gaunt and sha"'gged,W:Itha ewe neck and a head like a hammer'hIS rusty mane and tail were tangled and knot:

"

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ted with burrs; one eye had lost its pupil andwas glaring and spectral, b,ut. t~e othe.r hadthe gleam of a genuine devIl. in 1.t. St1~l, hemust have had fire and mettle in Ius day, If wemay judge from the name he bore o,f Gunpow-der. He had, in fact, been a fa,vonte steed ofhis master's the choleric Van Ripper, who wasa furious rider, and had infused, very prob-ably some of his own spirit into the anirnal ;for, ~ld and broken down as ~~ loo~ed, the::ewas more of the lurking devil in him than many young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for suc~ asteed. He rode with short stirrups, whichbrought his knees nearly up to the pommel. ofthe saddle; his sharp .elbo~vs st,uck out h~egrass-hoppers'; he earned hIS whip perpendl~-ularly in his hand like a sceptre; and as hIShorse jogged on the motion of hi.s arms was notunlike the flapping of a pair of Wl~gS, A smallwool hat rested on the top of ~lS nose, for sohis scanty strip of forehead might be called,and the skirts of his black coat fluttered outalmost to his horse's tail. Such was theappearance of Ichabod and his steed a~ theyshambled out of the gate of Hans Va~ .RIppe::,and it was altogether such an appa~1t10n as ISseldom to be met with in broad daylIght.

It was as I have said, a fine autumnal day,the sky ~as clear and serene, and Nature worethat rich and golden livery which we alwaysassociate with the idea of abundance. Theforests had put on their sober brown a,nd yel-low, while some trees of the tenderer kind had

THE SKKfCH BOOK. 501

been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes oforange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming filesof wild-ducks began to make their appearancehigh in the air; the bark of the squirrel mightbe heard from the groves of beech and hickorynuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail atintervals from the neighboring stubble-field.

The small birds were taking their farewellbanquets. In the fulness of their revelry theyfluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bushto bush and tree to tree, capricious from thevery profusion and variety around them.There was the honest cock robin, the favoritegame of stripling sportsmen, with its loudquerulous note; and the twittering black- birds,flying in sable clouds; and the golden-wingedwoodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broadblack gorget, and splendid plumage; and thecedar-bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers;and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in hisgay light-blue coat and white under-clothes,screaming and chattering, bobbing and nod-ding and bowing, and pretending to be on goodterms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way hiseye, ever open to every symptom of culinaryabundance, ranged with delight over the treas-ures of jolly Autumn. On all sides he beheldvast store of apples-some hanging in oppres-sive opulence on the trees, some gathered intobaskets and barrels for the market, othersheaped up in rich piles for the cider-press.Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian

,--502 THE SKETCH BOOK.

THE SKETCH BOOK.

corn, with its golden ears peeping from ,theirleafy coverts and holding out the promise ofcakes and hasty pudding; and the ;,ellow pum~-kins lying beneath them, turnm,g, up theirfair round bellies to the sun, and gIvmg ampleprospects of the most luxurious of pies; andanon he passed the fragrant buc~wheat-fields,breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as l~ebeheld them soft anticipations stole over hISmind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered. andgarnished with honey or tre.acle ~y the ~elIcatelittle dimpled hand of Katnna van Tassel.Thus feeding his mind with many sweet

thoughts and "sugared suppositions, '.' he jO~lr-neyed along the sides of a range ~f hills WhIChlooked out upon some of the goodliest scenes ofthe mighty Hudson: The s.un graduallywheeled his broad disk down into the west.The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motion-less and glassy, excepting that here and therea zeritle undulation waved and prolonged thebl~e shadow of the distant mountain. A fewamber clouds floated in the sky, without abreath of air to move them, The horizon wasof a fine golden tint, changing g:adually intoa pure apple green, and from that 1ll~0 the de.epblue of the mid-heaven. A slantmg ray Iin-zered on the woody crests of the precipicesthat overhung some parts of the river, givinggreater depth to the dark-gray ~nd'purple oftheir rocky sides. A sloop was 101t~rlllg m .thedistance, dropping slowly down. with the tide,her sail hanging uselessly against the, mast,and as the reflection of the sky gleameo along

the still water it seemed as if the vessel wassuspended in the air.It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived

at the castle of the Heel' Van Tassel, which hefound thronged with the pride and flower ofthe adjacent country-old farmers, a spareleathern-faced race, in homespun coats andbreeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and mag-nificen t pewter buckles; their brisk witheredlittle dames, in close crimped caps, long-waistedshortgowns, homespun petticoats, with scissorsand pincushions and gay calico pockets hang-ing on the outside; buxom lasses, almost asantiquated as their mothers, exccpting wherea straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a whitefrock O'ave symptoms of city innovation' theSOl1S, , i':'t short square-skirted coats with ~owsof stupendous brass buttons, and their hairgenerally queued in the fashion of the times,especially if they could procure an eel-skin forthe purpose, it being esteemed throughout thecountry as a potent nourisher and strengthenerof the hair.Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the

scene, having come to the gathering on hisfavorite steed Daredevil-a creature, likehimself full of metal and mischief, and whichno one but himself could manage. He was,in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals,given to all kinds of tricks, which kept therider in constant risk of his neck, for he helda tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy ofa lad of spirit.,Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world

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of charms that burst upon the enraptured gazeof my hero as he entered the state parlor ofVan Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevyof buxom lasses with their luxurious display ofred and white, but the ample charms of a gen-uine Dutch country tea-table in the sumptuoustime of autumn. Such heaped-up platters ofcakes of various and almost indescribable kinds,known only to experienced Dutch housewives!There was the doughty doughnut, the tendereroily koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller;sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes andhoney cakes and the whole family of cakes.And then there were apple pies and peach piesand pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham andsmoked beef; and moreover delectable dishesof preserved plums and peaches and pears andquinces; not to mention broiled shad androasted chickens; together with bowls of milkand cream.>- all mingled higgledy-piggledly.pretty much as I have enumerated them, withthe motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds ofvapor from the midst. Heaven bless themark! I want breath and time to discuss thisbanquet as it deserves, and am too eager to geton with my story. Happily, Ichabod Cranewas not in so great a hurry as his historian, butdid ample justice to every dainty.

He was a kind and thankful creature, whoseheart dilated in proportion as his skin wasfilled with good cheer, and whose spirits rosewith eating as some men's do with drink. Hecould not help, too, rolling his large eyes roundhim as he ate, and chuckling with the possi-

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THE SKETCH BOOK. 505

!

:1

bility that he might one day be lord of all thisscene of almost unimaginable luxury andsplendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'dturn his back upon the old school-house, snaphis fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper andevery other nig.g-ardly patron, and kick anyitinerant pedagogue out of doors that shoulddare to call him comrade!

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about amonghis guests with a face dilated with content andgood-humor, round and jolly as the harvestmoon. His hospitable attentions were brief,but expressive, being confined to a shake ofthe hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh,and a pressing invitation to "fall to and helpthemsel ves .. ,

And now the sound of the music from thecommon room, or hall, summoned to the dance.The musician was an old gray-headed negrowho had been the itinerant orchestra of theneighborhood for more than half a century.His instrument was as old and battered as him-self. The greater part of the time he scrapedon two or three strings, accompanying everymovement of the bow with a motion of thehead, bowing almost to the ground and stamp-ing with his foot whenever a fresh couple wereto start.

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing asmuch as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb,not a fibre about him was idle; and to haveseen his loosely hung frame in full motion andclattering about the room you would havethought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed

506 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 507

patron of the dance, was figuring before you1Il person. -He was the admiration of all thenegroes, who, having gathered, of all ages andsizes, from the farm and the neighborhood,stood forming a pyramid of shining black facesat every door and window, gazing with delightat the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, andshowing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear.How could the flogger of urchins be other-wise than animated and joyous? The lady ofhis heart was his partner in the dance, andsmiling graciously in reply to all his amorousoglings, while Brom Bones, sorely smittenwith love and jealously, sat brooding by him-self in one corner.

When the dance was at an end Ichabod wasattracted to a knot of the sager folks. who,with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end ofthe piazza gossiping over former times anddrawing out long stories about thc war.

This neighborhood, at the time of which Iam speaking, was one of those highly favoredplaces which abonnd with chronicle and greatmen. The British and American line had runnear it during the war; it had therefore beenthe scene of marauding and infested withrefugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of borderchivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed toenable each story-teller to dress up his talewith a little becoming fiction, and in the indis-tinctness of his recollection to make himself thehero of every exploit.

There was the story of Doffue Martling, alarge blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly

taken 8. British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that hisgun burst at the sixth discharge. And therewas an old gentleman who shall be nameless,being too rich a mynheer to be lightly men-tioned, who, in the battle of Whiteplains, beingan excellent master of defence, parried a mus-ket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that heabsolutely felt is whiz round the blade andglance off at the hilt: in proof of which he wasready at any time to show the sword, with thehilt a little bent. There were several morethat had been equally great in the field, notone of whom but was persuaded that he had aconsiderable hand in bringing the war to ahappy termination.

But all these were nothing to the tales ofghosts and apparitions that succeeded. Theneighborhood is rich in legendary treasures ofthe kind. Local tales and superstitions thrivebest in these sheltered, long-settled retreats,but are trampled under foot by the shiftingthrong that forms the population of most ofour country places. Besides, there is noencouragement for ghosts in most of our vil-lages, for they have scarcely had time to finis.htheir first nap and turn themselves in the1fgraves before their surviving friends have trav-eled away from the neighborhood; so thatwhen they turn out at night to walk theirrounds they have no acquaintance left to callupon. This is perhaps the reason why we soseldom hear of ghosts except in our long-estab-lished Dutch communities.

508 THE SKETCH BOOK. .. THE SKETCH BOOK. 509

The immediate cause, however, of the preva-lence of supernatural stories in these parts wasdoubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hol-low. There was a contagion in the very air thatblew from that haunted region; it breathedforth an atmosphere of dreams and fanciesinfecting all the land. Several of the SleepyHollow people were present at Van Tassel's,and, as usual, were doling out their wild andwonderful legends. Many dismal tales weretold about funeral trains and mourning criesand wailings heard and seen about the greattree where the unfortunate Major Andre wastaken, and which stood in the neighborhood.Some mention was made also of the woman inwhite; that haunted the dark glen at RavenRock, and was often heard to shriek on winternights before a storm, having perished therein the. snow. The chief part of the stories,however, turned upon the favorite spectre ofSleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, whohad been heard several times of late patrollingthe country, and, it was said, tethered hishorse nightly among the graves in the church-yard.

The sequestered situation of this churchseems always to h.,;'lvemade it a favorite hauntof troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll sur-rounded by locust trees and lofty elms fromamong which its decent whitewashed' wallsshine. modestly forth, like Christian puritybeaming through the shades of retirement. Agentle slope descends from it to a silver sheetof water bordered by high trees, between

which peeps may be caught at the blue hills ofthe Hudson. To look upon its grass-grownyard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep soquietly, one would think that there at least thedead might rest in peace. On one side of thechurch extends a wide woody dell, along whichraves a large brook among broken rocks andtrunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black partof the stream,. not far from the church, wasformerly thrown a wooden bridge; the roadthat led to it and the bridge itself were thicklyshaded by overhanging trees, which cast agloom about it even in the daytime, but occa-sioned a fearful darkness at night. Such wasone of the favorite haunts of the headless horse-man, and the place where he was most fre-quentlyencountered. The tale was told of oldBrouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts,how he met the horseman returning from hisforay into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged toget up behind him; how they galloped overbush and brake, over hill and swamp, untilthey reached the bridge, when the horsemansuddenly turned into a skeleton, threw oldBrouwer into the brook, and sprang away overthe tree-tops with a clap of thunder.

This story was immediately matched by athrice-marvelous adventure of Brom Bones,who made light of the galloping Hessian as anarrant jockey. He affirmed that on returningone night from the neighboring village of Sing-Sing he had been overtaken by this midnighttrooper; that he had offered to race with himfor a bowl of punch, and should have won it

510 THE SKETCH BOOK.

too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse allhollow, but just as they came to ~he c111.:-rchbridge the Hessian bolted and vanished m aflash of fire.All these tales, told in that drowsy under-

tone with which men talk in the dark, thecountenances of the listeners only now and thenreceiving a casual gleam from the glare of apipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. Herepaid them in kind with large extracts fromhis invaluable author, Cotton Mather, andadded many marvelous events that h3;d takenplace in his native state of Co~nec;tlct;-t andfearfnl sights which he had seen III hIS nightlywalks about Sleepy Hollow.The revel now gradually broke up. The old

farmers gathered together their families. intheir w avo ns and were heard for some timerattlin ex ~lon;" the hollow roads and ove r thedistanthills. '" Some of the darnsels mounted onpillions behind their favo~ite ~wain~, and theirlicht-hearted laughter. mmglmg WIth the clat-te"'r of hoofs echoed along the silent wood-lands, sounding fainter and fainter until th.eycrradually died away, and the late scene of noise~nd frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabodonly lirizered behind, according to the customof count~y lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with theheiress fullv convinced that he was now onthe hizh road to success. What passed at thisinterview I will not pretend to say, for in factI do not Know. Something, however, 1 fearme must have gone wrong, for he certainlysaliied forth, after no very great interval, with

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THE SKETCH BOOK. 511

an air quite desolate and chop-fallen. Ohthese women 1 H:-ese women! Could that girlh~ve been playmg off any of her coquettishtncks? Was her encouragement of the poorpedagog ue all a mere sham to secure her con-~l1es~of his rival? Heaven only knows, not I!vet It suffice to say. Ichabod stole forth withthe air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. Withoutlooking to the right or left to notice the sceneof rural wealth on which he had so oftengl.oated, he went straight to the stable, andWIth several hearty cuffs and kicks roused hissteed most uncourteously from the comfortablequarte~s in. which he was soundly sleeping,dreammg of mountains of corn and oats andwhole valleys of timothy and clover.It was the very witching- time of night that

Ich abo~, hea vy-h earted and crestfallen, pur.sued hIS travel homewards alonv the sides ofthe 10f~y hills 'which rise above Tarry Town,and which he had traversed so cheerilv in theafternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself.Fa:- ~elo:v ~lim the Tappan Zee spread its duskyand indistinct waste of waters, with here andthere the tall mast of a sloop riding quietly atanchor under the land. In the dead hush ofmidnight he could even hear the barking of thewatch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hud-son; but it was so vague and faint as only togive an idea of his distance from this faiti'lfalcompanion of man. Kow and then too thelong-drawn crowing of a cock. accidenta.Ilyawakened, would sound far, far off, from some

512 THE SKETCH BOOK.

farm-house away among the hills; but it waslike a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs oflife occurred near him, but occasionally themelancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps theguttural twang of a bull-frog from a neighbor-ing marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably andturning suddenly in his bed.All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he

had heard in the afternoon now came crowd.ing upon his recollection. The night grewdarker and darker; the' stars seemed to sinkdeeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasion-ally hid them from his sight. He had neverfelt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover,approaching the very place where many of thescenes of the ghost-stories had been laid. Inthe center of the road stood an enormous tuliptree which towered like a giant above all theother trees of the neighborhood and formed akind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled andfantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordi-nary trees, twisting down almost to the earthand rising again into the air. It was connectedwith the tragical story of the unfortunateAndre, who had been taken prisoner hard by,and was universally known by the name ofMajor Andre's tree. The common peopleregarded it with a mixture of respect and sup-erstition, partly out of sympathy for the fateof its ill-starred namesake, and partly from thetales of strange sights and doleful lamentationstold concerning it.As Ichabod approached this fearful tree he

began to whistle: he thought his whistle was

THE SKETCH BOOK. 513

answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharplythr?ugh the dry branches. As he approacheda I.Ittle nearer he thought he saw somethingwhite hanging in the midst of the tree: hepaused and ceased whistling, but on lookingmore narrowly perceived that it was a placewhere the tree had been scathed by lightningand the white wo~d laid bare. Suddenly heheard a groan: hIS teeth chattered and hisknees smote against the saddle' it was but therubbing of one huge bough upon another asthey were swayed about by the breeze. Hepassed the tree in safety but new perils laybefore him. 'About two hundred yards from t'he tree a

small brook crossed the road and ran into amarshy and thickly-wooded glen known by then~me. of Wi1~y's Swamp. A few rough logs,laid SIde by SIde, served for a bridge over thisstream. On that side of the road where thebrook entered the wood a group of oaks andchestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines,th:ew a cavernous gloom over it. To pass thisbridge was the severest trial. I t was at thisidentical spot that the unfortunate Andre wascaptured, and under the covert of those chest-nuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen con-cealed who surprised him. This has ever sincebeen considered a haunted stream and fearfulare the feelings of the schoolboy' who has top8.5Sit alone after dark.As he approached the stream his heart began

to thu~p; he summoned up, however, all hisresolution, gave his horse half a score of kicksS3 Sketch Book

514 THE SKETCH BOOK.

in the nbs and attempted to dash brisklyacross the b'ric1ge, but instead of starting for-ward, the perverse 01<1animal r,nade a lateralmovement and ran broadside agamst the fence.Ichabod whose fears increased with the delay,jerked tile reins on the other sid~ and kick~dlustilv with the contrary foot: It was all III

vain;J his steed started, it is true, but it wasoril v to plunge to the opposite sidc of thc road

- "" 1 hinto a thicket of brambles and alder-bus es.The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip andheel upon the starving ri?s of old GunJ?owder,who dashed forward, snuffing and snortlllg, butcame to 3. stand just by the bridge with a sud-denness that had nearly sent his rider sprawl-ina over his head. 1ust at this moment apl~shy tramp by the SIde of the bridge caughtthe sensitive ear of Ichabod, In the darkshadow of the arove on the mar ig n of thebrook he beheld'" something huge, misshapen,black and tower inu. It stirred not, but seemed, b • .

gathered up in the gloom, like some gIgantICmonster ready to spring- upon the traveler.The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose

upon his head with terror. What was to bedone? To turn and fly was now too late; ~ndbesides what chance was there of escapmgghost o~ goblin, if such it was, which co~ldride upon the wings of the wind? Summomngup, therefore, a show of courage, he demandedin starnmer inz' accents, "\Vho are you?" Hereceived no rebply. He repeated his dema nd ina still more asritated voice. Still there was noanswer. On~e more he cudgeled the sides of

THE SKETCH BOOK. 515

the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting hiseyes,hroke forth with involuntary fervor into apsalm tune. Just then the shadowy object ofalarm put itself in motion, ant] with a scram blcand a bound stood at once in the middle of theroad. Though the night was dark and dismal,yet the form of the unknown might now insome degree be ascertained. He appeared tobe a horseman of large dimensions and mountedon a black horse of powerful frame. He madeno offer of molestation or sociability, but keptaloof on one side of the road, jogging along onthe blind side of old Gunpowder, who had nowgot over his fright and waywardness.Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange

midnight companion, and bethought himselfof the adventure of Brom Bones with the Gal-loping Hessian, now quickened his steed inhopes of leaving him behind. The stranger,however, quickened his horse to an equal pace.Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, think-ing to lag behind; the other did the same.His heart hegan to sink within him; he endeav-ored to resume his psalm tune, but his parchedtongue clove to the roof of his mouth and hecould not utter a stave. There was some-thing in the moody and dogged silence of thispertinacious companion that was mysteriousand appalling. It was soon fearfully accountedfor. On mounting a rising ground, whichbrought the figure of his fellow-traveler inrelief against the sky, gigantic in height andmuffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struckon perceiving that he was headless! but his

THE SKETCH BOOK. 517516 THE SKETCH BOOK.

horror was still more increased on observingthat the head, which should have rested on hisshoulders, was carried before him on the pom-mel of the saddle. His terror rose to despera-tion, he rained a shower of kicks and blowsupon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden move-ment to give his companion the slip; but thespectre started full jump with him. Away,then, they dashed through th~ck and thin,stones flying and sparks flashing at everybound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered inthe air as he stretched his long lank bodyawav over his horse's head in the eagerness ofhis flight.

They had now reached the road which turnsoff to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, whoseemed possessed with a demon, instead ofkeeping up it, made an opposite turn an.dplunged headlong down hill to the left. ThISroad leads through a sandy hollow shaded bytrees for about a uarter of a mile, where itcrosses the bridge famous in goblin story, andjust beyond swells the green knoll on whichstands the whitewashed church.

As yet the panic of the steed had given hisun skilful rider an apparent advantage in thechase; but just as he had got halfway throughthe hollow the girths of the saddle gave awayand he felt it slipping from under him. Heseized it by the pommel and endeavored tohold it firm, but in vain, and had just time tosave himself by clasping old Gunpowder roundthe neck when the saddle fell to the earth, andhe heard it trampled under foot by his pur-

SUer. For a moment the terror of Hans VanRipper's wrath passed across his mind, for itwas his Sunday saddle; but this was no timefor petty fears; the goblin was hard on hishaunches, and (unskilled rider that he was) hehad much ado to maintain his seat, sometimesslipping on one side, sometimes on another,and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of hishorse's back-bone with a violence that he verilyfeared would cleave him asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered himwith the hopes that the church bridge was athand. The wavering reflection of a silver starin the bosom of the brook told him that he wasnot mistaken. He saw the walls of the churchdimly glaring under the trees beyond. Herecollected the place where Brom Bones'ghostly competitor had disappeared. "If Ican but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod,"I am safe. " Just then he heard the blacksteed panting and blowing close behind him;he even fancied that he felt his hot breath.Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and oldGunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thun-dered over the resounding planks; he gainedthe opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a lookbehind to see if his pursuer should vanish,according to rule, in a flash of fire and brim-stone. Just then he saw the goblin rising inhis stirrups, and in the very act of hurling hishead at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodgethe horrible missile, but too late. It encoun-tered his cranium with a tremendous crash;he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and

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Gunpowder, the black s~eed: and the goblinrider passed by like a whirlwind,

The next morning the old horse was found,without his saddle and with the bridle. underhis feet, soberly croppi.ng the grass c:t his mas-ter's gate. Ichabod did not make his appear-ance at breakfast; dinner-hour came, but noIchabod. The boys assembled at the school-house and strolled idly about the banks o~ thebrook· but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Rippernow l~egan to feel some uneasiness ab?ut ~hefate of poor Ichabod and his s~~d1e. ~n lllq~lrywas set on foot, and after diligent investiga-tion they came upon his traces. In one partof the road leading to the church was foundthe saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks ofhorses' hoofs, deeply dented in the road andevidently at furious speed, were traced to thebridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broadpart of the brook, where the water ran deepand black, was found the hat of the unfor-tunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shatteredpumpkin.

The brook was searched, but the body of theschoolmaster was not to be discovered. HansVan Ripper, as executor of his estate, exam-ined the bundle which contained all his worldlyeffects. Thev consisted of two shirts and ahalf, two stoc"ks for the neck, a pair or two ofworsted stockings, an old pair of corduroysmall-clothes a rusty razor, a book of psalmtunes full of 'dog'S ears, and a broken pitch-pipe As to th'e books and furniture of ~heschool-house, they belonged to the community,

excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witch-craft, aNew England Almanac, and a book ofdreams and fortune-telling; in which last wasa sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blottedin several fruitless attempts to make a copy ofverses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel.These magic books and the poetic scrawl wereforthwith consigned to the flames by HansVan Ripper, who from that time forwarddetermined to send his children no more toschool, observing that he never knew any goodcome of this same reading and writing. What-ever money the schoolmaster possessed-andhe had received his quarter's pay but a day ortwo before-he must have had about his personat the time of his disappearance.

The mysterious event caused much specula-tion at the church on the following Sunday.Knots of gazers and gossips were collected inthe church-yard, at the bridge, and at the spotwhere the hat and pumpkin had been found.The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a wholebudget of others were called to mind, and whenthey had diligently considered them all, andcompared them with the symptoms of thepresent case, they shook their heads and cameto the conclusion that Ichabod had been carriedoff by the galloping Hessian. As he was abachelor and in nobody's debt, nobody troubledhis head any more about him, the school warremoved to a different quarter of the hollowand another pedagogue reigned in his stead.

It is true an old farmer, who had been downto New York on a visit several years after, and

520 THE SKETCH BOOK. THE SKETCH BOOK. 521from whom this account of the ghostly adven-ture was received, brought home the intelli-gence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; thathe had left the neighborhood, partly throughfear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, andpartly in mortification at having been suddenlydismissed by the heiress; that he had changedhis quarters to a distant part of the country;had kept school and studied law at the sametime, had been admitted to the bar, turnedpolitician, electioneered, written for the news-papers, and finally had been made a justice ofthe Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones too, whoshortly after his rival's disappearance con-ducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to thealtar, was observed to look exceedingly know-ing whenever the story of Ichabod was related,and always burst into a hearty laugh at themention of the pumpkin; which led some tosuspect that he knew more about the matterthan he chose to tell.

The old country wives, however, who arethe best judges of these matters, maintain tothis day that Ichabod was spirited away bysupernatural means; and it is a favorite storyoften told about the neighborhood round thewinter evening fire. The bridge became morethan ever an object of superstitious awe, andthat may be the reason why the road has beenaltered of late years, so as to approach thechurch by the border of the mill-pond. Theschool-house, being deserted, soon fell todecay, and was reported to be haunted by theghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the

plough- boy, loitering homew~rd of. a sti.l1 sum-mer evening, has often fancied his voice at adistance chanting a melancholy psalm tuneamong the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.

POSTSCRIPT.

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKER-

BOCKER.

The preceding tale is given almost in theprecise words in which I heard it. relate.d at aCorporation meeting of the ancient CIty .ofManhattoes, at which were present many of Itssagest and most illustrious burghers. Thenarrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlen:anlyold fellow in pepper-and-salt clothes, WIth asadly humorous face, and one whom I stronglysuspected of being poor, he made such effortsto be entertaining. When his story was con-cluded there was much laughter and approba-tion, particularly from two 'or three deputyaldermen who had been asleep the greater partof the time. There was, however, one tall,drv-lookiriz old gentleman, with beetling eye-brows wh"'o maintained a grave and rathersever~ face throughout, now and then foldinghis arms inclinino his head, and looking downupon th~ floor, as"'if turning a doubt over inhis mind. He was one of your wary men, whonever lauc-h but upon good grounds-whenthey have'" reason and the law on their side.When the mirth of the rest of the company hadsubsided and silence was restored, he leaned

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one arm on the elbow of his chair, and stick-ing the other akimbo, demanded, with a slightbut exceedingly sage motion of the head andcontraction of the brow, what was the moralof the story and what it went to prove.

The story-teller, who was just putting aglass of wine to his lips as a refreshment afterhis toils, paused for a moment, looked at hisinquirer with an air of infinite deference, and,lowering the glass slowly to the table, ob-served that the story was intended most log-ically to prove-

"That there is no situation in life but has itsadvantages and pleasures-provided we willbut take a joke as we find it;

"That, therefore, he that runs races withgoblin troopers is likely to have rough ridingof it.

"Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to berefused the hand of a Dutch heiress is a cer-tain step to high preferment in the state .••

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows ~tenfold closer after this explanation, beingsorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syl-logism, while methought the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of a trium-phant leer. At length he observed that all thiswas very well, but still he thought the story alittle on the extravagant-there were one ortwo points on which he had his doubts.

"Faith, sir,," replied the story-teller, "as tothat matter, I don't believe one-half of itmyself. •• D. K.