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The Pride of the Village, 
 
 AND OTHER TALES 
 
 FROM "THE SKETCH BOOK." 
 
 BY 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING, 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY EMINENT ARTISTS. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 
 
 LONDON: 15 RUSSELL STREET, CO VENT GARDEN. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of tlie District Court of the United States for the Southern District 
 
 of New York. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, 
 
 Copyright, 1886, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 / PAGE 
 
 ^ THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 7 
 
 ^J THE WIDOW AND HEE SON 21' 
 
 -l THE BROKEN HEART 33 
 
 THE WIFE 41 
 
 J A ROYAL POET 53 
 
 y THE COUNTRY CHURCH 73 
 
THE PEIDE OF THE VILLAGE. page 
 
 Initial, ^ 
 
 The Funeral 8 
 
 The Pride of the Village 17 
 
 Tail-Piece: Swords, etc 19 
 
 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 The Old Mill 21 
 
 Country Church 24 
 
 The Widow and Her Son 29 
 
 Tail-Piece 31 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 Wounded Dove 33 
 
 Initial 33 
 
 The Masquerade 39 
 
 Border Medallion of Emmett 40 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 Love Guarding the Harp 41 
 
 The Cottage 49 
 
 Cupid and Rings 51 
 
 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 Windsor ^3 
 
 Initial 53 
 
 Round Tower, Windsor Castle 55 
 
 Garden Scene, Windsor 63 
 
 King James as a Prisoner 65 
 
 Terrace View, Windsor Castle 71 
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 Interior of an English Country Church 73 
 
 Coach of the Wealthy Citizen 77 
 
 Tail-Piece 80 
 
 5 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 " May no wolfe howle ; no screech owle stir 
 A wing about thy sepulchre ! 
 No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 
 To starve or wither 
 Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring. 
 Love kept it ever flourishing." 
 
 Herrick. 
 
 K the course of an excursion through 
 one of the remote counties of England, 
 I had struck into one of those cross- 
 roads that lead through the more seclud- 
 ed parts of the country, and stopped one 
 afternoon at a village, the situation of 
 which was beautifully rural and retired. 
 There was an air of primitive simplicity 
 about its inhabitants, not to be found in 
 the villages which lie on the great coach- 
 roads. I determined to pass the night 
 there, and, having taken an early dinner, 
 ^ strolled out to enjoy the neighboring scenery. 
 ' My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led 
 me to the church, which stood at a little distance from the 
 village. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old 
 tower being completely overrun with ivy, so that only here and 
 there a jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fantastically 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 carved ornament, peered tlirongh the verdant covering. It 
 was a lovely evening. The early part of the day had been 
 dark and showery, but in the afternoon it had cleared np ; and 
 though sullen clouds still hung overhead, yet there was a 
 broad tract of golden sky in the west, from which the setting 
 sun gleamed through the dripping leaves, and lit up all nature 
 with a melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a 
 good Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, 
 and giving, in the serenity of his decline, an assurance that he 
 will rise again in glory. 
 
 I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was 
 musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on 
 past scenes and early friends — on those who were distant and 
 those who were dead — and indulging in that kind of melan- 
 choly fancying, which has in it something sweeter even than 
 pleasure. Every now and then, the stroke of a bell from 
 the neighboring tower fell on my ear; its tones were in 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 9 
 
 ■unison with the scene, and, instead of jarring, chimed in with 
 my feehngs ; and it was some time before I recollected that it 
 must be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the tomb. 
 
 Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village 
 green ; it wound slowly along a lane ; was lost, and reappeared 
 through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place 
 where I was sitting. The pall was supported by young girls, 
 dressed in white; and another, about the age of seventeen, 
 walked before, bearing a chaplet of white flowers — a token that 
 the deceased was a young and unmanned female. The corpse 
 was followed by the parents. They were a venerable couple 
 of the better order of peasantry. The father seemed to repress 
 his feelings; but his fixed eye, contracted brow,- and deeply 
 furrowed face, showed the struggle that was passing within. 
 His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive 
 bursts of a mother's sorrow. 
 
 I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed 
 in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, with a pair 
 of white gloves, was hung over the seat which the deceased 
 had occupied. 
 
 Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral 
 service ; for who is so fortunate as never to have followed some 
 one he has loved to the tomb ? but when performed over the 
 remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the bloom 
 of existence — what can be more affecting ? At that simple, but 
 most solemn consignment of the body to the grave — " Earth to 
 earth — ashes to ashes — dust to dust !" — the tears of the youth- 
 ful companions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The 
 father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort 
 himself with the assurance, that the dead are blessed which die 
 in the Lord; but the mother only thought of her child as a 
 
10 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 flower of the field cut down and withered in the midst of its 
 sweetness; she was like Eachel, ''mourning over her children, 
 and would not be comforted." 
 
 On returning to the inn, I learned the whole story of the 
 deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been 
 told. She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Her 
 father had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in 
 circumstances. This w^as an only child, and brought up en- 
 tirely at home, in the simplicity of rural life. She had been 
 the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little 
 flock. The good man watched over her education with pater- 
 nal care ; it was limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she 
 was to move ; for he only sought to make her an ornament to 
 her station in life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness 
 and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption from all 
 ordinary occjipations, had fostered a natural grace and delicacy 
 of character, that accorded with the fragile loveliness of her 
 form. She appeared like some tender plant of the garden, 
 blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives of the fields. 
 
 The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged 
 by her companions, but without envy ; for it was surpassed by 
 the unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her man- 
 ners. It might be truly said of her : 
 
 " This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
 Ean on the green-sward ; nothing she does or seems, 
 But smacks of something greater than herself; 
 Too noble for this place." 
 
 The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still 
 retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural 
 festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint 
 observance of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 11 
 
 had been promoted by its present pastor, who was a lover of 
 old customs, and one of those simple Christians that think their 
 mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good- will 
 among mankind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from 
 year to year in the centre of the village green ; on May-day it 
 was decorated with garlands and streamers ; and a queen or 
 lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, to preside 
 at the sports, and distribute the prizes and rewards. The 
 picturesque situation of the village, and the fancifulness of its 
 rustic fetes, would often attract the notice of casual visitors. 
 Among these, on one May-day, was a young officer, whose 
 regiment had been recently quartered in the neighborhood. 
 He was charmed with the native taste that pervaded this 
 village pageant; but, above all, with the dawning loveliness 
 of the queen of May. It was the village favorite, who was 
 crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all the 
 beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The 
 artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to make her 
 acquaintance ; he gradually won his way into her intimacy ; 
 and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in which 
 young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. 
 
 There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He 
 never even talked of love: but there are modes of making 
 it more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely 
 and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone 
 of voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every 
 word, and look, and action — these form the true eloquence 
 of love, and can always be felt and understood, but never 
 described. Can we w^onder that they should readily win a 
 heart, young, guileless, and susceptible ? As to her, she loved 
 almost unconsciously; she scarcely inquired what was the 
 
12 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 growing passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, 
 or what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked not 
 to the future. When present, his looks and words occupied 
 her whole attention; when absent, she thought but of what 
 had passed at their recent interview. She would wander with 
 him through the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. 
 He taught her to see new beauties in nature ; he talked in the 
 language of polite and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear 
 the witcheries of romance and poetry. 
 
 Perhaps there could not have been a passion between the 
 sexes more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant figure 
 of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his military attire, 
 might at first have charmed her eye; but it was not these 
 that had captivated her heart. Her attachment had something 
 in it of idolatry. She looked up to him as to a being of a 
 superior order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm of a 
 mind naturally delicate and poetical, and now first awakened 
 to a keen perception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid 
 distinctions of rank and fortune she thought nothing ; it was 
 the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from those 
 of the rustic society to which she had been accustomed, that 
 elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him with 
 charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight, and her 
 cheek would mantle with enthusiasm ; or, if ever she ventured 
 a shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, 
 and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative 
 unworthiness. 
 
 Her lover was equally impassioned; but his passion was 
 mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the 
 connection in levity; for he had often heard his brother 
 officers boast of their village conquests, and thought some 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 13 
 
 trinmpli of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of 
 spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart had 
 not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a wander- 
 ing and a dissipated life ; it caught fire from the very flame it 
 sought to kindle ; and before he was aware of the nature of his 
 situation, he became really in love. 
 
 What was he to do? There were the old obstacles which 
 so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank 
 in life — the prejudices of titled connections — his dependence 
 upon a proud and unyielding father — all forbade him to think 
 of matrimony : — but when he looked down upon this innocent 
 being, so tender and confiding, there was a purity in her man- 
 ners, a blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching modesty in 
 her looks that awed down every licentious feeling. In vain did 
 he try to fortify himself by a thousand heartless examples 
 of men of fashion ; and to chill the glow of generous sentiment 
 with that cold derisive levity with which he had heard them 
 talk of female virtue : whenever he came into her presence, she 
 was still surrounded by that mysterious but impassive charm 
 of virgin purity in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought 
 can live. 
 
 The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to 
 the continent completed the confusion of his mind. He re- 
 mained for a short time in a state of the most painful irresolu- 
 tion ; he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until the day for 
 marching was at hand ; when he gave her the intelligence in the 
 course of an evening ramble. 
 
 The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It 
 broke in at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked upon 
 it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with the 
 guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom, and 
 
14 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 kissed the tears from her soft cheek ; nor did he meet with 
 a repulse, for there are moments of mingled sorrow and tender- 
 ness which hallow the caresses of affection. He was naturally 
 impetuous ; and the sight of beauty apparently yielding in his 
 arms, the confidence of his power over her, and the dread of 
 losing her forever, all conspired to overwhelm his better 
 feelings — he ventured to propose that she should leave her 
 home, and be the companion of his fortunes. 
 
 He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and faltered 
 at his own baseness ; but so innocent of mind was his intended 
 victim, that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his 
 meaning ; and why she should leave her native village, and the 
 humble roof of her parents. When at last the nature of his 
 proposal flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was withering. 
 She did not weep — she did not break forth into reproach — she 
 said not a word — but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper; 
 gave him a look of anguish that pierced to his very soul ; and, 
 clasping her hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's 
 cottage. 
 
 The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant. 
 It is uncertain what might have been the result of the conflict 
 of his feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the 
 bustle of departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new 
 companions, soon dissipated his self-reproach, and stifled his 
 tenderness ; yet, amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of 
 garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, his 
 thoughts would sometimes steal back to the scenes of rural 
 quiet and village simplicity — the white cottage — the footpath 
 along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the 
 little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm, and 
 listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious affection. 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 15 
 
 The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruc- 
 tion of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faintings 
 and hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were 
 succeeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had 
 beheld from her window the march of the departing troops. 
 She had seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in triumph, 
 amidst the sound of .drum and trumpet, and the pomp of arms. 
 She strained a last aching gaze after him, as the morning sun 
 glittered about his figure, and his plume waved in the breeze ; 
 he passed away like a bright vision from her sight, and left her 
 all in darkness. 
 
 It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after 
 story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She 
 avoided society, and wandered out alone in the walks she had 
 most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the stricken 
 deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood over the 
 barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would 
 be seen late of an evening sitting in the porch of the village 
 church; and the milkmaids, returning from the fields, would 
 now and then overhear her singing some plaintive ditty in the 
 hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her devotions at 
 church; and as the old people saw her approach, so wasted 
 away, yet with a hectic gloom, and that hallowed air which 
 melancholy diffuses round the form, they would make way for 
 her, as for something spiritual, and, looking after her, would 
 shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. 
 
 She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but 
 looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that 
 had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be 
 no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had 
 entertained resentment against her lover, it was extinguished. 
 
16 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 She was incapable of angry passions; and in a moment of 
 saddened tenderness, she penned him a farewell letter. It was 
 couched in the simplest language, but touching from its very 
 simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and did not 
 conceal from him that his conduct was the cause. She even 
 depicted the sufferings which she had experienced; but con- 
 cluded with saying, that she could not di.e in peace until she 
 had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing. 
 
 By degrees her strength so declined, that she could no longer 
 leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, 
 propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and 
 look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint, 
 nor imparted to any one the malady that was preying on 
 her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's name ; but 
 would lay her head on her mother's bosom and weep in silence. 
 Her poor parents hung in mute anxiety over this fading blos- 
 som of their hopes, still flattering themselves that it might again 
 revive to freshness, and that the bright unearthly bloom which 
 sometimes flushed her cheek might be the promise of returning 
 health. 
 
 In this way she was seated between them one Sunday after- 
 noon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown 
 open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it the fragrance 
 of the clustering honeysuckle which her own hands had trained 
 round the window. 
 
 Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible: 
 it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of 
 heaven : it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through 
 her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village church ; 
 the bell had tolled for the evening service ; the last villager was 
 lagging into the porch ; and every thing had sunk into that 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 17 
 
 hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were 
 gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, 
 which pass so roi^ghly over some faces, had given to hers the 
 expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue 
 eye. — Was she thinking of her faithless lover? — or were her 
 thoughts wandering to that distant churchyard, into whose 
 bosom she might soon be gathered? 
 
18 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman gal- 
 loped to the cottage — he dismounted before the window — 
 the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in 
 her chair: it was her repentant lover! He rushed into 
 the house, and flew to clasp her to his bosom; but her 
 wasted form — her deathlike countenance — so wan, jet so 
 lovely in its desolation, — smote him to the soul, and he 
 threw himself in agony at her feet. She was too faint to 
 rise — she attempted to extend her trembling hand — her lips 
 moved as if she spoke, but no word was articulated — she 
 looked down upon him with a smile of unutterable tender 
 ness, — and closed her eyes forever ! 
 
 Such are the particulars which I gathei'ed of this village 
 story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little 
 novelty to i-ecommend them. In the present rage also for 
 strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear 
 trite and insignificant, but they interested me strongly at the 
 time ; and, taken in connection with the affecting ceremony 
 which I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my 
 mind than many circumstances of a more striking nature- 
 I have passed through the j^lace since, and visited the church 
 again, from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a 
 wintry evening ; the trees were stripped of their foliage ; the 
 churchyard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled 
 coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been 
 planted about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers were 
 bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. 
 
 The church door was open, and I stepped in. There hung 
 the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the 
 funeral ; the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed 
 to have been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 19 
 
 I have seen many monuments, where art has exhausted its 
 powers to awaken the sympathy of the spectator, but I have 
 met with none that spoke more touchingly to my heart, than 
 this simple but delicate memento of departed innocence. 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
 Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd." 
 
 Marlowe's Tamburlaine, 
 
 HOSE who are in the habit of remarking 
 such matters, must have noticed the pas- 
 sive quiet of an English landscape on 
 Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the 
 regularly recurring stroke of the flail, the 
 din of the blacksmith's hammer, the whis- 
 tling of the ploughman, the rattling of 
 the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor, are suspended. 
 The very farm-dogs bark less frequently, being less disturbed 
 by passing travellers. At such times I have almost fancied the 
 
 21 
 
22 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny landscape, with its 
 fresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed 
 calm. 
 
 " Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright. 
 The bridal of the earth and sky." 
 
 Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day 
 of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, 
 has its moral influence ; every restless passion is charmed down, 
 and we feel the natural religion of the soul gently springing up 
 within us. For my part, there are feelings that visit me, in a 
 country church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I 
 experience nowhere else ; and, if not a more religious, I think 
 I am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the 
 seven. 
 
 During my recent residence in the country, I used frequently 
 to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles ; its 
 mouldering monuments ; its dark oaken panelling, all reverend 
 with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt 
 of solemn meditation : but being in a wealth}^, aristocratic neigh- 
 borhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into the sanctu- 
 ary ; and I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world 
 by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The 
 only being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly 
 to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a 
 poor, decrepit old w^oman, bending under the weight of years 
 and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than 
 abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible 
 in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, 
 was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been 
 awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village 
 poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to 
 
THE WIDOW AND HEK SON. 23 
 
 have survived all love, all friendship, all society ; and to have 
 nothing left her bnt the hopes of heaven. When I saw her 
 feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer ; habitually 
 conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing 
 eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently 
 knew by heart ; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that 
 poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the 
 clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. 
 
 I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was 
 so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It 
 stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful 
 bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft 
 meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by 3'ew-trees 
 which seemed almost coeval with itself Its tall Gothic spire 
 shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows gen- 
 erally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still, sunny 
 morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. 
 They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners 
 of the churchyard ; where, from the number of nameless graves 
 around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were 
 huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave 
 was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating 
 on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down 
 into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach 
 of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which 
 pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, 
 without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villa- 
 gers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. 
 There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe; 
 but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the 
 corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased — the poor old 
 
24 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She 
 was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to 
 comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the 
 train, and some children of the village were running hand in 
 hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to 
 gaze, with, childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 
 
 As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued 
 from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. . 25 
 
 in luinci, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was 
 a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and 
 the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, 
 in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved 
 but a few steps from the church door ; his voice could scarcely 
 be heard at the grave ; and nei^er did I hear the funeral service, 
 that sublime and touching ceremonj^, turned into such a frigid 
 mummery of words. 
 
 I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. 
 On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased — " George 
 Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to 
 kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, 
 as if in prayer ; but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the 
 body, and a convulsive motion of her lips, that she was gazing 
 on the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's 
 heart. 
 
 Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. 
 There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the 
 feelings of grief and affection ; directions given in the cold tones 
 of business ; the striking of spades into sand and gravel ; which, 
 at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the most wither- 
 ing. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a 
 wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about 
 with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to 
 lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke 
 into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her 
 took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, 
 and to whisper something like consolation : " Nay, now — nay, 
 now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake 
 her head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. 
 
 As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the 
 
26 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental ob- 
 struction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of 
 the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who 
 was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 
 
 I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — my 
 eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous pai't 
 in standing by, and gazing idly on this scene of maternal an- 
 guish. I wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I 
 remained until the funeral train had dispersed. 
 
 When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 
 grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to 
 her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart 
 ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ! 
 they have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to 
 divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the 
 young! Their growing minds soon close above the wound — 
 their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green 
 and ductile affections soon, twine round new objects. But the 
 sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe 
 — the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a win- 
 try da}^ and who can look for no after-growth of joy — the 
 sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an 
 only son, the last solace of her years ; these are indeed sorrows 
 which make us feel the impotency of consolation. 
 
 It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way 
 homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter : 
 she was just returning from accompanying the mother to her 
 lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars con- 
 nected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 
 
 The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from 
 childhood They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 27 
 
 by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small gar- 
 den, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and 
 led a happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who had 
 grownup to be the staff and pride of their age. — "Oh, sir!" said 
 the good woman, "he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, 
 so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents ! It 
 did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his 
 best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to 
 church — for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm 
 than on her good man's ; and, poor soul, she might well be proud 
 of him, for a finer lad there was not in the country round." 
 
 Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity 
 and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the 
 small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been 
 long in this employ when he was entrapped by a press-gang, 
 and carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of his 
 seizure, but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the 
 loss of their main prop. The father, who was already infirm, 
 grew heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The 
 widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer 
 support herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a 
 kind feeling toward her throughout the village, and a certain 
 respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one ap- 
 plied for the cottage, in which, she had passed so many happy 
 days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary 
 and almost helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly 
 supplied from the scanty productions of her little garden, which 
 the neighbors would now and then cultivate for her. It was 
 but a few days before the time at which these circumstances 
 were told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her 
 repast, when she heard the cottage door which faced the garden 
 
28 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be look- 
 ing eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's 
 clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one 
 broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened 
 toward her, but his steps were faint and faltering ; he sank on 
 his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman 
 gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye — "Oh, my 
 dear, dear mother ! don't you know jouv son ? your poor boy, 
 George?" It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad, who, 
 shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, 
 had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose 
 among the scenes of his childhood. 
 
 I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, 
 where joy and sorrow were so completely blended : still he was 
 alive ! he was come home ! he might jet live to comfort and 
 cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in him ; 
 and if any thing had been wanting to finish the work of fate, 
 the desolation of his native cottage would have been sufficient. 
 He stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother 
 had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it 
 again. 
 
 The villagers, when they heard that Greorge Somers had re- 
 turned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance 
 that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, 
 to talk — he could only look his thanks. His mother was his 
 constant attendant ; and lie seemed unwilling to be helped by 
 any other hand, 
 
 Tliere is something in sickness that breaks down the pride 
 of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the 
 feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced 
 life, in sickness and despondency ; who that has pined on a weary 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 29 
 
 bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land ; but has 
 thought on the mother "that looked on his childhood," that 
 smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? 
 Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to 
 her son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is 
 neither to be chilled bj selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor 
 weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will 
 sacrifice every comfort to his convenience ; she will surrender 
 every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and 
 exult in his prosperity : — and, if misfortune overtake him, he 
 will be the dearer to her from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle 
 upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in spite of his 
 disgrace ; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all 
 the world to him. 
 
 Poor Greorge Somers had known what it was to be in sick- 
 
2Q THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ness, and none to soothe— lonely and in prison, and none to 
 visit him. He could not endure his 'mother from his sight ; if 
 she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for 
 hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he 
 would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until 
 he saw her bending over him ; when he would take her hand, 
 lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep, with the tranquillity of a 
 child. In this way he died. 
 
 My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of affliction, was 
 to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniaiy 
 assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on in- 
 quiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them 
 to do every thing that the case admitted : and as the poor know 
 best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to 
 intrude. 
 
 The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to my 
 surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to 
 her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 
 
 She had made an effort to put on something like mourning 
 for her son; and nothing could be more touching than this 
 struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a black 
 ribbon or so — a faded black handkerchief, and one or two more 
 such humble attempts to express by outward signs that grief 
 which passes show. When I looked round upon the storied 
 monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with 
 which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and 
 turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow, at 
 the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises of 
 a pious though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument 
 of real grief was worth them all. 
 
 I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the 
 
THE WIDOW AND HEE SON. 
 
 31 
 
 congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted them- 
 selves to render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten 
 her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to 
 the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was 
 missed from her usual seat at church; and before I left the 
 neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she 
 had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those sne 
 loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends 
 are never parted. 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 I never heard 
 Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
 With care, that, hke the caterpillar, eats 
 The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 
 
 MlDDLETON. 
 
 T is a coramon practice with those who have outlived 
 the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been 
 brought up in the gay heartlessness of dissipa- 
 ted life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat 
 the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions 
 of novelists and poets. My observations on 
 human nature have induced me to think other- 
 wise. They liave convinced me, that however 
 the surface of the character may be chilled and frozen by the 
 cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts 
 of society, still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of 
 
 33 
 
34 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 the coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impet- 
 uous, and are sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I 
 am a true believer in the blind deit}^, and go to the full ex- 
 tent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it ? — I believe in broken 
 hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love. I 
 do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own 
 sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely 
 woman into an early grave. 
 
 Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature 
 leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love 
 is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in 
 the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for 
 space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. 
 But a woman's wdiole life is a history of the affections. The 
 heart is her world : it is there her ambition strives for empii-e ; 
 it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends 
 forth her sympathies on adventure ; she embarks her whole soul 
 in the traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is hope- 
 less — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 
 
 To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some 
 bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it blasts 
 some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being — he may 
 dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or 
 may plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of dis- 
 appointment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his 
 abode at will, and taking as it were the wings of the morning, 
 can "fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest."' 
 
 But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and medi- 
 tative life. She is more the companion of her owm thoughts 
 and feelings; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, 
 where shall she look fin* consolation ? Her lot is to be w^ooed 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 35 
 
 •and won; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some 
 fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and 
 left desolate. 
 
 How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks 
 grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, 
 and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness! As 
 the dove will clasp. its wings to its side, and cover and conceal 
 the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of 
 woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. 
 The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even 
 when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to. herself; but when 
 otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there 
 lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With 
 her the desire of the heart has failed. The great charm of 
 •existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises 
 which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide 
 of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is 
 broken — ^the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melan- 
 choly dreams — "dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her en- 
 feebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury. Look 
 for her, after a little while, and you find friendship weeping 
 over her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but late- 
 ly glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, should 
 so speedily be brought down to "darkness and the worm." 
 You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposi- 
 tion, that laid her low; — but no one knows of the mental 
 malady w^hich previously sapped her strength, and made her so 
 easy a prey to the spoiler. 
 
 She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the 
 grove; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the 
 worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, 
 "when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it droop- 
 
36 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ing its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until, 
 wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the 
 forest; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in 
 vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have 
 smitten it with decay. 
 
 I have seen many instances of women running to waste 
 and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, 
 almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have 
 repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death through the 
 various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, 
 melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disappoint- 
 ed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me; 
 the circumstances are well known in the country where they 
 happened, and I shall but give them in the manner in which 
 they were related. 
 
 Every one must recollect the tragical story of young "E , 
 
 the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. 
 During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, condemned, and 
 executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep im- 
 pression on public sympathy. He was so young — so intelli- 
 gent — so generous — so brave — so every thing that we are apt 
 to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so 
 lofty and inti-epid. The noble indignation with which he re- 
 pelled the charge of treason against his country — the eloquent 
 vindication of his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity, 
 in the hopeless hour of condemnation — all these entered deep- 
 ly into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented 
 the stern policy that dictated his execution, ' 
 
 But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossi- 
 ble to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had 
 won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the 
 daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 37 
 
 with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early love. 
 When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when 
 blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around 
 his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very suffer- 
 ings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of 
 his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose whole 
 soul was occupied by his image ? Let those tell who have had 
 the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and 
 the being they most loved on earth — who have sat at its 
 threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence 
 all that was most lovely and loving had departed. 
 
 But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so dis- 
 honored ! there was nothing for memory to dwell on that could 
 soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender though mel- 
 ancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene — nothing 
 to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the dews of 
 heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish. 
 
 To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had in- 
 curred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, 
 and was an exile from the paternal roof But could the sym- 
 pathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so 
 shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced 
 no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and 
 generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing atten- 
 tions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She 
 was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation 
 and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the 
 tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There are 
 some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul — 
 which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast it, 
 never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected 
 to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there 
 
38 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 as ill tlie depths of solitude ; walking about in a sad reverie, 
 apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried 
 with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments 
 of friendship, and '' heeded not the song of the charmer, charm 
 he never so wisely." 
 
 The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas- 
 querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness 
 moi-e striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To 
 find it wandering like a sjoectre, lonely and joyless, where all 
 around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, 
 and looking so wan and woebegone, as if it had tried in vain to 
 cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. 
 After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd 
 with an air. of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the 
 steps of an orchestra, and, looking about for some time with a 
 vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she 
 began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a 
 little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this 
 occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such 
 a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent 
 around her, and melted every one into tears. 
 
 The story of one so true and tender could not but excite 
 great interest in a countrv remarkable for enthusiasm. It com- 
 pletely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses 
 to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but 
 prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, 
 for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of 
 her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He so- 
 licited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by 
 her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute 
 and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 39 
 
 '%vAl?^ 
 
 of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her 
 hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was un- 
 alterably another's. 
 
 He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of 
 scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She 
 was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a 
 happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring 
 melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted 
 away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into 
 the grave, the victim of a broken heart. 
 
 It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, com- 
 posed the following lines : 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 
 
 And lovers around her are sighing ; 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 
 
 For her heart in his grave is lying. 
 
 She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 
 Every note which he loved awaking — 
 
 Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, 
 How the heart of the minstrel is breaking I 
 
 m 
 
 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 ! 
 
THE WIFE. 
 
 " The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
 As are the conceard comforts of a man 
 Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
 Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
 What a delicious breath marriage sends forth — 
 The violet bed's not sweeter." 
 
 MiDDLETON. 
 
 r HAVE often had occasion to remark tlie fortitude with which 
 X women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. 
 Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and 
 prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of 
 the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their 
 character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing 
 
 41 
 
42 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 can be more toucliing than to behold a soft and tender female 
 who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every 
 trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, 
 suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and support 
 of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking 
 firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity 
 
 As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about 
 the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the 
 hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its 
 caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs ; so is it 
 beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the 
 mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, 
 should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calam- 
 ity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, ten- 
 derly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken 
 heart. 
 
 I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a 
 blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. "I 
 can wish you no better lo^,'' said he, with enthusiasm, "than to 
 have a wife and children. If 3'ou are prosperous, there they are 
 to share your prosperity , if otherwise, there they are to comfort 
 you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man falling 
 into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world 
 than a single one ; partly because he is more stimulated to ex- 
 ertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who 
 depend upon him for subsistence : but chiefly because his spirits 
 are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self- 
 respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness 
 and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, 
 of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to 
 run to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and aban- 
 
THE WIFE. 43 
 
 doned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some deserted mansion, 
 for want of an inhabitant. 
 
 These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of 
 which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had 
 married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been 
 brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, 
 no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted 
 in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, 
 and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that 
 spread a kind of witchery about the sex. "Her life," said he, 
 " shall be like a fairy tale." 
 
 The very difference in their characters produced an harmo- 
 nious combination : he was of a romantic and somewhat serious 
 cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the 
 mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, 
 of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, 
 in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if 
 there alone she sought fiivor and acceptance. When leaning on 
 his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly 
 person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to 
 him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cher- 
 ishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very 
 helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery 
 path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of 
 felicity. 
 
 It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embark- 
 ed his property in large speculations ; and he had not been mar- 
 ried many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, 
 it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced almost 
 to penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and 
 went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. 
 
44 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 His life was but a protracted agony ; and what rendered it more 
 insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the 
 presence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to over- 
 whelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick 
 eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked 
 his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived 
 by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked 
 all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win hin? 
 back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper into 
 his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more tortur- 
 ing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. 
 A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that 
 cheek — the song will die away from those lips — the lustre of 
 those eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy heart, 
 which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down 
 like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. 
 
 At length he came to me one day, and related his whole sit- 
 uation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard him 
 through I inquired, "Does your wife know all this?'' At the 
 question he burst into an agony of tears. "For God's sake!" 
 cried he, " if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife ; 
 it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness !" 
 
 " And why not ?" said I. " She must know it sooner or later : 
 you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may 
 break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by 
 yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest 
 tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts 
 of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the 
 only bond that can keep hearts together — an unreserved com- 
 munity of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that 
 something is secretly preying upon your mind; and true love 
 
THE WIFE. 45 
 
 will not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and outraged^ when 
 even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." 
 
 "Oh, but, mj friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to 
 all her future prospects — how I am to strike her yerj soul to 
 the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! that she 
 is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of so- 
 ciety — to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! To 
 tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which 
 she might have continued to move in constant brightness — the 
 light of every eye — the admiration of every heart ! How can 
 she bear poverty? she has been brought up in all the refine- 
 ments of opulence. How can she bear neglect? she has been 
 the idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart — it will break 
 her heart !" 
 
 I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for 
 sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had sub- 
 sided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed 
 the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at 
 once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but posi- 
 tively. 
 
 "But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she 
 should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alter- 
 ation of your circumstances. You must change your style of 
 living i^ay," observing a pang to pass across his counte- 
 nance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never 
 placed your happiness in outward show — you have yet friends, 
 warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less 
 splendidly lodged ; and surely it does not require a palace to be 
 happy with Mary — " 
 
 "I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, "in a 
 hovel ! I could go down with her into poverty and the dust ! 
 
46 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 I could— I could— G-od bless her ! God bless her !" cried he, 
 bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. 
 
 "And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasp- 
 ing him warmly by the hand, " believe me she can be the same 
 with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph 
 to her — it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sym- 
 pathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves 
 you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark 
 of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of 
 prosperity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the 
 dark hour of adversity. No man knows wdiat the wife of his 
 bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is — until 
 he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." 
 
 There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and 
 the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited 
 imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; 
 and following up the impression I had made, I finished by per- 
 suading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife. 
 
 I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some 
 little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the forti- 
 tude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasures? 
 Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark downw^ard path of low 
 humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the 
 sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin 
 in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifica- 
 tions, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. In short, I could 
 not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. He haa 
 made the disclosure. 
 
 '• And how did she bear it?" 
 
 " Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to lier mind, 
 for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all 
 
THE WIFE. 47 
 
 that "had lately made me unhappy. But, poor girl," added he, 
 " she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no 
 idea of poverty but in the abstract ; she has only read of it in 
 poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation ; 
 she suffers no loss of accustomed couA^eniences nor elegancies. 
 When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its 
 paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." 
 
 "But," said I, "now that you have got over the severest task, 
 that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the 
 secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then 
 it is a single miser}^, and soon over, whereas you otherwise suffer 
 it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so 
 much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle 
 between a proud mind and an empty purse — the keeping up a 
 hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage 
 to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." 
 On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no 
 false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to 
 conform to their altered fortunes. 
 
 Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. He 
 had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small cottage 
 in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all 
 day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required 
 few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid 
 furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his 
 wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the 
 idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their loves; for 
 some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those 
 when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the 
 melting tones of her voice. I could not bat smile at this in- 
 stance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. 
 
48 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 He was now going out to the cottage, where Lis wife had 
 been all day superintending its arrangement. Mj feelings 
 had become strongly interested in the progress of this family 
 story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany 
 him. 
 
 He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he walk- 
 ed out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 
 
 " Poor Mar}^ !" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his 
 lips. 
 
 "And what of her?'' asked I : "has any thing happened to 
 her?" 
 
 "What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it nothing 
 to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a misera- 
 ble cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns 
 of her wretched habitation ?" 
 
 " Has she then repined at the change?'' 
 
 " Eepined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good 
 humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever 
 known her; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
 comfort !" 
 
 " Admirable girl !'' exclaimed I. " You call yourself poor^ 
 my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew the 
 boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that woman." 
 
 " Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were 
 over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first 
 day of real experience ; she has been introduced into a humble 
 dwelling — she has been employed all day in arranging its mis- 
 erable equipments — she has, for the first time, known the fa- 
 tigues of domestic employment — she has, for the first time, look- 
 ed round her on a home destitute of every thing elegant — 
 almost of every thing convenient; and may now be sitting 
 
THE WIFE. 
 
 49 
 
 down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of fu- 
 ture poverty." 
 
 There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could 
 not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 
 
 After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thick- 
 ly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclu- 
 sion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in 
 its appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a 
 pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a 
 profusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their branches gracefully 
 over it ; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully dis- 
 posed about the door, and on the grass-plot in front. A small 
 wicket gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some 
 
50 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the 
 sound of music — ^Leshe grasped my arm ; we paused and listen- 
 ed. It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of tlie most touching 
 simplicity, a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. 
 
 I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward 
 to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel 
 walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and 
 vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping 
 forth to meet us : she was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a 
 few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom 
 was on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — 
 I had never seen her look so lovely. 
 
 "My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are come! 
 I have been watching aud watching for you ; and running down 
 the lane, and looking out for 3^ou. I've set out a table under a 
 beautiful tree behind the cottage; and I've been gathering some 
 of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of 
 them — and we have such excellent cream — and every thing is 
 so sweet and still here — Oh!" said she, putting her arm within 
 his, and looking up brightly in his face, "Oh, we shall be so 
 happy!" 
 
 Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom — he 
 folded his arms around her — he kissed her again and again — ^he 
 could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has 
 often assured me, that though the world has since gone prosper- 
 ously with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet 
 never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity. 
 
 -J^ 
 
A ROYAL POET. 
 
 "Though your body be confined, 
 And soft love a prisoner bound, 
 Yet the beauty of your mind 
 
 Neither check nor chain hath found. 
 Look out nobly, then, and dare 
 Even the fetters that you wear." 
 
 Fletcher. 
 
 N a soft, sunny morning in the genial month of 
 May, I made an excursion to Windsor Castle. 
 It is a place full of storied and poetical associa- 
 tions. The very external aspect of the proud old 
 pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its 
 irregular walls and massive towers, like a mural 
 crown, round the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its 
 royal banner in the clouds, and looks down, with a 
 lordly air, upon the surrounding world. 
 
 53 
 
54 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous vernal 
 kind, which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's tem- 
 perament, filling his mind with music, and disposing him to 
 quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through the 
 magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle, 
 I passed with indifference by whole rows of portraits of warriors 
 and statesmen, but lingered in the chamber where hang the 
 likenesses of the beauties which graced the gay court of Charles 
 the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, depicted with amorous, 
 half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the 
 pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus enabled me to bask 
 in the reflected rays of beauty. In traversing also the " large 
 green courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, and 
 glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with 
 the image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and 
 his account of his loiterings about them in his stripling days, 
 when enamored of the Lady Greraldine — 
 
 ' With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
 With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 
 
 In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the ancient 
 Keep of the Castle, where James the First of Scotland, the pride 
 and theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for many years 
 of his youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large gray 
 tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good pres- 
 ervation. It stands on a mound, which elevates it above the 
 other parts of the castle, and a great flight of steps leads to the 
 interior. In the armory, a Gothic hall, furnished with weapons 
 of various kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging 
 against the wall, which had once belonged to James. Hence I 
 was conducted up a staircase to a suite of apartments of faded 
 
A EOYAL POET. 
 
 55 
 
 magnificeuce, liung with storied tapestry, whicli formed his 
 prison, and the scene of that passionate and fanciful amour, 
 which has woven into the web of his story the magical hues of 
 poetry and fiction. 
 
 The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince is 
 highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent from 
 home by his father, Kobert III., and destined for the French 
 court, to be reared under the eye of the French monarch, secure 
 from the treachery and danger that surrounded the royal house 
 of Scotland. It was his mishap in the course of his voyage to 
 fall into the hands of the English, and he was detained prisoner 
 by Henry lY., notwithstanding that a truce existed between the 
 two countries. 
 
 The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of many 
 
56 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy father. " The 
 news," we are told, " was brought to him while at supper, and 
 did so overwhelm him with grief, that he w^as almost ready to 
 o-ive up the ghost into the hands of the servant that attended 
 him. But being carried to his bed-chamber, he abstained from 
 all food, and in three days died of hunger and grief at Eothe- 
 say."^ 
 
 James was detained in captivity above eighteen years; but 
 though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the 
 respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all 
 the branches of useful knowledge cultivated at that period, and 
 to give him those mental and personal accomplishments deemed 
 proper for a prince. Perhaps, in this respect, his imprisonment 
 was an advantage, as it enabled hina to apply himself the more 
 exclusively to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich 
 fund of knowledge, and to cherish those elegant tastes, which 
 have given such a lustre to his memory. The picture drawn of 
 him in early life, by the Scottish historians, is highly captiva- 
 ting, and seems rather the description of a hero of romance, than 
 of a character in real history. He was well learnt, we are told, 
 '' to fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, to. wrestle, to sing 
 and dance ; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty in playing 
 both of lute and harp, and sundry other instruments of music, 
 and was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry." f 
 
 With this combination of manly and delicate accomplish- 
 ments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and 
 calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous existence, it 
 must have been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, 
 to pass the spring-time of his years in monotonous captivity. 
 
 * Buchanan. •)• Ballenden's Translation of Hector Boyce. 
 
A EOYAL POET. 57 
 
 It was the good fortune of James, however, to be gifted with a 
 powerful poetic fancy, and to be visited in his prison by the 
 choicest inspirations of the muse. Some minds corrode and 
 grow inactive, under the loss of personal liberty ; others grow 
 morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature of the poet to become 
 tender and imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. He 
 banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the 
 captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody : 
 
 " Have you not seen the nightingale, 
 A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
 How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
 In that her lonely hermitage ! 
 Even there her charming melody doth prove 
 That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove."* 
 
 Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is 
 irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is shut out, 
 it can create a world for itself, and, with a necromantic power, 
 can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, 
 to make solitude populous, and irradiate the gloom of the dun- 
 geon. Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived 
 round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived 
 the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider the 
 "King's Quair," composed by James, during his captivity at 
 Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings-forth of the 
 soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house. 
 
 The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane Beau- 
 fort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of the 
 blood royal of England, of whom he became enamored in the 
 course of his captivity. What gives it a peculiar value, is that 
 
 =»= Koger L' Estrange. 
 
58 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 it may be considered a transcript of tlie royal bard's true feel- 
 ings, and the story of liis real loves and fortunes. It is not 
 often that sovereigns write poetry, or that poets deal in fact. 
 It is o-ratifying to the pride of a common man, to find a mon- 
 arch thus suing, as it were, for admission into his closet, and 
 seeking to win his favor by administering to his pleasures. It 
 is a proof of the honest equality of intellectual competition, 
 which strips off all the trappings of factitious dignity, brings 
 the candidate down to a level with his fellow-men, and obliges 
 him to depend on his own native powers for distinction. It is 
 curious, too, to get at the history of a monarch's heart, and to 
 find the simple affections of human nature throbbing under the 
 ermine. But James had learnt to be a poet before he was a 
 king : he was schooled in adversity, and reared in the company 
 of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley 
 with their hearts, or to meditate their minds into poetry ; and 
 had James been brought up amidst the adulation and gayety 
 of a court, we should never, in all probability, have had such a 
 poem as the Quair. 
 
 I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem 
 which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation, 
 or which are connected with the apartment in the tower. They 
 have thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such 
 circumstantial truth, as to make the reader present with the 
 captive in his prison, and the companion of his meditations. 
 
 Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit, 
 and of the incident which first suggested the idea of writing the 
 poem. It was the still midwatch of a clear moonlight night ; 
 the stars, he says, were twinkling as fire in the high vault of 
 heaven: and "Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius." 
 He lay in bed wakeful and restless, and took a book to beguile 
 
A ROYAL POET. 59 
 
 the tedious hours. The book he chose was Boetius' Consola- 
 tions of Philosophy, a work popular among the writers of that 
 day, and which had been translated by his great prototype 
 Chaucer. From the high eulogium in which he indulges, it is 
 evident this was one of his favorite volumes while in prison : 
 and indeed it is an admirable text-book for meditation under 
 adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, puri- 
 fied by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in 
 calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and the trains of elo- 
 quent but simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear 
 up against the various ills of life. It is a talisman, which the 
 unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, or, like the good 
 King James, lay upon his nightly pillow. 
 
 After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in his 
 mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness 
 of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that 
 had overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he 
 hears the bell ringing to matins; but its sound, chiming in 
 with his melancholy fancies, seems to him like a voice exhort- 
 ing him to write his story. In the spirit of poetic errantry he 
 determines to comply with this intimation : he therefore takes 
 pen in hand, makes with it a sign of the cross to implore a ben- 
 ediction, and sallies forth into the fairy land of poetry. There 
 is something extremely fanciful in all this, and it is interesting 
 as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the simple 
 manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are sometimes 
 awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to the mind. 
 
 In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the pe- 
 culiar hardness of his fate ; thus doomed to lonely and inactive 
 life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world, 
 in which the meanest animal indulges unrestrained. There is 
 
60 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 a sweetness, however, in his very complaints; they are the 
 lamentations of an amiable and social spirit at being denied the 
 indulgence of its kind and generous propensities ; there is noth- 
 ing in them harsh nor exaggerated ; they flow with a natural 
 and touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered more touching 
 by their simple brevity. They contrast finely with those elabo- 
 rate and iterated repinings, which we sometimes meet with in 
 poetry — the effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries 
 of their own creating, and venting their bitterness upon an un- 
 offending world. James speaks of his privations with acute 
 sensibility; but, having mentioned them, passes on, as if his 
 manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. 
 When such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, however brief, 
 we are aware how great must be the suffering that extorts the 
 murmur. We sympathize with James, a romantic, active, and 
 accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of youth from all 
 the enterprise, the noble uses, and vigorous delights of life ; as 
 we do'with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature and glories 
 of art, when he breathes forth brief but deep-toned lamentations 
 over his perpetual blindness. 
 
 Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we 
 might almost have susj)ected that these lowerings of gloomy 
 reflection w^ere meant as ^preparative to the brightest scene of 
 his story; and to contrast with that refulgence of light and 
 loveliness, that exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song, 
 and foliage and flower, and all the revel of the year, with which 
 he ushers in the lady of his heart. It is this scene, in particu- 
 lar, which throws all the magic of romance about the old Castle 
 Keep. He had risen, he says, at daybreak, according to cus- 
 tom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow. 
 
 "Bewailing in his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy 
 17 
 
A ROYAL POET. 61 
 
 and remedy, "fortired of tliouglit and wobegone," lie liad wan- 
 dered to the window, to indulge the captive's miserable solace 
 of gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is excluded. 
 The window looked forth upon a small garden which lay at the 
 foot of the tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned with 
 arbors and green alleys, and protected from the passing gaze by 
 trees and hawthorn hedges : 
 
 Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall, 
 
 A garden faire, and in the corners set 
 An arbour green witli wandis long and small 
 
 Railed about, and so with leaves beset 
 Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 
 
 That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye 
 
 That might within scarce any wight espye. 
 
 So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
 
 Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 
 And midst of every arbour might be sene 
 
 The sharpe, grene, swete juniper. 
 Growing so fair, with branches here and there, 
 
 That as it seemed to a ly'f without, 
 
 The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 
 
 And on the small grene twistisf set 
 
 The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 
 So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 
 
 Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among. 
 That all the garden and the wallis rung 
 Right of their song 
 
 It was the month of May, when every thing was in bloom ; 
 and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the language 
 of his enamored feeling : 
 
 Worship, all ye that lovers be, this Ma}^, 
 
 For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 
 And sing with us, away, winter, away. 
 
 Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 
 
 * Lyf^ person. \ Tivistis, small boughs or twigs. 
 
 Note. — The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 
 
52 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the birds, 
 he gradnally relapses into one of those tender and undefinable 
 reveries, which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious season. 
 He wonders what this love may be, of which he has so often 
 read, and which thus seems breathed forth in the quickening 
 breath of May, and melting all nature into ecstasy and song. 
 If it really be so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus gener- 
 ally dispensed to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone 
 cut off from its enjoyments? 
 
 Ofc would I think, Lord, what may this be, 
 
 That love is of such noble myght and kynde ? 
 
 Loving his folke, and such prosperitee 
 Is it of him, as we in books do find : 
 May he oure hertes setten* and unbynd: 
 
 Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye ? 
 
 Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? 
 
 For giflf he be of so grete excellence, 
 
 That he of every wight hath care and charge, 
 
 What have I gilt f to him, or done offense, 
 
 That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large ? 
 
 In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, he 
 beholds " the fairest and the freshest young floure" that ever he 
 had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden to 
 enjoy the beauty of that "fresh May morrowe." Breaking thus 
 suddenly upon his sight, in the moment of loneliness and excited 
 susceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the romantic 
 prince, and becomes the object of his wandering wishes, the sov- 
 ^ereign of his ideal world. 
 
 There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance to 
 the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale ; where Palamon and 
 Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the 
 
 * Sdten, incline. f Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. 
 
A ROYAL POET. 
 
 63 
 
 garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual 
 fact to the incident which he had read in Chaucer may have 
 induced James to dwell on it in his poem. His description of 
 the Lady Jane is given in the picturesque and minute manner 
 of his master; and, being doubtless taken from the life, is a 
 perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He dw.ells, with the 
 fondness of a lover, on every article of her apparel, from the net 
 of pearl, splendent with emeralds and sapphires, that confined 
 her golden hair, even to the " goodly chaine of small orfeverye"* 
 
 Wrought gold- 
 
64 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, 
 that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire burning upon her white 
 bosom. Her dress of white tissue was looped up to enable her 
 to walk with more freedom. She was accompanied by two fe- 
 male attendants, and about her sported a little hound decorated 
 with bells ; probably the small Italian hound of exquisite sym- 
 metry, which was a parlor favorite and pet among the fashion- 
 able dames of ancient times. James closes his description by a 
 burst of general eulogium : 
 
 In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 
 
 Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature ; 
 God better knows then my pen can report, 
 
 Wisdom, largesse,* estatc,f and cunning:}: sure. 
 In every point so guided her measure. 
 
 In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 
 
 That nature might no more her child advance. 
 
 The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end to 
 this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amorous 
 illusion that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his 
 captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold 
 more intolerable by this passing beam of unattainable beaut}'. 
 Through the long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, 
 and when evening approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully 
 expresses it, had "bade farewell to every leaf and flower," he 
 still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon the cold 
 stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until, 
 gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of the twilight hour, 
 he lapses, "half sleeping, half swoon," into a vision, which oc- 
 cupies the remainder of the poem, and in which is allegoricall}^ 
 shadowed out the historj^ of his passion. 
 
 * Largesse, bounty. f Estate, dignity. % Gunning, discretion. 
 
A EOYAL POET. 
 
 65 
 
 ^^; 
 
 When lie wakes from liis trance, he rises from his stony pih 
 low, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflections, ques- 
 tions his spirit, whither it has been wandering ; whether, indeed, 
 all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has been conjured 
 up by preceding circumstances ; or whether it is a vision, in- 
 tended to comfort and assure him in his despondency. If the 
 latter, he prays that some token may be sent to confirm the 
 promise of happier days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, 
 a turtle dove, of the purest whiteness, comes flying in at the 
 window, and alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch 
 of red gilliflower, on the leaves of which is written, in letters of 
 gold, the following sentence : 
 
66 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 
 
 The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 
 
 Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and plaj-, and sing, 
 For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 
 
 He receives the branch Avith mingled hope and dread ; reads 
 it with rapture : and this, he says, was the first token of his suc- 
 ceeding happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, or 
 whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of her 
 favor in this romantic way, remains to be determined according 
 to the faith or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem, by 
 intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision and by the 
 flower is fulfilled,, by his being restored to liberty, and made 
 happy in the possession of the sovereign of his heart. 
 
 Such is the poetical account given by James of his love- 
 adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute 
 fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to 
 conjecture : let us not, however, reject every romantic incident 
 as incompatible with real life ; but let us sometimes take a poet 
 at his" word. I have noticed merely those parts of the poem 
 immediately connected with the tower, and have passed over a 
 large part, written in the allegorical vein, so mnch cultivated at 
 that day. The language, of course, is quaint and antiquated, 
 so that the beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely 
 be perceived at the j)resent day ; but it is impossible not to be 
 charmed with the genuine sentiment, the delightful artlessness 
 and urbanity, which prevail throughout it. The descriptions of 
 nature too, with which it is embellished, are given with a truth, 
 a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most cultivated 
 periods of the art. 
 
 As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in these days of coarser 
 thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite delicacy 
 which pervade it ; banishing every gross thought or immodest 
 
A EOYAL POET. 0/ 
 
 expression, and presenting female loveliness, clothed in all its 
 chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace. 
 
 James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, 
 and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. In- 
 deed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his masters : 
 and, in some parts of his poem, we find traces of similarity to 
 their productions, more especially to those of Chancer. There 
 are always, however, general features of resemblance in the 
 works of contemporary authors, which are not so much bor- 
 rowed from each other as from the times. Writers, like bees, 
 toll their sweets in the wide world ; they incorporate with their 
 own conceptions the anecdotes and thoughts current in society ; 
 and thus each generation has some features in common, charac- 
 teristic of the age in which it lived. 
 
 James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our literary 
 history, and establishes the claims of his country to a particijDa- 
 tion in its primitive honors. Whilst a small cluster of English 
 writers are constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name 
 of their great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in si- 
 lence ; but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little 
 constellation of remote but never-failing luminaries, who shine 
 in the highest firmament of literature, and who, like morning- 
 stars, sang together at the bright dawning of British poesy. 
 
 Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish his- 
 tory (though the manner in which it has of late been woven with 
 captivating fiction has made it a universal study), may be curi- 
 ous to learn something of the subsequent history of James, and 
 the fortunes of his love. , His passion for the Lady Jane, as it 
 was the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release, it 
 being imagined by the court that a connection with the blood 
 royal of England would attach him to its own interests. He was 
 
58 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ultimately restored to liis liberty and crown, having previously 
 espoused the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and 
 made him a most tender and devoted wife. 
 
 He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chief- 
 tains having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities 
 of a long interregnum to strengthen themselves in their pos- 
 sessions, and place themselves above the power of the laws. 
 James sought to found the basis of his power in the affections 
 of his people. He attached the lower orders to him by the 
 reformation of abuses, the temperate and equable administration 
 of justice, the encouragement of the arts of peace, and the pro- 
 motion of every thing that could diffuse comfort, competency, 
 and innocent enjoyment through the humblest ranks of society. 
 He mingled occasionally among the common people in disguise ; 
 visited their firesides ; entered into their cares, their pursuits, 
 and their amusements ; informed himself of the mechanical arts, 
 and how they could best be patronized and improved ; and was 
 thus an all-pervading spirit, watching with a benevolent eye 
 over the meanest of his subjects. Having in this generous 
 manner made himself strong in the hearts of the common peo- 
 ple, he turned himself to curb the power of the factious nobility ; 
 to strip them of those dangerous immunities which the}" had 
 usurped ; to punish such as had been guilty of flagrant offences ; 
 and to bring the whole into proper obedience to the crown. 
 For some time they bore this with outward submission, but 
 with secret impatience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy 
 was at length formed against his life, at the head of which was 
 his own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too 
 old himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, instigated 
 his grandson, Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Gra- 
 ham, and others of less note, to commit the deed. They broke 
 
A ROYAL POET. 69 
 
 into his bedchamber, at the Dominican Convent, near Perth, 
 where he was residing, and barbarously murdered him by oft- 
 repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to throw her 
 tender body between him and the sword, was twice wounded in 
 the ineffectual attempt to shield him from the assassin ; and it 
 was not until she had been forcibly torn from his person, that 
 the murder was accomplished. 
 
 It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, 
 and of the golden little poem which had its birthplace in this 
 Tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than common 
 interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, richly gilt 
 and embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the 
 image of the gallant and romantic prince vividly before my 
 imagination. I paced the deserted chambers where he had 
 composed his poem ; I leaned upon the window, and endeav- 
 ored to persuade myself it was the very one where he had been 
 visited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot where he had 
 first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joyous 
 month ; the birds were again vying with each other in strains 
 of liquid melody ; every thing was bursting into vegetation, and 
 budding forth the tender promise of the year. Time, which 
 delights to obliterate the sterner memorials of human j^ride, 
 seems to have passed lightly over this little scene of poetry and 
 love, and to have withheld his desolating hand. Several centu- 
 ries have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot of 
 the Tower. It occupies what was once the rnoat of the Keep ; 
 and though some parts have been separated by dividing walls, 
 yet others have still their arbors and shaded walks, as in the 
 days of James, and the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. 
 There is a charm about a spot that has been printed by the foot- 
 steps of departed beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations 
 
70 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 of the poet, wliicli is lieiglitened, rather than impaired, by the 
 lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry to hallow every 
 place in which it moves; to breathe around nature an odor 
 more exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over 
 it a tint more magical than the blush of morning. 
 
 Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a war- 
 rior and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him merely 
 as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human 
 heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet flowers of 
 poetry and song in the paths of common life. He was the first 
 to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, 
 which has since become so prolific of the most wholesome and 
 highly-flavored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner 
 regions of the north all the fertilizing arts of southern refine- 
 ment. He did every thing in his power to win his countrymen 
 to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts, which soften and refine 
 the character of a people, and wreathe a grace round the lofti- 
 ness of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, 
 which, unfortunately for the fulness of his fame, are now lost to 
 the world ; one, which is still preserved, called " Christ's Kirk 
 of the Green," shows how diligently he had made himself ac- 
 quainted with the rustic sports and pastimes which constitute 
 such a source of kind and social feeling among the Scottish 
 peasantry ; and with what simple and happy humor he could 
 enter into their enjoyments. He contributed greatly to improve 
 the national music ; and traces of his tender sentiment, and 
 elegant taste, are said to exist in those witching airs, still piped 
 among the wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He 
 has thus connected his image witli whatever is most gracious 
 and endearing in the national character ; he has embalmed his 
 memory in song, and floated his name to after-ages in the rich 
 
A ROYAL POET. 
 
 71 
 
 streams of Scottish melody. The recollection of these things 
 was kindling at my heart as I paced the silent scene of his im- 
 prisonment. I have visited Yauclnse with as much enthusiasm 
 as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto ; but I have never 
 felt more poetical devotion than when contemplating the old 
 Tower and the little garden at Windsor, and musing over the 
 romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Koyal Poet of Scot- 
 land 
 
THE COUNTEY CHURCH 
 
 " A gentleman ! 
 "What, o' the woolpack ? or the sugar-chest ? 
 Or Usts of velvet ? which is't, pound or yard, 
 You vend your gentry by?" 
 
 Beggar's Bush. 
 
 HERE are few places more favorable to the study 
 of cliaracter than an English country church. I 
 was once passing a few weeks at the seat of a 
 friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, the ap- 
 pearance of which particularly struck my fancy. It was one of 
 
 73 
 
74 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 tliose rich morsels of quaint antiquity which give such a pecu- 
 liar charm to English landscape. It stood in the midst of a 
 country filled with ancient families, and contained, within its 
 cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble gen- 
 erations. The interior walls were incrustecl with monuments 
 of every age and style. The light streamed through windows 
 dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in stained 
 glass. In various parts of the church were tombs of knights 
 and high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their effi- 
 gies in colored marble. On every side the eye was struck with 
 some instance of aspiring mortality; some haughty memorial 
 which human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this 
 temple of the most humble of all religions. 
 
 The congregation was composed of the neighboring people of 
 rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and cushioned, fur- 
 nished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with their 
 anus upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, who 
 filled the back-seats, and a small gallery beside the organ ; and of 
 the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. 
 
 The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, who 
 had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged 
 guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had been the 
 keenest fox-hunter in the country ; until age and good living 
 had disabled him from doing any thing more than ride to see 
 the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner. 
 
 Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossible to 
 get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place ; so, 
 having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my 
 conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another 
 person's threshold, I occupied myself by making observations 
 on my neighbors. 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 75 
 
 I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice the 
 manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that there 
 was the least pretension where there was the most acknowledged 
 title to respect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with the 
 family of a nobleman of high rank, consisting of several sons 
 and daughters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming 
 than their appearance. They generally came to church in the 
 plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would 
 stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, 
 caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble cot- 
 tagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, with 
 an expression of high refinement, but, at the same time, a frank 
 cheerfulness and an engaging affability. Their brothers were 
 tall, and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but 
 simply; with strict neatness and propriety, but withotit any 
 mannerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy 
 and natural, with that lofty grace and noble frankness which 
 bespeak freeborn souls that have never been checked in their 
 growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness 
 about real dignity, that never dreads contact and communion 
 with others, however humble. It is only spurious pride that is 
 morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was 
 pleased to see the manner in which they would converse with 
 the peasantry about those rural concerns and field-sports, in 
 which the gentlemen of this country so much delight. In these 
 conversations there was neither haughtiness on the one part, 
 nor servility on the other ; and you were only reminded of the 
 difference of rank by the habitual respect of the peasant. 
 
 In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, who 
 had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having purchased the estate 
 and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighborhood, was 
 
fjQ THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 endeavoring to assume all tlie style and dignity of an hereditary 
 lord of the soil. The family always came to church en prince. 
 They were rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned 
 with arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance from every 
 part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A 
 fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen 
 wio-, curling close round his rosy face, was seated on the box, 
 with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen, in gorgeous 
 liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled be- 
 hind. The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with 
 peculiar stateliness of motion. The very horses champed their 
 bits, arched their necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly 
 than common horses ; either because they had caught a little 
 of the family feeling, or were reined up more tightly than or- 
 dinary. 
 
 I could not but admire the style with which this splendid 
 pageant was brought up to the gate of the church-yard. There 
 was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall 
 — a great smacking of the whip, straining and scrambling of 
 horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through 
 gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vain-glory to the 
 coachman. The horses were urged and checked until they were 
 fretted into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing 
 trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of vil- 
 lagers sauntering quietly to church, opened precipitately to the 
 right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the 
 gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that produced 
 an immediate stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. 
 
 There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to alight, 
 pull down the steps, and prepare every thing for the descent on 
 earth of this august family. The old citizen first emerged his 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 77 
 
 round, red face from out the door, looking about him with the 
 pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on 'Change, and shake 
 the Stock Market with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, com- 
 fortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I must confess, 
 but little pride in her composition. She was the joicture of 
 broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with 
 her; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine 
 house, a fine carriage, fine children, every thing was fine about 
 her : it was nothing but driving about, and visiting and feast- 
 ing. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one long Lord 
 Mayor's day. 
 
 Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They cer- 
 tainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air, that chilled 
 admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. They 
 
73 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 were ultra-fasliionable in dress ; and, though no one could deny 
 the richness of their decorations, yet their appropriateness might 
 be questioned amidst the simplicity of a country church. They 
 descended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line of 
 peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. 
 They cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over 
 the burly faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the 
 nobleman's family, when their countenances immediately bright- 
 ened into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant 
 courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed they 
 were but slight acquaintances. 
 
 I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, w^ho 
 came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They 
 were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedan- 
 try of dress which marks the man of questionable pretensions 
 to style. They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing every one 
 askance that came near them, as if measuring his claims to 
 respectability ; yet they were without conversation, except the 
 exchange of an occasional cant phrase. They even moved arti- 
 ficially ; for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the 
 day, had been disciplined into the absence of all ease and free- 
 dom. Art had done every thing to accomplish them as men 
 of fashion, but nature had denied them the nameless grace. 
 They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the common 
 purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious assumption 
 which is never seen in the true gentleman. 
 
 I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these 
 two families, because I considered them specimens of what is 
 often to be met with in this country — ^the unpretending great, 
 and the arrogant little. I have no respect for titled rank, unless 
 it be accompanied with true nobility of soul ; but I have re- 
 
THE COUI^TRr CHURCH. 79 
 
 marked in all countries where artificial distinctions exist, that 
 the very highest classes are always the most courteous and 
 unassuming. Those who are well assured of their own standing 
 are least apt to trespass on that of others ; whereas nothing is so 
 offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate 
 itself by humiliating its neighbor. 
 
 As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice 
 their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's family was 
 quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared to have 
 any fervor of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred things, 
 and sacred places, inseparable from good breeding. The others, 
 on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and whisper; they 
 betrayed a continual consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambi- 
 tion of being the wonders of a rural congregation. 
 
 The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the 
 service. He took the whole burden of family devotion upon 
 himself, standing bolt upright, and uttering the responses with 
 a loud voice that might be heard all over the church. It was 
 evident that he was one of those thorough church and king men 
 who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty ; who consider the 
 Deity, somehow or other, of the government party, and religion 
 " a very excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced 
 and kept up." 
 
 When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more by 
 way of example to the lower orders, to show them that, though 
 so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious; as I 
 have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of 
 charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pro- 
 nouncing it " excellent food for the poor." 
 
 When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the 
 several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their 
 
80 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home across the 
 fields, chatting with the country people as they went. The 
 others departed as they came, in grand parade. Again were 
 the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the 
 smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the glittering 
 of harness. The horses started off almost at a bound ; the vil- 
 lagers again hurried to right and left ; the wheels threw up a 
 cloud of dust ; and the aspiring family was rapt out of sight in 
 a whirlwind. 
 

 
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