■Mk *W 1 BEING'S SKETCH BOOK CHALMERS Class "PS ZOtng EDITED BY JAMES CHALMERS, Ph. D., LL. D. PRESIDENT, STATE NORMAL SCHOOL PLATTEVILLE, WISCONSIN "Washington Irving! Why, gentlemen, I don't go upstairs to bed two nights out of the seven without taking Washington Irving under my arm." — Charles Dickens. " I have glanced over the Sketch Book. It is positively beautiful." — Sir Walter Scott. SILVER, BURDETT & COMPANY Boston NEW YORK Chicago 1896 C^ 1 • COPYRIGHT, 1896, bt Silver, Burdett & Company. EDITOR'S PREFACE. An experience of many years covering the entire range of teaching, from the one-room country school through the different grades of village, city and normal schools, the college and the university, has convinced me — and that conviction has deepened and strengthened with the experi- ences and observations of each succeeding year — that the greatest educational service to the human race consists in the teaching of reading. He who has learned to read is already well educated. He who has not learned to read, though he have passed all the tests of the universities, has not even the elements of a liberal education. It has come to be one of the best established facts of psychological knowledge that reading more powerfully affects, directs and controls human thinking than does any other human experience or influence. He who daily reads his Plato, his IJew Testament, his Matthew Arnold, his Emerson, and comes to require daily an hour's thinking- together with such minds as these, as regularly as he requires his daily bread, will, in the course of years, become so illumined with the spirit of sweetness and light, so warmed with the intensity of thought-heat, and so exalted with a divine spirituality, that he will find himself, at times, on iv Editor's Preface. the very mount of transfiguration, walking and talking with God and seeing him face to face. There is no literature more thoroughly permeated with this spirit of sweetness and light, hopefulness and faith, than is our own American literature. It is a literature of optimism and of transcendentalism. It has faith in Divine Providence, faith in humanity, faith in the great law of compensation, without which faith it is impossible for any man to work up to his highest capacity. A more healthy, manly literature has never been produced. At the same time it is comparatively free from the subtleties and obscurities of some of the best English and continental writers of the optimistic, transcendental school. It is there- fore better adapted to the intellectual and spiritual needs of the average American reader, and especially of Ameri- can youth, than is any other literature. One of the highest literary services which teachers and parents can perform for American youth is to inculcate a just appreciation of American authors and of American literature — I had almost said the highest literary service, but there is at least one higher : the book of highest liter- ary value to the English-speaking race is the English Bible. The highest literary service which parents and teachers can perform for the youth is to teach them the English Bible. There is much popular misconception regarding the beauties of the Bible, and its attractiveness and interest as a subject of study. Many who read and study the best of Editors Prefaoe. v other works of literature as a pleasure, read and study the books of the Bible as a duty simply. This is wrong. All good literature is to be enjoyed. The Bible is an abun- dant storehouse of the richest literature. It is the most priceless literary heritage of our race. It should be en- joyed. Is it something having the form of fiction that is wanted? The beautiful story of Ruth or the exciting re- cital of Esther will furnish as interesting and captivating a tale as Romola, or Kenilworth, or The Marble Faun. Is it poetry? The lyrics of David surpass in sweetness and beauty, in poetic fragrance and spiritual inspiration, the finest lyrics of Tennyson. Is it an essay? Not even Addi- son, the prince of English essayists, surpasses in his most exquisite papers the literary finish and strength and beauty of the Epistle to the Hebrews — an essay which, as a piece of writing, is hard to beat in any literature. Is it a drama? The Book of Job is a nobler one than Hamlet, and presents a deeper psychological study and a more awful soul-strug- gle. Is it a great epic? The magnificence and the sub- limity of Milton's Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained cannot compare with the majestic magnificence and the sublimer sublimity of Isaiah's Great Prophecy of Israel's Restoration. And so in every department of literature the Bible con- tains the best examples of the highest merit. We find nothing else that can compare with it as a work of litera- ture, and nothing else that has had such a profound and far-reaching influence upon English thought, upon the vi Editor's Preface. English language and upon English literature — not even Chaucer — not even Shakespeare. But, next to the study of the Bible, I know of nothing more healthful and invigorating for our American youth than an appreciative study of Irving and Hawthorne, Bry- ant and Whittier, Holmes and Longfellow, Lowell and Emerson. And, just as among Englishmen Sir Walter Scott wrote the best prose-fiction for boys and girls, so among Americans Washington Irving has done this same service best. Every American boy and girl, in and out of school, should read Irving. And so should the older boys and girls. Although this volume is prepared especially for school use, it will be found to be equally well adapted to the needs of the general reader. It is taken for granted that pupils and readers will have ready access to the usual books of reference, such as the standard dictionaries, en- cylopaedias, histories and biographies. The ability to use such books of reference repeatedly and with the minimum loss of time is one of the chief evidences of scholarly equipment. James Chalmers. State Normal School, Platteville, Wis., January, 1896. CONTENTS. PAGK. Appreciations . . ix Selected Critical and Biographical References . xii In the Churchyard at Tarrytown, a Sonnet . . xiii Facsimile MS. Page of the Sketch Book . . . xiv Washington Irving. — After a Sketch from Life . xv Advertisement to the First American Edition . . 1 Advertisement to the First English Edition . . 2 Preface to the Revised Edition 3 The Author's Account of Himself 9 The Voyage 12 Roscoe 19 The Wife 26 Rip Van Winkle 34 English Writers on America 53 ^Rural Life in England 63 The Broken Heart 70 The Art of Book-Making 76 A Royal Poet 83 The Country Church 97 —The Widow and Her Son 103 A Sunday in London Ill ^.The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap .... 113 The Mutability of Literature 125 -*"*-Rural Funerals 136 _- The Inn Kitchen 148 -:The Spectre Bridegroom 151 ^Westminster Abbey 167 —'Christmas 179 vii viii Contents. PAGE. The Stage Coach 185 Christmas Eve 192 Christmas Day 204 The Christmas Dinner 218 London Antiques 233 Little Britain 239 Stratford-on-Avon 254 Traits of Indian Character 273 Philip of Pokanoket 285 John Bull 302 The Pride of the Tillage 314 The Angler 323 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 332 L'Envoy 365 Appendix 368 Notes 372 APPRECIATIONS. " Every reader has his first book. I mean to say, one book among all others, which in early youth first fascinates his im- agination, and at once excites and satisfies the desires of his mind. To me this first book was the Sketch-Book of Washing- ton Irving. I was a school-boy when it was published, and read each succeeding number with ever-increasing wonder and de- light; spell-bound by its pleasant humor, its melancholy tender- ness, its atmosphere of reverie, nay, even by its gray-brown covers, the shaded letters of the titles, and the fair, clear type, which seemed an outward symbol of the style. " How many delightful books the same author has given us, written before and since — volumes of history and fiction, most of which illustrate his native land, and some of which illumine it, and make the Hudson, I will not say as classic, but as romantic as the Rhine! Yet still the charm of the Sketch-Book remains unbroken; the old fascination still lingers about it; and when- ever I open its pages, I open also that mysterious door which leads back into the haunted chambers of youth." — Heniiy W. Longfellow, Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Bee. 15, 1S59. "Others will speak of his literary fame — of his style — as graceful and delicate as that of Charles jSTodier — and of the chords of ever-sensitive feeling he has touched — which cause the Sketch-Book to be more widely read, in its original tongue, than any book in our language except the Vicar of Wakefield. I would fain, if present, speak of his genial and constant friend- ship—of his faith in man — arid of his readiness to find good in everything." — George Sumner, Letter of Bee. 15, 1859. "He wrote with such a charm and grace of expression, that the mere fascination of his style would often prove powerful x Appreciations. enough to keep the reader intent upon his pages, when the sub- jcet itself might not happen to interest him. His humor was of a peculiar quality, always delicate in character, and yet enriched with a certain quaint poetic coloring, which added greatly to its effect. His graver writings have no less beauty, and several of them prove that, as is often the case with men who possess a large share of humor, he was no less a master in the pathetic, and knew how to touch the heart." — New York Evening Post, Nov. 29, 1859. " But how much real poetry and how much real pathos has he not written! We do not believe that there was ever such a description of the song of a bird, as his description of the soar- ing of a lark in Buckthorn; and the poor old widow in the Sketch- Book, who, the first Sunday after her son's burial, comes to church with a few bits of black silk and ribbon about her, the only external emblem of mourning which her poverty allowed her to make, is a picture that we can never look at through his simple and graphic periods without sobbing like a child. Poet he is, and that too of the best and noblest kind, for he stores our memories with lovely images and our hearts with human affec- tions. If you would learn to be kinder and truer, if you would learn to bear life's burden manfully, and make for yourself sun- shine where half your fellow-men see nothing but shadow and gloom, read and meditate Goldsmith and Irving." — George Washington Greene, Biographical Studies. " He was the one man whom the whole country loved. There has been no character since Washington so symmetrical, and no career more rounded and complete. With Irving, the man and the author were one. The same twinkling humor, untouched by personal venom; the same sweetness, geniality, and grace; the same transparency and childlike simplicity, which endeared the writer to his readers, endeared the man to his friends. Gifted with a happy temperament, with that cheerful balance of thought and feeling which begets the sympathy which prevents bitter animosity, he lived through the sharpest struggles of our politics, not without interest, but without bitterness, and with the ten- derest respect of every party." — George William Curtis, Harper's Weekly, Dec. 17, 1S59. Appreciations. xi " If to convey the peculiar grace that his presence inspired, be beyond the power of description, yet its influence upon others is less difficult to represent. In his household, affection seemed to pervade the very atmosphere. The kindliest, the tenderest language, to each and to all; the joyous welcome that awaited a distant relative visiting Sunnyside; the quiet, but constant care manifested for stranger guests; the happy, tranquil face of an elder brother; the cheerful, ' pleased alacrity' of the servants; all seemed the very reflex of such a man: — so good, so true, so modest, so eminent. 'It seems,' said a lady after a visit to Washington Irving's family, ' as though I had been in heaven for a little while.' " — Fkederick S. Cozzens, The New York Ledger, Dec. 17, 1859. SELECTED CEITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL REFERENCES. On Irving. North American Review, Vol. 28, p. 103. Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 13, p. 694 and Vol. 45, p. 396. Blackwood's Magazine, Vol. 6, p. 556. Edinburgh Beview, Vol. 37, p. 337. Scribner's Monthly, Vol. 11, p. 799. Harper's Magazine, Vol. 24, p. 349. LittelVs Living Age, Vol. 37, p. 646 and Vol. 65, p. 298. On the Sketch Book. North American Beview, Vol. 9, p. 322. Edinburgh Monthly Beview, Vol. 4, p. 303. Edinburgh Beview, Vol. 34, p. 160. Quarterly Beview, Vol. 25, p. 50. Monthly Beview, Vol. 93, p. 198. London Magazine, Vol. 10, p. 401. Western Beview, Vol. 2, p. 244. xii IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN. A Sonnet on Washington Irving. BY U. W. LONGFELLOW. Here lies the gentle humorist, who died In the bright Indian summer of his fame! A simple stone, with but a elate and name, Marks his secluded resting-place beside The river that he loved and glorified. Here in the autumn of his days he came, But the dry leaves of life were all aflame With tints that brightened and were multiplied. How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death! Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours, Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer; Dying, to leave a memory like the breath Of summers full of sunshine and of showers, A grief and gladness in the atmosphere. xiii 7' ^^Cf^_ T&crtL l^Cnyt frKric*/ -^ce^^^t^^^U Cc^y/Ta^pC^ &***-*^ /t4r*~- ^w>^>^, fry //"Vf 1 J^^^^^ Art***/.* rf*£ *^^^U^ £**4rP&S£ ''*J£~~?/£Uc /<^^£retension 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 appear- ance. They generally came to church in the plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble cottagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, with an expression of high 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 without any mannerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with that lofty grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak freeborn souls that have never been checked in their growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness about real dignity, that never dreads contact and communion with others, 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 con- verse 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 The Country Church. 99 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 neigh- borhood, was endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. The family always came to church en prince. They were rolled majes- tically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen, in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with peculiar 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 ordinary. I could not but admire the style with which this splendid pageant was brought up to the gate of the churchyard. There was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall ; — a great smacking of the whip, straining and scrambling of horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vainglory to the coachman. The horses were urged and checked until they were fretted into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers sauntering quietly to church, opened precipitately to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that pro- duced 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 everything for 100 The Sketch-Book. the descent on earth of this august family. The old citi- zen first emerged his round red face from out the door, looking about him with the pompous air of a man accus- tomed to rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little pride in her composition. She was the picture of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with her; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, everything was fine about her : it was nothing but driving about, and visiting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one long Lord Mayor's day. Two daughters succeeded this goodly couple. They certainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air, that chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. They were ultra-fashionable in dress ; and, though no one could deny the richness of their 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 brightened into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed they were but slight acquaintances. I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of dress which marks the man of questionable pretensions to style. They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing every one askance that came near them, as if meas- uring his claims to respectability ; yet they were without conversation, except the exchange of an occasional cant phrase. They even moved artificially; for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, had been disci- plined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had The Country Church. 101 done everything to accomplish them as men of fashion, but nature had denied them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the common purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious assump- tion 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 re- spect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true nobility of soul; but I have remarked in all countries where artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. Those who are well assured of their own standing are least apt to trespass on that of others : whereas nothing is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor. As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable from good breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a continual consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambition of being the wonders of a rural congregation. The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the service. He took the whole burden of family 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 reli- 102 The Sketch-Book. gious ; as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow pub- licly a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful and pronouncing it " excellent food for the poor." When the service was at an end, I was curious to wit- ness the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their 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 clat- tering of hoofs, and the glittering of harness. The horses started off almost at a bound ; the villagers again hurried to right and left ; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust; and the aspiring family was rapt out of sight in a whirl- wind. THE WIDOW AND HER SON. Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires Honour and reverence evermore have raign'd. Marlowe's Tamburlaine. Those who are in the habit of remarking such matters, must have noticed the passive quiet of an English land- scape on Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the flail, the din of the blacksmith's hammer, the whistling of the ploughman, the rattling of the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor are suspended. The very farm-dogs bark less frequently, being less dis- turbed by passing travellers. At such times I have almost fancied the winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny landscape, with its fresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm. Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky. Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, has its moral influence ; every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us. For my part, there are feelings that visit me, in a country church, amid the beau- tiful 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 fre- quently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles ; its mouldering monuments ; its dark oaken panel- ling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation ; but being in a wealthy aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion 103 104 The Sketch-JBook. penetrated even into the sanctuary ; and I felt myself con- tinually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The 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 have survived all love, all friendship, all society ; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in 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 re- sponses 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 yew-trees which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I 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 to the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach The Widow and Her So?i. 105 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 villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe ; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased — the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was sup- ported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The ser- vice, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuf- fled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door ; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touch- ing ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased — " George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, but I could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body, and a con- vulsive motion of her lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart. Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection; directions given in the cold tones of business ; the striking of spades into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised 106 The Sketch-Booh, 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 whis- per 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 cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental obstruction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tender- ness 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 bar- barous part in standing by, and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church- yard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitu- tion, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ! they have friends to soothe — pleas- ures to beguile — a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young ! Their grow- ing minds soon close above the wound — their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green and ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe — the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth 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 con- solation. It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as com- forter : she was just returning from accompanying the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particu- lars connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. The Widow and Her Son. 107 The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assist- ance of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and led a happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who had grown up to be the staff and pride of their age. — "Oh, sir!" said the good woman, "he was such a comely lad, so sweet- tendered, 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 en- trapped 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 applied 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 suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's clothes, was 108 The Sketch-Book. emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened towards her, but his steps were faint and faltering; he sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wan- dering eye. — " Oh, my dear, dear mother ! don't you know your son? your poor boy, George?" It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of his childhood. I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blended: still he was alive ! he was come home ! he might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in him; and if anything 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 George Somers had returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, to talk — he could only look his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant ; and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other hand. There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency ; who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a for- eign land; but has thought on the mother " that looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to her son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by sel- fishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worth- lessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience ; she will surrender every pleas- The Widow and Her Son. 109 ure 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 George Somers had known what it was to be in sick- 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 tranquility 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 pe- cuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, how- ever, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do everything 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 mourn- ing 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 offer- ing 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 110 The Sketch-Book. the congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted themselves 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 satisfac- tion, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never parted. A SUNDAY IN LONDON. 1 In a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in the country, and its tranquilizing effect upon the land- scape; but where is its sacred influence more strikingly apparent than in the very heart of that great Babel, Lon- don? On this sacred day, the gigantic monster is charmed into repose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week are at an end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges and manufactories are extinguished ; and the sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober, yellow radiance into the quiet streets. The few pedes- trians we meet, instead of hurrying forward with anx- ious countenances, move leisurely along; their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles of business and care ; they have put on their Sunday looks, and Sunday manners, with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as well as in person. And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his mansion the family of the decent trades- man, the small children in advance ; then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed by the grown-up daughters, with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after them from the window, admiring the finery of the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile from her young mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted. Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city, peradventure an alderman or a sheriff; and now the patter of many feet announces a procession of charity scholars, in uniforms of antique cut, and each with a prayer-book under his arm. The ringing of bells is at an end ; the rumbling of the carriage has ceased ; the pattering of feet is heard no more ; 1 Part of a sketch omitted in the earlier editions. Ill 112 The Sketch-Book. the flocks are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by- lanes and corners of the crowded city, where the vigilant beadle keeps watch, like the shepherd's dog, round the threshold of the sanctuary. For a time everything is hushed; but soon is heard the deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and vibrating through the empty lanes and courts; and the sweet chanting of the choir making them resound with melody and praise. Never have I been more sensible of the sanctifying effect of church music, than when I have heard it thus poured forth, like a river of joy, through the inmost recesses of this great metropolis, elevating it, as it were, from all the sordid pollutions of the week ; and bearing the poor world-worn soul on a tide of triumphant harmony to heaven. The morning service is at an end. The streets are again alive with the congregation returning to their homes, but soon again relapse into silence. Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which, to the city tradesman, is a meal of some importance. There is more leisure for social enjoyment at the board. Members of the family can now gather together, who are separated by the laborious occupations of the week. A school-boy may be permitted on that day to come to the paternal home ; an old friend of the family takes his accus- tomed Sunday seat at the board, tells over his well-known stories, and rejoices young and old with his well-known jokes. On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural environs. Satirists may say what they please about the rural enjoyments of a London citizen on Sunday, but to me there is something delightful in beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty city enabled thus to come forth once a week and throw himself upon the green bosom of nature. He is like a child restored to the mother's breast; and they who first spread out these noble parks and magnificent pleasure-grounds which surround this huge metropolis, have done at least as much for its health and morality, as if they had expended the amount of cost in hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries. THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EAST- CHEAP. A SHAKESPEARIAN RESEARCH A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great- great-grandfather should say, that it was an old proverb when his great-grandfather was a child, that " it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine." Mother Bombie. It is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to honor the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the number of these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the darkness of his little chapel; another may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy ; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beatified father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax ; the eager zealot his seven-branched candlestick, and even the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased, unless he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to obscure ; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of his followers. In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shake- speare. Every writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some portion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations; the common herd of editors send up mists of obscurity from their notes 113 114 The Sketch- Book. at the bottom of each page ; and every casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy or research, to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated in every attempt at a new reading; every doubtful line had been explained a dozen different ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine passages, they had all been amply praised by previous admirers ; nay, so completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with panegyric by a great German critic, that it was difficult now to find even a fault that had not been argued into a beauty. In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV., and was, in a moment, completely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and with such force and consistency are the characters sustained, that they become mingled up in the mind with the facts and personages of real life. To few readers does it occur, that these are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of merry roysters ever enliv- ened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as val- uable to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years since : and, if I may be excused such an insensibility to the common ties of human nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done for me, or men like me ? They have conquered countries of which I do not enjoy an acre ; or they have gained laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf ; or they have furnished examples of hair- brained prowess, which I have neither the opportunity nor the inclination to follow. But, old Jack Falstaff! — kind The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap. 115 Jack Falstaff ! — sweet Jack Falstaff ! — has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment; he has added vast regions of wit and good humor, in which the poorest man may revel ; and has bequeathed a never-failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier and better to the latest posterity. A thought suddenly struck me : " I will make a pilgrim- age to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, " and see if the old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests ; at any rate there will be a kindred pleasure, in treading the halls once vocal with their mirth, to that the toper enjoys in smelling to the empty cask once filled with generous wine." The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execu- tion. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I encountered in my travels ; of the haunted re- gions of Cock Lane ; of the faded glories of little Britain, and the parts adjacent ; what perils I ran in Cateaton- street and old Jewry ; of the renowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and the terror of all unlucky urchins; and how I visited London Stone, and struck my staff upon it, in imitation of that arch rebel, Jack Cade. Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane bears testimony even at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old Stowe, " was always famous for its convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals : there was clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas ! how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring days of Falstaff and old Stowe ! The madcap royster has given place to the plodding tradesman; the clattering of pots and the sound of "harpe and sawtrie," to the din of carts and the accursed dinging of the dustman's bell; and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain of some siren from Billings- gate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. 116 The Sketch- Book. I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The only relic of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in stone, which formerly served as the sign, but at present is built into the parting line of two houses, which stand on the site of the renowned old tavern. For the history of this little abode of good fellowship, I was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who had been born and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to as the indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. I found her seated in a little back parlor, the window of which looked out upon a yard about eight feet square, laid out as a flower-garden ; while a glass door opposite afforded a distant peep of the street, through a vista of soap and tallow candles : the two views, which comprised, in all probability, her prospects in life, and the little world in which she had lived, and moved, and had her being, for the better part of a century. To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, from London Stone even unto the Monument, was doubt- less, in her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the universe. Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal communicative disposition, which I have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies, knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood. Her information, however, did not extend far back into antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of the Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol, until the great fire of London, when it was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and continued to flourish under the old name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad measures and other iniquities, which are incident to the sinful race of publicans, endeavored to make his peace with heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, towards the supporting of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there; but it was observed that the old Boar never held up his head under church government. He gradually de- clined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap. 117 since. The tavern was then turned into shops ; but she informed me that a picture of it was still preserved in St. Michael's Church, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my determination ; so, having informed myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legendary lore, and furnished an important incident in the history of her life. It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore Crooked Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, and dark passages, with which this old city is perforated, like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At length I traced him to a corner of a small court sur- rounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven, as a community of frogs at the bottom of a well. The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bow- ing, lowly habit : yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and, if encouraged, would now and then hazard a small pleasantry ; such as a man of his low estate might venture to make in the company of high churchwardens, and other mighty men of the earth. I found him in com- pany with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels, discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and settling the affairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale — for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate on any weighty matter without the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their understandings. I arrived at the moment when they had finished their ale and their argument, and were about to repair to the church to put it in order ; so having made known my wishes, I received their gracious permission to accompany them. The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many fishmongers of renown ; and as every pro- fession has its galaxy of glory, and its constellation of great men, I presume the monument of a mighty fish- 118 The Sketch- Book. monger of the olden time is regarded with as much rever- ence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the mon- ument of a Marlborough or Turenne. I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains also the ashes of that doughty champion, William Wal- worth, knight, who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy of honor- able blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of arms: — the sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned as the most pacific of all poten- tates. 1 Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under the back window of what was once the Boar's Head, stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since this trusty drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career, and was thus quietly deposited within call of his customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from his epitaph, the little sexton drew me on one side with a mysterious air, and informed me in a low voice, that once upon a time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling, and whistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirling 1 The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this worthy; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration. Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, William Walworth callyd by name ; Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere ; Who, with courage stout and manly myght, Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. For which act done, and trew entent, The Kyng made him knyght incontinent ; And gave him amies, as here you see, To declare his fact and chivaldrie. He left this lyff the yere of our God Thirteen hundred fo'urscore,and three odd. An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the ven- erable Stowe. "Whereas," saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by such testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders, or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man ; the second was John, or Jack, Straw," etc., etc. — Stowe's London. The Boards Head Tavern, Eastcheap. 119 weathercocks, so that the living were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest Preston which happened to be airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted by the well-known call of " waiter " from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was singing a stave from the "mirre garland of Captain Death;" to the discomfiture of sundry train-band captains, and the conversion of an infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and was never known to twist the truth afterwards, except in the way of business. I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for the authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is well known that the churchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very much infested with perturbed spirits ; and every one must have heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of their wits. Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally prompt with his " anon, anon, sir ; " and to have transcended his predecessor in honesty; for Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack ; whereas honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his measure. 1 The worthy dignitaries of the church, however, 1 As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the production of some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's Head. Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, Produced one sober son, and here he lies. Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd, The charms of wine, and everyone beside. O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. He drew good wine, took care to* fill his pots, Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 120 The Sketch-BooJc. did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of the tapster ; the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up among full hogsheads ; and the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a significant wink, and a dubious shake of the head. Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disappointed me in the great object of my quest, the picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the church of St. Michael. " Marry and amen!" said I, "here endeth my research!" So I was giving the matter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be curious in everything relative to the old tavern, offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had been handed down from remote times, when the parish meetings were held at the Boar's Head. These were deposited in the parish clubroom, which had been transferred, on the de- cline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the neigh- borhood. A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the " bully-rook" of the establishment. It is one of those little taverns which abound in the heart of the city, and form the centre of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered the bar-room, which was narrow and darkling; for in these close lanes but few rays of reflected light are enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned into boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the guests were of the good old stamp, and divided their day equally, for it was but just one o'clock. At the lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, before which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glis- tened along the mantlepiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap. 121 this medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall, that carried me back to earlier times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, but everything had that look of order and neatness, which bespeaks the superintendence of a notable English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather high pretensions, I was ushered into a little mis- shapen back-room, having at least nine corners. It was lighted by a skylight, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently appropriated to particular customers, and I found a shabby gentleman, in a red nose and oil-cloth hat, seated in one corner, meditating on a half-empty pot of porter. The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air of profound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substitute for that paragon of hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity to oblige ; and hurrying up stairs to the archives of the house, where the precious vessels of the parish club were depos- ited, she returned, smiling and courtesying, with them in her hands. The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco- box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked at their stated meetings, since time immemo- rial ; and which was never suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or used on common occasions. I received it with becoming reverence ; but what was my delight, at beholding on its cover the identical painting of which I was in quest ! There was displayed the outside of the Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was to be seen the whole convivial group, at table, in full revel ; pictured with tliat wonderful fidelity and force, with which the portraits of renowned generals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. 122 . The Sketch-Booh. On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliterated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was " repaired and beauti- fied by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful description of this august and venerable relic ; and I question whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round Table the long- sought san-greal, with more exultation. While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the interest it ex- cited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which also belonged to the vestry, and was descended from the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of having been the gift of Francis Wythers, knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being considered very "an tyke." This last opinion was strengthened by the shabby gentle- man in the red nose and oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph. He suddenly roused from his meditation on the pot of porter, and, casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, " Ay, ay ! the head don't ache now that made that there article ! " The great importance attached to this memento of ancient revelry by modern churchwardens at first puzzled me ; but there is nothing sharpens the apprehensions so much as an- tiquarian research ; for I immediately perceived that this could be no other than the identical " parcel-gilt goblet " on which Falstaff made his loving, but faithless vow to Dame Quickly ; and which would, of course, be treasured up with care among the regalia of her domains, as a testi- mony of that solemn contract. 1 Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet had been handed down from generation to gen- eration. She also entertained me with many particulars 1 Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday, in Whitsun- week, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing man at Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it? —Henry IF., Part 2. The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap. 123 concerning the worthy vestrymen who have seated them- selves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roysters of Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honor of Shakespeare. These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should not be as curious in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors one and all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, which they give as transmitted down from their forefathers ; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hairdresser, whose shop stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, has several dry jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the books, with which he makes his customers ready to die of laughter. I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive medita- tion. His head had declined a little on one side; a deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach; and, though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye through the door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on the savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness before the fire. I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my recon- dite investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, and, putting in his hand a small token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed, with a hearty benediction on him, Dame Honey- ball, and the Parish Club of Crooked Lane; — not for- getting my shabby but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. Thus have I given a " tedious brief " account of this interesting research, for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, I can only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, so deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware that a more skillful illustrator of the immortal bard would have swelled the materials I have 124 The Sketch- Book. touched upon, to a good merchantable bulk ; comprising the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert Preston ; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of St. Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and little ; pri- vate anecdotes of Dame Honeyball, and her pretty daugh- ter, whom I have not even mentioned; to say nothing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb, (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass, witlr a neat foot and ankle;) — the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of London. All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future commentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, and the "parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus brought to light, the subjects of future engravings, and almost as fruit- ful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the shield of Achilles, or the far-famed Portland vase. THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. I know that all beneath the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought, In time's great period shall return to nought. I know that all the muse's heavenly lays, With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. Deummond of Hawthornden. There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries and build our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood I was loitering about the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection ; when suddenly an irruption of madcap boys from Westminster School, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. I sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers for admission to the library. He conducted, me through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage leading to the chapter-house and the chamber in which Doomsday Book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small door on the left. To this the verger applied a key; it was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if seldom used. We now ascended a dark, narrow staircase, and, passing through a second door, entered the library. 125 126 The Sketch-Book. I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof sup- ported by massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a consider- able height from the floor, and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallery were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polemical writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In the centre of the library was a solitary table with two or three books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and pro- found meditation. It was buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then the shouts of the school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merri- ment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away; the bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through the dusky hall. I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, how- ever, I was beguiled b}^ the solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place, into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves, and apparently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but consider the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion. How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching head ! how many weary days ! how many sleepless nights ! How have their authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves up from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of nature ; The Mutability of Literature, 127 and devoted themselves to painful research and intense reflection ! And all for what ? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf — to have the title of their works read now and then in a future age, by some drowsy churchman or casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound; like the tone of that bell which has just tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment — lingering transiently in echo — and then passing away like a thing that was not ! While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these un- profitable speculations with my head resting on my hand, I was thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosened the clasps ; when to my utter astonishment, the little book gave two or three yawns, like one awakening from a deep sleep; then a husky hem; and at length began to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider had woven across it; and having probably contracted a cold from long exposure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it be- came more distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation, w r hat, in the present day, would be deemed barbar us; but I shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in modern parlance. It began with railings about the neglect of the world — about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly that it had not been opened for more than two centuries. That the dean only looked now and then into the library, sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then returned them to their shelves. " What a plague do they mean," said the little quarto, which I began to perceive was some- what choleric, " what a plague do they mean by keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and watched 128 The Sketch- Book. by a set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, merely to be looked at now and then by the dean ? Books were written to give pleasure and to be enjoyed; and I would have a rule passed that the dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a year ; or if he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster among us, that at any rate we may now and then have an airing." " Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, " you are not aware how much better you are off than most books of your generation. By being stored away in this ancient library, you are like the treasured remains of those saints and monarchs, which lie enshrined in the adjoining chap- els ; while the remains of your contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned to dust." " Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking big, " I was written for all the world, not for the book- worms of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like other great contemporary works ; but here" have I bee n clasped up for more than two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey to these worms that are playing the very vengeance with my intestines, if you had not by chance given me an opportunity of uttering a few last words before I go to pieces." « My good friend," rejoined I, "had you been left to the circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this have been no more. To judge from your physiognomy, you are now well stricken in years; very few of your con- temporaries can be at present in existence ; and those few owe their longevity to being immured like yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me to add, instead of likening to harems, you might more properly and gratefully have com- pared to those infirmaries attached to religious establish- ments, for the benefit of the old and decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering and no employment, they often endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of your contemporaries as if in circulation — where do we meet with their works ? what do we hear of Robert Gro- The Mutability of Literature. 129 teste, of Lincoln ? No one could have toiled harder than he for immortality. He is said to have written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are scattered in various libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, theolo- gian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics, that he might shut himself up and write for posterity; but pos- terity never inquires after his labors. What of Henry of Huntingdon, who, besides a learned history of England, wrote a treatise on the contempt of the world, which the world has revenged by forgetting him? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classi- cal composition ? Of his three great heroic poems one is lost forever, excepting a mere fragment ; the others are known only to a few of the curious in literature ; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely disap- peared. What is in current use of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life? Of William of Malmsbury; — of Simeon of Durham; — of Benedict of Peterborough; — of John Hanvill of St. Albans; — of — " "Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, " how old do you think me ? You are talking of authors that lived long before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that they in a manner expatriated them- selves, and deserved to be forgotten ; x but I, sir, was ushered into the world from the press of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native tongue, at a time when the language had become fixed ; and indeed I was considered a model of pure and elegant English." (I should observe that these remarks were couched in 1 In Latin and French hath many soneraine wittes had great delyte to en- dite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes there ben some that speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as good a fantasye as we have in hearying of Frenchmen's Englishe. — Chaucer's Testament of Love. 130 The Sketch-Book. such intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty in rendering them into modern phraseology.) " I cry your mercy," said I, " for mistaking your age ; but it matters little : almost all the writers of your time have likewise passed into forgetfulness ; and De Worde's publi- cations are mere literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stability of language, too, on which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon. 1 Even now many talk of Spenser's < well of pure English undefiled,' as if the lan- guage ever sprang from a well or fountain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence of various tongues, perpetually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this which has made English literature so extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be committed to something more permanent and unchange- able than such a medium, even thought must share the fate of everything else, and fall into decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity and exultation of the most popular writer. He finds the language in which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject to the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back and beholds the early authors of his country, once the favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers. A few short ages have covered them with obscurity, and their merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired in its day, and held up as a model of purity, will in the course of years grow antiquated and obsolete ; until it shall become almost as unintelligible in its native land as an 1 Holinshecl, in his chronicle, observes, "afterwards, also, by deligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never came into the type of perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to their great praise and immortal commendation." The Mutability of Literature. 131 Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic inscriptions said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I, with some emotion, "when I contemplate a modern library, filled with new works, in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; like the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of military array, and reflected that in one hundred years not one of them would be in existence!" "Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see how it is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors. I suppose nothing is read nowadays but Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays and Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the ' unparalleled John Lyly.' " " There you are again mistaken," said I ; " the writers whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly predicted by his admirers, 1 and which, in truth, is full of noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever men- tioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity; and even Lyly, though his writings were once the delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, have likewise gone down, with all their writings and their controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that some industrious diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification of the curious. " For my part," I continued, " I consider this mutability of language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the world at large, and of authors in particular. To 1 Live ever sweete booke ; the simple image of his gentle witt, and the golden- pillar of his noble courage; and ever notify untotbe world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey-bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the tongue of Suada in the chamber, the sprite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellency in print. — Harvey's Pierce's Supererogation. 132 The SJcetch-JBook. reason from analogy, we daily behold the varied and beau- tiful tribes of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their successors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of a blessing. The earth would groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface become a tangled wilderness. In like manner the works of genius and learning decline, and make way for subsequent productions. Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors who have flourished their allotted time; otherwise, the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, and the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly there were some restraints on this excessive multiplication. Works had to be tran- scribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious operation; they were written either on parchment, which was expen- sive, so that one work was often erased to make way for another; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely perishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries. To these circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing that we have not been inundated by the intellect of antiquity: that the fountains of thought have not been broken up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the inventions of paper and the press have put an end to all these restraints. They have made every one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. The con- sequences are alarming. The stream of literature has swollen into a torrent — augmented into a river — expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library ; but what would you say to libraries such as actually exist, containing three or four hundred thousand volumes; legions of authors at the same time busy; and the press going on with fearfully increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number? The Mutability of Literature. 133 Unless some unforeseen mortality should break out among the progeny of the muse, now that she has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much. It increases with the increase of literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks on population spoken of by economists. All possible encouragement, therefore, should be given to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain : let criticism do what it may, writers will write, printers will print, and the world will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will soon be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of passable information, at the present day, reads scarcely anything but reviews; and before long a man of erudition will be little better than a mere walking catalogue." " My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author who was making some noise just as I left the world. His reputation, however, was considered quite temporary. The learned shook their heads at him, for he was a poor half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run the country for deer-stealing. I think his name was Shake- speare. I presume he soon sunk into oblivion." " On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that very man that the literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the ordinary term of English literature. There rise authors now and then, who seem proof against the muta- bility of language, because they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream ; which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them from being swept away by the over-flowing current, and hold up many a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakespeare, whom 134 The Sketch-Booh we behold defying the encroachments of time, retaining in modern use the language and literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indifferent author, merely from having nourished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant that upholds them." Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of laughter that had well-nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpulency. " Mighty well ! " cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, " mighty well ! and so you would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a man with- out learning ; by a poet, forsooth — a poet ! " And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flour- ished in a less polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point. "Yes," resumed I, positively, "a poet; for of all writers he has the best chance for immortality. Others may write from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of nature, whose features are always the same, and always interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy; their pages are crowded with commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet everything is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illus- trates them by everything that he sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, there- fore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which enclose within a small compass the wealth of the language — its family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a porta- ble form to posterity. The setting may occasionally be The Mutability of Literature. 135 antiquated, and require now and then to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dull- ness, tilled with monkish legends and academical contro- versies ! what bogs of theological speculations ! what dreary wastes of metaphysics ! Here and there only do we behold the heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like beacons on their widely separated heights, to transmit the pure light of poetical intelligence from age to age." l I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a parting word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was silent; the clasps were closed : and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two or three times since, and have endeavored to draw it into further conversation, but in vain ; and whether all this rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never to this moment been able to discover. 1 Thorow earth and waters deepe, The pen by skill cloth passe : And featly nyps the worldes abuse, And shoes us in a glasse, The vertu and the vice Of every wight alyve ; The honey comb that bee doth make Is not so sweet in hyve, As are the golden leves That drop from poet's head ! Which doth surmount our common talke As farre as dross doth lead. Churchyard. RURAL FUNERALS. Here's a few flowers! but about midnight more: The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night Are stre wings fitt'st for graves — You were as flowers now wither'd; even so These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. Cymbeline. Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural life which still linger in some parts of England, are those of strewing flowers before the funerals, and planting them at the graves of departed friends. These, it is said, are the remains of some of the rites of the primitive church ; but they are of still higher antiquity, having been observed among the Greeks and Romans, and frequently mentioned by their writers, and were no doubt, the spon- taneous tributes of unlettered affection, originating long before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, or story it on the monument. They are now only to be met with in the most distant and retired places of the kingdom, where fashion and innovation have not been able to throng in, and trample out all the curious and interest- ing traces of the olden time. In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : — White his shroud as the mountain snow Larded all with sweet flowers; Which be-wept to the grave did go, With true love showers. There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a female who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet 13G Rural Funerals. 137 of white flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterwards hung up in the church over the accustomed seat of the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside of them is gener- ally a pair of white gloves. They are intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the crown of glory which she has received in heaven. In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns : a kind of triumph, " to show," says Bourne, " that they have fin- ished their course with joy, and are become conquerors." This, I am informed, is observed in some of the northern counties, particularly in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing though melancholy effect, to hear, of a still even- ing, in some lonely country scene, the mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and to see the train slowly moving along the landscape. Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground. And as we sing thy dirge, we will The daffodil And other flowers lay upon The altar of our love, thy stone. Hereick. There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to the passing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such spectacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep into the soul. As the mourning train ap- proaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by; he then follows silently in the rear ; sometimes quite to the grave, at other times for a few hundred yards, and, having paid this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and resumes his journey. The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the solicitude shown by the common people 138 The Sketch-Book. for an honored and a peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that some little respect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the " faire and happy milkmaid," ob- serves, " thus lives she, and all her care is, that she may die in the springtime, to have store of flowers stucke upon her windingsheet." The poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a nation, continually advert to this fond soli- citude about the grave. In The Maid's Tragedy by Beau- mont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, describing the capricious melancholy of a broken- hearted girl : When she sees a bank Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell Her servants, what a pretty place it were To bury lovers in; and make her maids Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. The custom of decorating graves was once universally prevalent : osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the turf uninjured, and about them were planted evergreens and flowers. " We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his Sylva, "with flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the life of man, which has been compared in Holy Scrip- tures to those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in dishonor, rise again in glory." This usage has now become extremely rare in England ; but it may still be met with in the churchyards of retired villages, among the Welsh moun- tains ; and I recollect an instance of it at the small town of Ruthen, which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been told also by a friend, who was pres- ent at the funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that the female attendants had their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon as the body was interred, they stuck about the grave. He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might be seen in various states of decay ; some droop- ing, others quite perished. They were afterwards to be Rural Funerals. 139 supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens ; which on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and over- shadowed the tombstones. There was formerly a melancholy fancifnlness in the arrangement of these rustic offerings, that had something in it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. " This sweet flower," said Evelyn, " borne on a branch set with thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and tran- sitory life, which, making so fair a show for a time, is not yet without its thorns and crosses." The nature and color of the flowers, and of the ribbons with which they were tied, had often a particular reference to the qualities or story of the deceased, or were expressive of the feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled Corydorts Dole- ful Ifnell, a lover specifies the decorations he intends to use: — A garland shall be framed By art and nature's skill, Of sundry-colored flowers, In token of good-will. And sundry -color' d ribands On it I will bestow; But chiefly black and yellowe With her to grave shall go. I'll deck her tomb with flowers, The rarest ever seen; And with my tears as showers, I'll keep them fresh and green. The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token of her spotless innocence ; though sometimes black ribbons were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose was occasionally used in remembrance of such as had been remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in gen- eral were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not altogether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the county of Surrey, " where 140 The Sketch-Book. the maidens yearly planted and decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes." And Camden like- wise remarks, in his Britannia : " Here is also a certain custom, observed time out of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especially by the young men and maids who have lost their loves ; so that this churchyard is now full of them." When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, em- blems of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they were of the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the following stanza: Yet strew Upon my dismall grave Such offerings as you have, Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe ; For kinder flowers can take no birth Or growth from such unhappy earth. In The Maid's Tragedy a pathetic little air is intro- duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females who had been disappointed in love : Lay a garland on my hearse, Of the dismall yew, Maidens, willow branches wear, Say I died true. My love was false, but I was firm, From my hour of birth ; Upon my buried body lie Lightly , gentle earth. The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity of sentiment and the unaffected elegance of thought which pervaded the whole of these funeral observances. Thus, it was an especial precaution that none but sweet-scented evergreens and flowers should be employed. The intention seems to have been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to be- guile the mind from brooding over the disgraces of perish- Rural Funerals. 141 ing mortality, and to associate the memory of the deceased with the most delicate and beautiful objects in nature. There is a dismal process going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kindred dust, which the imagination shrinks from contemplating; and we seek still to think of the form we have loved, with those refined associations which it awakened when blooming before us in youth and beauty. " Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! Herrick, also, in his Dirge of Jephtha, pours forth a fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner embalms the dead in the recollections of the living. Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all Paradise: May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence Fat frankincense. Let balme and cassia send their scent From out thy maiden monument. May all shie maids at wonted hours Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers! May virgins, when they come to mourn, Male incense burn Upon thine altar! then return And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British poets who wrote when these rites were more preva- lent, and delighted frequently to allude to them ; but I have already quoted more than is necessary. I cannot however refrain from giving a passage from Shakespeare, even though it should appear trite ; which illustrates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in these floral tributes ; and at the same time possesses that magic of language and apposite- ness of imagery for which he stands pre-eminent. With fairest flowers, While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack 142 The Sketch-Book. The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander, Outsweetn'd not thy breath. There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the most costly monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower while the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave as affection is binding the osier round the sod ; but pathos expires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled among the cold conceits of sculptured marble. It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly ele- gant and touching has disappeared from general use, and exists only in the most remote and insignificant villages. But it seems as if poetical custom always shuns the walks of cultivated society. In proportion as people grow polite they cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry, but they have learned to check its free impulses, to distrust its sally- ing emotions, and to apply its most affecting and pictur- esque usages, by studied form and pompous ceremonial. Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than an Eng- lish funeral in town. It is made up of show and gloomy parade ; mourning carriages, mourning horses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief. " There is a grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor, " and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the neighbor- hood, and when the daies are finished, they shall be, and they shall be remembered no more." The associate in the gay and crowded city is soon forgotten ; the hurrying suc- cession of new inmates and new pleasures effaces him from our minds, and the very scenes and circles in which he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the country are solemnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider space in the village circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in every ear; it steals with its pervading melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all the land- scape. The fixed and unchanging features of the country also Rural Funerals. 143 perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed them; who was the companion of our most retired walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea is associated with every charm of nature ; we hear his voice in the echo which he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit haunts the grove which he once frequented ; we think of him in the wild upland solitude, or amidst the pensive beauty of the valley. In the freshness of joyous morning, we remember his beaming smiles and bounding gayety ; and when sober evening returns with its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet-souled melancholy. Each lonely place shall him restore, For him the tear be duly shed; Beloved, till life can charm no more: And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the de- ceased in the country is that the grave is more immediately in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer, it meets their eyes when their hearts are softened by the exercises of devotion ; they linger about it on the Sab- bath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures and present loves, and to sit down among the solemn mementos of the past. In North Wales the peasantry kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friends, for several Sun- days after the interment ; and where the tender rite of strewing and planting flowers is still practised, it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the season brings the companion of former festivity more vividly to mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest relatives and friends; no menials nor hirelings are employed ; and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult to offer compensation. I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love. The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to 144 The Sketch-Book. the instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its object ; but the love that is seated in the soul can live on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline with the charms which excited them, and turn with shuddering disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb ; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection rises, purified from every sensual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang ? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved ; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness? — No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection ; when the sud- den anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave ! — the grave ! — Rural Funerals. 145 It buries every error — covers every defect — extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him. But the grave of those we loved — what a place for medi- tation ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endear- ments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily in- tercourse of intimacy — there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance — its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh! how thrilling! — pressure of the hand! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! The last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us even from the threshold of existence ! Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited — every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never — never — never return to be soothed by thy contrition ! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee — if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; — then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle. action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul — then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavail- 146 The Sketch- Book. ing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affec- tionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quotations illustrative of particular rites, to be appended, by way of note, to another paper, which has been withheld. The article swelled insensibly into its present form, and this is mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a notice of these usages, after they have been amply and learnedly in- vestigated in other works. I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this cus- tom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other coun- tries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much more general, and is observed even by the rich and fashionable ; but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate into affectation. Bright, in his travels in lower Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, and recesses formed for re- tirement, with seats placed among bowers of greenhouse plants; and that the graves generally are covered with the gayest flowers of the season. He gives a casual picture of filial piety, which I cannot but transcribe; for I trust it is as useful as it is delightful, to illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. " When I was at Berlin," says he, " I followed the celebrated Iffland to the grave. Mingled with some pomp, you might trace much real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my attention was attracted by a young woman, who stood on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf, which she anxiously protected from the feet of the passing crowd. It was the tomb of her parent ; and the figure of this affectionate daughter presented a monument more striking than the most costly work of art." Mural Funerals. 147 I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I once met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was at the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the Lake of Lucerne, at the foot of Mt. Rigi. It was once the capital of a miniature republic, shut up between the Alps and the Lake, and accessible on the land side only by foot-paths. The whole force of the republic did not exceed six hundred fighting men ; and a few miles of cir- cumference, scooped out as it were from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its territory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the rest of the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a small church, with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of the graves were placed crosses of w^ood or iron. On some were affixed miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently at- tempts at likenesses of the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused with interest at this scene ; I felt that I was at the source of poetical description, for these were the beautiful but unaffected offerings of the heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more populous place, I should have suspected them to have been suggested by factitious sentiment, derived from books ; but the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; there was not a novel nor a love poem in the village ; and I question whether any peasant of the place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of poetical devotion, and that he was practically a poet. THE INN KITCHEN. Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? Falstaff. During a journey that I once made through the Nether- lands, I had arrived one evening at the Pomme cV Or, the principal inn of a small Flemish village. It was after the hour of the table dliote, so that I was obliged to make a solitary supper from the relics of its ampler board. The weather was chilly ; I was seated alone in one end of a great gloomy dining-room, and, my repast being over, I had the prospect before me of a long dull evening, without any visible means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and requested something to read ; he brought me the whole literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an almanac in the same language, and a number of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, reading old and stale criticisms, my ear was now and then struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Every one that has travelled on the continent must know how favorite a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to the middle and inferior order of travellers; par- ticularly in that equivocal kind of weather, when a fire becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw aside the newspaper, and explored my way to the kitchen, to take a peep at the group that appeared to be so merry. It was composed partly of travellers who had arrived some hours before in a diligence, and partly of the usual attendants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round a great burnished stove, that might have been mistaken for an altar, at which they were worshipping. It was covered with various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness ; among which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. 148 The Inn Kitchen. 149 A large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group, bringing out many odd features in strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners; except where they settled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected back from well-scoured utensils, that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her ears, and a necklace with a golden heart suspended to it, was the presiding priestess of the temple. Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most of them with some kind of evening potation. I found their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes, which a little swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of his love adventures ; at the end of each of which there was one of those bursts of honest unceremonious laughter, in which a man indulges in that temple of true libertj^, an inn. As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and lis- tened to a variety of traveller's tales, some very extrava- gant, and most very dull. All of them, however, have faded from my treacherous memory except one, which I will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it derived its chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and the peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveller. He was dressed in a tarnished green travelling-jacket with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of overalls, with buttons from the hips to the ankles. He was of a full, rubi- cund countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a pleasant, twinkling eye. His hair was light, and curled from under an old green velvet travelling-cap stuck on one side of his head. He was interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests, or the remarks of his auditors ; and paused now and then to replenish his pipe ; at which times he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke for the buxom kitchen-maid. I wish my readers cou.a imagine the old fellow lolling 150 The Sketch-Booh in a huge arm-chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a curiously twisted tobacco pipe, formed of genuine ecume de mer, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel — his head cocked on one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he related the following story. THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. He that supper for is dight, He lyes full cold, I trow, this night! Yestreen to chamber I him led, This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel. On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies not far from the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years since, the castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech-trees and dark firs ; above which, how- ever, its old watch tower may still be seen, struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look down upon the neighboring country. The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzen- ellenbogen, 2 and inherited the relics of the property, and all the pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors had much impaired the family posses- sions, yet the baron still endeavored to keep up some show of former state. The times were peaceable, and the Ger- man nobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles' nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient residences in the valleys : still the baron remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing with the hereditary inveteracy, all the 1 The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will per- ceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place at Paris. 2 i. e., Cat's-Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her fine arm. 151 152 The Sketch- Book. old family feuds ; so that he was on ill terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had hap- pened between their great-great-grandfathers. The baron had but one child, a daughter ; but nature, when she grants but one child, always compensates by making it a prodigy ; and so it was with the daughter of the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins, as- sured her father that she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany ; and who should know better than they ? She had, moreover, been brought up with great care under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some years of their early life at one of the little German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of knowledge necessary to the education of a fine ladj T . Under their instructions she became a miracle of accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen, she could embroider to admiration, and had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry, with such strength of expression in their countenances, that they looked like so many souls in purgatory. She could read without great difficulty, and had spelled her way through several church legends, and almost all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made considerable pro- ficiency in writing; could sign her own name without missing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could read it without spectacles. She excelled in making little elegant good-for-nothing lady-like nicknacks of all kinds; was versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day; played a number of airs on the harp and guitar ; and knew all the tender ballads of the Minne-lieders by heart. Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely suf- fered out of their sight; never went beyond the domains of the castle, unless well attended, or rather well watched; had continual lectures read to her about strict decorum and implicit obedience ; and, as to the men — pah ! — she was taught to hold them at such a distance, and in such abso- The Spectre Bridegroom. 153 lute distrust, that, unless properly authorized, she -would not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world — no, not if he were even dying at her feet. The good effects of this system were wonderfully appar- ent. The young lady was a pattern of docility and correct- ness. While others were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable to be plucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection of those immacu- late spinsters, like a rosebud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and exulta- tion, and vaunted that though all the other young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen. But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be provided with children, his household was by no means a small one : for Providence had enriched him with abun- dance of poor relations. They, one and all, possessed the affectionate disposition common to humble relatives; were wonderfully attached to the baron, and took every pos- sible occasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle. All family festivals were commemorated by these good people at the baron's expense ; and when they were filled with good cheer, they would declare that there was nothing on earth so delightful as these family meetings, these jubilees of the heart. The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest man in the little world about him. He loved to tell long stories about the dark old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down from the walls around, and. he found no listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. He was much given to the marvellous, and a firm believer in all those supernatural tales with which every mountain and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of his guests ex- ceeded even his own : they listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be aston- ished even though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Yon Landshort, the oracle of his table, the 154 The Sketch-Book. absolute monarch of his little territory, and happy, above all things, in the persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age. At the time of which my story treats, there was a great family gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost importance : it was to receive the destined bridegroom of the baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the marriage of their children. The preliminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed without seeing each other ; and the time was appointed for the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from the army for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the baron's to receive his bride. Missives had even been received from him, from Wurtz- burg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the day and hour when he might be expected to arrive. The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended her toilet, and quarrelled the whole morning about every article of her dress. The young lady had taken advantage of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste ; and fortunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could desire ; and the flutter of expec- tation heightened the lustre of her charms. The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts were continually hovering around her; for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of this nature. They were giving her a world of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive the expected lover. The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in truth, nothing exactly to do : but he was naturally a fuming bustling little man, and could not remain passive when all the world was in a hurry. He worried from top The Spectre Bridegroom. 155 to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite anxiety ; he continually called the servants from their work to exhort them to be diligent; and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day. In the meantime the fatted calf had been killed ; the forests had rung with the clamor of the huntsman ; the kitchen was crowded with good cheer ; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein; and even the great Heidelberg tun had been laid under contribution. Everything was ready to receive the dis- tinguished guest with Saus und Brans in the true spirit of German hospitality — but the guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that had poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of the Oden- wald, now just gleamed along the summits of the moun- tains. The baron mounted the highest tower, and strained his eyes in hope of catching a distant sight of the count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them; the sound of horns came floating from the valley, pro- longed by the mountain echoes. A number of horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing along the road; but when they had nearly reached the foot of the moun- tain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction. The last ray of sunshine departed — the bats began to flit by in the twilight — the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view; and nothing appeared stirring in it but now and then a peasant lagging homeward from his labor. While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a different part of the Odenwald. The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursu- ing his route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a man travels toward matrimony when his friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for him, as certainly as a dinner at the end of his journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg, a youthful companion in arms, with whom he had seen some service on the frontiers ; Herman Von Starkenfaust, 156 The Sketch-Book. one of the stoutest hands, and worthiest hearts, of German chivalry, who was now returning from the army. His father's castle was not far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, although an hereditary feud rendered the fami- lies hostile, and strangers to each other. In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions. As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed to perform the rest of their journey together; and, that they might do it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the count having given direc- tions for his retinue to follow and overtake him. They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military scenes and adventures ; but the count was apt to be a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride, and the felicity that awaited him. In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly- wooded passes. It is well known that the for- ests of Germany have always been as much infested by robbers as its castles by spectres; and, at this time, the former were particularly numerous, from the hordes of dis- banded soldiers wandering about the country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst of the forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered, when the count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the count had received a mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtz- burg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring convent, who was famous for his skill in administering to both soul and body ; but half of his skill was superfluous ; the mo- ments of the unfortunate count were numbered. With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal The Spectre Bridegroom. 157 cause of his not keeping his appointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that his mission should be speedily and courteously exe- cuted. " Unless this is done," said he, "I shall not sleep quietly in my grave ! " He repeated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him to calmness; promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into de- lirium — raved about his bride — his engagements — his plighted word ; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the castle of Landshort; and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the untimely fate of his comrade ; and then pondered on the awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head perplexed ; for he was to present himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there were certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world ; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his character that made him fond of all singular adventure. Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious rela- tives ; and the mourning retinue of the count took charge of his remains. It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more for their dinner ; and to the worthy little baron, whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower. Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be 158 The Sketch- Book. postponed. The meats were already overdone ; the cook in an agony; and the whole household had the look of a gar- rison that had been reduced by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were seated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder from the walls. The baron hastened to receive his future son-in-law. The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The baron was a little mortified that he should have come in this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for the important occasion, and the impor- tant family with which he was to be connected. He paci- fied himself, however, with the conclusion, that it must have been youthful impatience which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants. " I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon you thus unseasonably — " Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compli- ments and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy and eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the time the baron had come to a pause, they had reached the inner court of the castle ; and the stranger was again about to speak, when he was once more interrupted by the appear- ance of the female part of the family, leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in his gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear ; she made an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was The Spectre Bridegroom. 159 timidly raised; gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stran- ger ; and was cast again to the ground. The words died away ; but there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for parley. The baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular conversation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted banquet. It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the wall hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked corselets, splintered jousting spears, and tattered banners, were min- gled with the spoils of sylvan warfare ; the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned horribly among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched immediately over the head of the youthful bride- groom. The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low tone that could not be overheard — for the language of love is never loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover ? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his manner, that appeared to have a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her color came and went as she listened with deep atten- tion. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned away, she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident that the young couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen in love with each other at first sight. The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that at- 160 The Sketch- Booh. tend upon light purses and mountain air. The baron told his best and longest stories, and never had he told them so well, or with such great effect. If there was anything marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment; and if anything facetious, they were sure to langh exactly in the right place. The baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one ; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent Hock- heimer; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many- good things were said by poorer and keener wits, that would not bear repeating, except on similar occasions ; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that almost convulsed them with suppressed laughter; and a song or two roared out by a poor but merry and broad-faced cousin of the baron, that absolutely made ' the maiden aunts hold up their fans. Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced ; and, strange as it may appear, even the baron's jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and rest- less wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the bride became more and more earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame. All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom ; their spirits were infected ; whispers and glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and du- bious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew less and less frequent ; there were dreary pauses in the con- versation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One dismal story produced another still more dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the history of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair Leonora ; a dreadful The Spectre Bridegroom. 161 story, which has since been put into excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the world. The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound atten- tion. He kept his eye steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a sol- emn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. The baron was perfectly thunderstruck. "What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, everything was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was ready for him if he wished to retire." The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously; "I must lay my head in a different chamber to-night !" There was something in his reply, and the tone in which it was uttered, that made the baron's heart misgive him ; but he rallied his forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties. The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every offer; and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified — the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye. The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and snorting with impatience. — When they had reached the por- tal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more se- pulchral. " Now that we are alone," said he, " I will impart to you the reason of my going. I have a solemn and indispensa- ble engagement" — " Why," said the baron, "cannot you send some one in your place?" "It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in per- son — I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral " — "Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." 162 The Sketch- Booh. " No ! no ! " replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, " my engagement is with no bride — the worms ! the worms expect me ! I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers — my body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be buried — the grave is waiting for me — I must keep my appointment !" He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw- bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night blast. The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consterna- tion, and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted out- right, others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the opinion of some, that this might be the wild huntsman, famous in German legend. Some talked of mountain spirits, of wood-demons, and of other super- natural beings, with which the good people of Germany have been so grievously harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him the indignation of the whole company, and especially of the baron, who looked upon him as little better than an infidel ; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers. But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the young count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could not think of abandon- ing him in his distress. They wandered about the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles of so good a man ; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had even embraced him The Spectre Bridegroom. 163 — and such a husband! if the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what must have been the living man. She filled the house witli lamentations. On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had just been recounting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote, and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen-tree before the lattice. The castle clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed, and stepped ligfttly to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. Heaven and earth ! she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom ! A loud shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the music, and had followed her silently to the window, fell into her arms. When she looked again, the spectre had disappeared. Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady, there was something, even in the spectre of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was still the semblance of manly beauty; and though the shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the affec- tions of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared she would never sleep in that chamber again ; the niece, for once was refractory, and declared as strongly that she would sleep in no other in the castle : the consequence was, that she had to sleep in it alone ; but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. How long the good old lady would have observed this 164 The Sketch-Book. promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous, and there is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted in the neigh- borhood, as a memorable instance of family secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week ; when she was sud- denly absolved from all further restraint, by intelligence brought to the breakfast table one morning that the young lady was not to be found. Her room was empty — the bed had not been slept in — the window was open, and the bird had flown ! The astonishment and concern with which the intelli- gence was received, can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations paused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher; when the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, "The gob- lin ! the goblin ! she's carried away by the goblin." In a few words she related the fearful scene of the gar- den, and concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that'it was the spectre on his black charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the direful proba- bility ; for events of the kind are extremely common in Germany, as many well authenticated histories bear witness. What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron ! "What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a member of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daughter had either been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, per- chance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse, and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new apparition. The Spectre Bridegroom. 165 A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on a pal- frey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the baron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her companion — the Spectre Bridegroom ! The baron was astounded. He looked at his daughter, then at the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appear- ance since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine counte- nance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eyes. The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starken- faust. He related his adventure with the young count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride had completely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth — had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's window — had wooed — had won — had borne away in tri- umph — and, in a word, had wedded the fair. Under any other circumstances the baron would have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds : but he loved his daughter ; he had lamented her as lost ; he rejoiced to find her still alive ; and, though her husband was of a hos- tile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed upon him of his being a dead man ; but several old friends present, who had served in 166 The Sketch-Book. the wars, assured him that every stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial privi- lege, having lately served as a trooper. Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with loving kindness ; he was so gallant, so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict seclusion and passive obedience should be so badly exem- plified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not having the windows grated. One of them was particularly mortified at having her marvellous story marred, and that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantial flesh and blood — and so the story ends. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. When I behold, with deep astonishment, To famous Westminster how there resorte, Living in brasse or stoney monument, The princes and the worthies of all sorte; Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, And looke upon offenselesse majesty, Naked of pomp or earthly domination? And how a play-game of a painted stone Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, Whome all the world which late they stood upon Could not content or quench their appetites. Life is a frost of cold f elicitie, And death the thaw of all our vanitie. Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B. 1598. On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile; and, as I passed its threshold, it seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain 167 168 The Sketch-Booh. something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are discolored by damps, and crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscrip- tions of the mural monuments, and obscured the death's head, and other funereal emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches ; the roses which adorned the keystones have lost their leafy beauty ; everything bears marks of the gradual dilapida- tions of time, which yet has something touching and pleas- ant in its very decay. The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusky splendor. From between the arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a pass- ing cloud ; and beheld the sungilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure heaven. As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes en- deavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots ; the epitaphs were entirely effaced ; the name alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later times. (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176.) I remained some little while, musing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been, and had perished ; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint records will be obliterated, and the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding Westminster Abbey. 169 among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to such an amazing height; and man wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb ; while every footfall Avhispers along the walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition, to see how they are crowded together and jostled in the dust ; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those, whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ; and how many shapes, and forms, and artifices, are devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from forgetfulness, for a few short years, a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and ad- miration. I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monuments are generally simple; for the lives of literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected to their memories ; but the greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the sim- 170 The Sketch- Book. plicity of these memorials, I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes the place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of friends and companions ; for indeed there is something of companionship between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of history, which is continually growing faint and obscure : but the intercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his memory ; for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treas- ures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language. From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn I met with some illustrious name ; or the cognizance of some powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies ; some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together : warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates with crosiers and mitres; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been suddenly trans- muted into stone. 1 \ "estminster Abbey. 171 I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm ; the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast : the face was almost covered by the morion ; the legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader; of one of those military enthusiasts, who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction; between the history and the fairy tale. There is something ex- tremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are generally found ; and in consid- ering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They are the relics of times utterly gone by; of beings passed from recollection ; of customs and manners with which ours have no affinity. They are like objects from some strange and distant land, of which we have no certain knowledge, and about which all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is something extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the supplication of the dying hour. They have an effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the overwrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound on modern monuments. I have been struck, also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of saying things simply, and yet saying them proudly; and I do not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier conscious- ness of family worth and honorable lineage, than one which affirms, of a noble house, that "all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monu- ment which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art ; but which to me appears horrible rather than 172 The Sketch- Book. sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the spectre. — But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love ? The grave should be surrounded by everything that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead; or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence from without occasionally reaches the ear; — the rumbling of the passing equipage ; the murmur of the multitude ; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around : and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating against the very walls of the sepulchre. I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away ; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent ; the sweet-tongued bell was sum- moning to evening prayers ; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps led up to it, through a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. On entering the eye is astonished by the pomp of archi- tecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The Westminster Abbey. 173 very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinna- cles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords ; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crim- son, with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder, — his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sump- tuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly- wrought brazen railing. There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence; this strange mixture of tombs and trophies ; these emblems of living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once borne before them, my imagination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land; glittering with the splendor of jewelled rank and military array ; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed away ; the silence of death had settled again upon the place, interrupted only by the casual chirping of birds, which had found their way into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and pendants — sure signs of solitariness and desertion. When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were those of men scattered far and wide about the world ; 174 The Sketch- Book. some tossing upon distant seas ; some under arms in distant lands ; some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets ; all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy honors : the melancholy reward of a monument. Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance of the equality of the brave ; which brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and min- gles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her op- pressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bear- ing her national emblem — the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the checkered and disastrous story of poor Mary. The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey, I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir ; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were grad- ually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place : For in the silent grave no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, For nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust, and an endless darkness. Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon Westminster Abbey. 175 the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord with this mighty build- ing ! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal ! — And now they rise in triumph and acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. — And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody ; they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences! What solemn sweeping concords! It grows more and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening were gradually thickening round me ; the monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres of various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs ; where warriors, prelates, courtiers and statesmen, lie mouldering in their " beds of darkness." Close by me stood the great chair of corona- 176 The Sketch- Book. tion, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a re- mote and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if con- trived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power; here it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had been gathered to- gether as a lesson to living greatness? — to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive; how soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multi- tude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads them to sport with awful and hallowed things ; and there are base minds, which delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject homage and grovelling servility which they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funereal ornaments ; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some proof how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered; some mutilated; some cov- ered with ribaldry and insult — all more or less outraged and dishonored ! The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the painted windows in the high vaults above me ; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light ; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a Westminster Abbey. 177 jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from oft the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of re- iterated homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the cer- tainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the empire of death ; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forget- fulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever silently turning over his pages ; we are too much engrossed by the story of the present, to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollec- tion : and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. " Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, "find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades into fable ; fact becomes clouded with doubt and contro- versy ; the inscription moulders from the tablet ; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand ; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust? What is the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The re- mains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. " The Egyptian mummies, which Carn- byses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; Miz- raim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." 1 What then is to insure this pile which now towers above me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring i Sir T. Brown. 178 The Sketch-BooJc. so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, in- stead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower — when the gairish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the fox-glove hang its blossoms above the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from record and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. 1 1 For notes on Westminster Abbey, see Appendix. CHRISTMAS. But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of his good, gray, old head and beard left ? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of him. Hue and Cry after Christmas. A man might then behold At Christmas, in each hall Good fires to curb the cold, And meat for great and small. The neighbors were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true, The poor from the gates were not chidden When this old cap was new. Old Song. Nothing in England exercises a more delightful spell over my imagination, than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and be- lieved it to be all that poets had painted it ; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social and joyous than at pres- ent. I regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of later days. Poetry, however, clings with cher- ishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which it has derived so many of its themes — as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mould- ering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping 179 180 The Sketch- Book. together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalm- ing them in verdure. Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awak- ens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pasto- ral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They grad- ually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morn- ing that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings, than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony. It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announce- ment of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world are con- tinually operating to cast loose ; of calling back the chil- dren of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing me- mentos of childhood. There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we " live abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptu- ousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn ; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us with Christmas. 181 mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they cir- cumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasure of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated ; our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving-kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domes- tic felicity. The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each counte- nance in a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile — where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fireside ? and as the hollow blast of win- try wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chim- ney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which we look round upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity? The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit throughout every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life; and they were, in former days, particularly observant of the religious and social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this festival was cele- 182 The Sketch- Book. brated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harj) and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly — the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday cus- toms. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and cere- monials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff , are become matters of spec- ulation and dispute among commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously; times wild and pic- turesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest mate- rials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoy- ment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shal- lower stream ; and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more en- lightened and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden- hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly was- sailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa. Christmas. 183 Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in Eng- land. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The preparations making on every side for the social board that is again to unite friends and kindred ; the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard, and quickeners of kind feelings; the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness ; all these have the most pleasing effect in pro- ducing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympa- thies. Even the sound of the Waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awak- ened by them in that still and solemn hour, " when deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and, connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and good- will to mankind. How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns everything to melody and beauty! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country, " telling the night watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the common people to announce the approach of this sacred festival. Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long-, And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad; The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spir- its, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can remain insensible ? It is, indeed, the sea- son of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love again rises green to memory 184 The Sketch-Booh. beyond the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reani- mates the drooping spirit ; as the Arabian breeze will some- times waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though for me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season beam- ing into my soul from the happy looks of those around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every countenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas. THE STAGE COACH. Omne bene Sine poena Tempus est ludendi Venit liora Absque mora Libros deponendi. Old Holiday School Song. In the preceding paper I have made some general ob- servations on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christ- mas passed in the country; in perusing which I would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the auster- ity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only for amusement. In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of delica- cies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked boys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit which I have observed in the children of this country. They were returning home for the holidays in high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoy- ment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the 185 186 The Sketch-Book. abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of anticipations of the meeting with the family and household, down to the very cat and dog ; and of the joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents with which their pockets were crammed ; but the meeting to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest im- patience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot ! how he could run ! and then such leaps as he would take — there was not a hedge in the whole country that he could not clear. They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and impor- tance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the buttonhole of his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so dur- ing this season, having so many commissions to execute in consequence of the great interchange of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untrav- elled readers, to have a sketch that may serve as a general representation of this very numerous and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent throughout the fraternity ; so that, wherever an English stage coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery. He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of the skin ; he is swelled into jolly dimen- sions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat ; a huge roll of colored handkerchief about his neck, know- The Stage Coach. 187 ingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom ; and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole ; the present, most probably, of some enamored country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color, striped, and his small clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half way up his legs. All this costume is maintained with much precision ; he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials; and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appear- ance, there is still discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which is almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consideration along the road; has frequent conferences with the village house- wives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and de- pendence ; and he seems to have a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he ar- rives where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler ; his duty being merely to drive from one stage to another. When off the box, his hands are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, and he rolls about the inn yard with an air of the most absolute lordli- ness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those name- less hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run er- rands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of bat- tening on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle ; treasure up his cant phrases ; echo his opinions about horses and other topics of jockey lore ; and, above all, endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuf- fin that has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey. Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance throughout the journey. A stage coach, however, carries animation always with it, and puts 188 The Sketch-Booh. the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends ; some with bundles and band- boxes to secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the group that accompanies them. In the mean time, the coachman has a world of small com- missions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public house ; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to some half-blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the vil- lage, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every side of fresh country faces and blooming giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations there for the important purpose of seeing company pass; but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing ham- mers, and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre, in brown paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy. Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circu- lation in the villages ; the grocers', butchers' and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright-red berries, began to appear at the windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas preparations: ■ — " Now capons and hens, beside turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton — must all die — for in twelve days a multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now The Stage Coach. 189 plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christ- mas eve. Great is the contention of holly and ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation, by a shout from my little travelling companions. They had been looking out of the coach windows for the last few miles, recognizing every tree and cottage as they approached home, and now there was a general burst of joy — "There's John ! and there's old Carlo ! and there's Bantam ! " cried the happy little rogues, clapping their hands. At the end of the lane there was an old sober-looking ser- vant in livery, waiting for them ; he was accompanied by a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the road-side, little dream- ing of the bustling times that awaited him. I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer; who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of interest; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first. Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog bound- ing and barking before him, and the others holding John's hands ; both talking at once, and overpowering him with questions about home, and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated ; for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly feli- city. We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the horses, and on resuming our route, a turn of the road 190 The Sketch- Booh. brought us in sight of a neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight. In the evening we reached a village where I had deter- mined to pass the night. As we drove into the great gate- way of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered, and ad- mired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon, were suspended from the ceiling; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef, and other hearty viands upon it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travel- lers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of a fresh, bustling landlady; but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene completely realized Poor Robin's humble idea of the com- forts of mid-winter : — Now trees their leafy hats do bare To reverence Winter's silver hair; A handsome hostess, a merry host, A pot of ale now and a toast, Tobacco and a good coal fire, Are things this season doth require. 1 I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to the door. A young gentleman stept out, and by the 1 Poor Robin's Almanac, 1684. The Stage Coach. 191 light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly good-humored young fellow, with whom I had once travelled on the continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn was impossible ; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was merely making a tour of observation, he in- sisted that I should give him a day or two at his father's country seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay at a few miles' distance. " It is better than eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and I can assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old-fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, and I must confess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, with his invita- tion ; the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments I was on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges. CHRISTMAS EVE. Saint Francis and Saint Benedight Blesse this house from wicked wight; From the night-mare and the goblin, That is hight good fellow Robin; Keep it from all evil spirits, Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets: From curfew time To the next prime. Caktwright. It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold ; our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the post- boy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop. " He knows where he is going," said my companion, laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides himself upon keeping up some- thing of old English hospitality. He is a tolerable speci- men of what you will rarely meet with nowadays in its purity, the old English country gentleman ; for our men of fortune spend so much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, that the strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished away. My father, however, from early years took honest Peacham 1 for his text-book, instead of Chesterfield ; he determined in his own mind, that there was no condition more truly hon- orable and enviable than that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and therefore passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural games and holiday observances, and is deeply read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed, his favorite range of reading is among 1 Peacham's Complete Gentleman, 1622. 192 Christmas Eve. 193 the authors who flourished at least two centuries since ; who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true English- men than any of their successors. He even regrets some- times that he had not been born a few centuries earlier, when England was itself, and had its peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at some distance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, without any rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging the bent of his own humor without molestation. Being representative of the oldest family in the neighborhood, and a great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked up to, and, in general, is known simply by the appellation of * The Squire ; ' a title which has been ac- corded to the head of the family since time immemorial. I think it best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, to prepare you for any eccentricities that might otherwise appear absurd." We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square col- umns that supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, shel- tered under dark fir-trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded through the still frosty air, and was answered by the dis- tant barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a little primitive dame dressed very much in the antique taste, with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came courtesying forth, with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the house keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall; they could not do without him, as he was the best hand at a song and story in the household. My friend proposed that we should alight and walk 194 The Sketch- Booh. through the park to the hall, which was at no great dis- tance, while the chaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon glittered, as she rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty crystal; and at a distance might be seen a thin transparent vapor, stealing up from the low grounds and threatening gradually to shroud the landscape. My companion looked around him with transport : — " How often," said he, " have I scampered up this avenue, on returning home on school vacations ! How often have I played under these trees when a boy ! I feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who have cherished us in childhood. My father was always scrupu- lous in exacting our holidays, and having us around him on family festivals. He used to direct and superintend our games with the strictness that some parents do the studies of their children. He was very particular that we should play the old English games according to their original form ; and consulted old books for precedent and authority for every ' merrie disport ; ' yet I assure you there never was pedantry so delightful. It was the policy of the good old gentleman to make his children feel that home was the happiest place in the world ; and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent could bestow." We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of all sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, and curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ring of the porter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, open-mouthed, across the lawn. " The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me! " cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful animals. Christmas Eve. 195 We had now come in full view of the old family man- sion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold moonshine. It was an irregular building, of some magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of differ- ent periods. One wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the foliage of which the small dia- mond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French taste of Charles the Second's time, having been repaired and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his ancestors, who returned with that monarch at the Restoration. The grounds about the house were laid out in the old formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its original state. He admired this fashion in gardening ; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted imitation of nature in modern gardening had sprung up with modern republican notions, but did not suit a mon- archical government; it smacked of the levelling system — I could not help smiling at this introduction of politics into gardening, though I expressed some apprehension that I should find the old gentleman intolerant in his creed. — Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the only instance in which he had ever heard his father meddle with politics ; and he believed that he had got this notion from a member of parliament who once passed a few weeks with him. The squire was glad of any argument to defend his clipped yew trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally attacked by modorn landscape gar- deners. As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was per- mitted, and even encouraged by the squire, throughout the 196 The Sketch- Book. twelve days of Christmas, provided everything was done conformably to ancient usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple, and snap dragon : the Yule clog and Christmas candle were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe, with its white berries, hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids. 1 So intent were the servants upon their sports that we had to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On our arrival being announced, the squire came out to receive us, accompanied by his two other sons; one a young officer in the army, home on leave of ab- sence ; the other an Oxonian, just from the university. The squire was a fine healthy-looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an open florid countenance ; in which the physiognomist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. The family meeting was warm and affectionate : as the evening was far advanced, the squire would not permit us to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches of a numerous family connection, where there was the usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, super- annuated spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They were variously occupied ; some at a round game of cards ; others conversing around the fireplace ; at one end of the hall was a group of young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game ; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a happy day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night. 1 The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at Christmas; and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the priv- ilege ceases. Christmas Eve. 197 While the mutual greetings were going on between young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apart- ment. I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, and the squire had evidently endeavored to restore it to something of its primitive state. Over the heavy projecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a warrior in armor, standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs; and in the corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other sporting imple- ments. The furniture was of the cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some articles of modern convenience had been added, and the oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole presented an odd mixture of parlor and hall. The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelm- ing fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and sending forth avast volume of light and heat: this I under- stood was the Yule clog, which the squire was particular in having brought in and illumined on a Christmas eve, accord- ing to ancient custom. 1 1 The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted with a brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Some- times it was accompanied by Christmas candles; but in the cottages the only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule clog was to burn all night; if 'it went out it was considered a sign of ill luck. Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : — Come, bring with a noise, My merrie, merrie boyes, The Christmas log to the firing ; While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free, And drink to your hearts' desiring. The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in Eng- land, particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions connected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand remaining from the Yule clog is carefully put away to light the next year's Christmas fire. 198 The Sketch-Booh. It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in his hereditary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly up in his mas- ter's face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There is an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease.- I had not been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy old cav- alier, before I found myself as much at home as if I had been one of the family. Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, and around which were several family portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides the ac- customed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly- polished beaufet among the family plate. The table was abundantly spread with substantial fare; but the squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk, with rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the feast; and finding him to be per- fectly orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance. The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He Avas a tight brisk little man, with the air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot; his face slightly pitted with the small-pox, with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frostbitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, Christmas Eve. 199 with a drollery and lurking waggery of expression that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, deal- ing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite merriment by harping upon old themes ; which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight during supper to keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of the company, who laughed at everything he said or did, and at every turn of his countenance. I could not wonder at it ; for he must have been a miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket- handkerchief ; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature, that the young folks were ready to die with laughing. I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, which, by careful management, was sufficient for all his wants. He revolved through the family system like a vagrant comet in its orbit; sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes another quite remote ; as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive connections and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping buoyant disposition, always enjoying the present moment ; and his frequent change of scene and company prevented his acquiring those rusty unaccommodating habits, with which old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete family chroni- cle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and intermar- riages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a great favorite with the old folks ; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually considered rather a young fellow, and he was master of the revels among the children ; so that there was not a more popular being in the sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late years, he had resided almost entirely with the squire, to whom he 200 The Sketch-Boolc. had become a factotum, and whom he particularly delighted by jumping with his humor in respect to old times, and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than Master Simon was called on for a good old Christmas song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty. Now Christmas is come, Let us beat up the drum, And call all our neighbors together, And when they appear, Let us make them such cheer, As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance comforting himself with some of the squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establish- ment, and, though ostensibly a resident of the village, was oftener to be found in the squire's kitchen than his own home, the old gentleman being fond of the sound of " harp in hall." The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one; some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire himself figured down several couple with a partner, with whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connecting link between the old times and the new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school; but he had unluckily assorted himself with a little romping girl from boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him Christmas Eve. 201 continually on the stretch, and defeated all his sober attempts at elegance : — such are the ill-assorted matches to which antique gentleman are unfortunately prone ! The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little knaveries with impunity: he was full of practical jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins ; yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite among the women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the young officer and a ward of the squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of the evening, I suspected there was a little kindness growing up between them ; and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and hand- some, and, like most young British officers of late years, had picked up various small accomplishments on the conti- nent — he could talk French and Italian — draw landscapes, sing very tolerably — dance divinely ; but, above all, he had been wounded at Waterloo : — what girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection ! The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and, lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the 1 title French air of the Troubadour. The squire, however, exclaimed against having anything on Christmas eve but good old English ; upon which the young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as if in an effortof memory, struck into another strain, and, with a charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's " Night-Piece to Julia." Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee, And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will o' the Wisp mislight thee; Nor snake nor slow-wormbite thee; But on, on thy way, Not making a stay, Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 202 The Sketch-BooJc. Then let not the dark thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber ? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus come unto me, And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, My soul I'll pour into thee. The song might or might not have been intended in com- pliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called ; she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such application, for she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was suffused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance ; indeed, so great was her indifference, that she amused herself with plucking to pieces a choice bou- quet of hot-house flowers, and by the time the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. The party now broke up for the night with the kind- hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall, on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the Yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not been the season when " no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels about the hearth. My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponderous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days of the giants. The room was panelled with cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and gro- tesque faces were strangely intermingled ; and a row of black-looking portraits stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich, though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed to break forth in the air just below the window. I listened, Christmas Eve. 203 and found it proceeded from a band, which I concluded to be the Waits from some neighboring village. . They went round the house, playing under the windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them more distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the upper part of the casement, partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed to accord with the quiet and moonlight. I listened and listened — they became more and more tender and remote, and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, and I fell asleep. CHRISTMAS DAY. Dark and dull night, flie hence away, And give the honor to this day That sees December turn'd to May. ********* Why does the chilling winter's morne Smile like a field beset with corn? Or smell like to a meade new-shorn, Thus on the sudden? — Come and see The cause why things thus fragrant be. Herrick. "When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and nothing but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced me of their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering outside of the door, and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of which was — Kejoice, our Saviour he was born On Christmas day in the morning. I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door sud- denly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house, and singing at every chamber door ; but my sudden appearance frightened them into mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment playing on their lips with their ringers, and now and then stealing a shy glance from under their eye- brows, until, as if by impulse, they scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. 204 Christmas Day. 205 Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would have been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging over it; and a church with its dark spire in strong relief against the clear, cold sky. The house was surrounded with evergreens, according to the English custom, which would have given almost an appear- ance of summer ; but the morning was extremely frosty ; the light vapor of the preceding evening had been precipi- tated by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A robin, perched upon the top of a mountain ash that hung its clusters of red berries just before my window, was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few querulous notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee, on the terrace walk below. I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in the old w r ing of the house, where I found the principal part of the family already assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer-books; the servants were seated on benches below. The old gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon acted as clerk, and made the responses ; and I must do him the justice to say that he acquitted himself with great gravity and decorum. The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favorite author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted to an old church melody by Master Simon. As there w T ere sev- eral good voices among the household, the effect was ex- tremely pleasing ; but I was particularly gratified by the exultation of heart, and sudden sally of grateful feeling, 206 The Sketch-Book. with which the worthy squire delivered one stanza; his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of all the bounds of time and tune : 'Tis thou that crown' st my glittering hearth With guiltlesse mirth, And givest me Wassaile bowles to drink Spiced to the brink : Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand That soiles my land : And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, Twice ten for one. I afterwards understood that early morning service was read on every Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, either by Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of the fam- ily. It was once almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is falling into neglect ; for the dullest observer must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those households, where the occasional exer- cise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the keynote to every temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony. Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denomi- nated true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among the causes of modern effem- inacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness ; and though he admitted them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Bracebridge and Master Simon, or, Mr. Simon, as he was called by everybody but the squire. We were escorted by a number of gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed loungers about the establishment ; from the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-hound — the last of which was of a race that had been in the family time out of mind — they were all obedient to a dog- whistle which hung to Master Simon's button-hole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance Christmas Day. 207 an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in his hand. The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not but feel the force of the squire's idea, that the formal ter- races, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew-trees, carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. There ap- peared to be an unusual number of peacocks about the place, and I was making some remarks upon what I termed a flock of them, that were basking under a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master Simon, who told me that, according to the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. " In the same way," added he, with a slight air of pedantry, " we say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." He went on to inform me that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird "both understanding and glory; for, being praised, he will presently set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in corners, till his tail come again as it was." I could not help smiling at this display of small erudi- tion on so whimsical a subject ; but I found that the pea- cocks were birds of some consequence at the hall ; for Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were great favor- ites with his father, who was extremely careful to keep up the breed ; partly because they belonged to chivalry, and were in great request at the stately banquets of the olden time; and partly because they had a pomp and magnificence about them, highly becoming to an old family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of greater state and dignity than a peacock perched upon an antique stone balustrade. Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who were to perform some music of his selection. There was 208 The Sketch-Booh. something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of ani- mal spirits of the little man ; and I confess I had been somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from authors who certainly were not in the range of everyday reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined to some half a dozen old authors, which the squire had put into his hands, and which he read over and over, whenever he had a studious fit ; as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Husbandry ; Markham's Country Contentments; the Tretyse of Hunt- ing, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight; Izaac Walton's Angler and two or three more such ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard authorities ; and, like all men who know but a few books, he looked up to them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among the choice spirits of the last century. His practi- cal application of scraps of literature, however, had caused him to be looked upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the neighborhood. While we were talking, we heard the distant tolling of the village bell, and I was told that the squire was a little particular in having his household at church on a Christ- mas morning; considering it a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser observed, At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small. " If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Bracebridge, "I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and established a musical club for their improvement ; he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to the directions of Christmas Day. 209 Jervaise Markham, in his ' Country Contentments^ ; for the bass he has sought out all the * deep, solemn mouths,' and for the tenor the * loud-ringing mouths,' among the country bumpkins ; and for < sweet mouths," he has culled with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the neighborhood ; though these last, he affirms, are the most difficult to keep in tune; your pretty female singer being exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to accident." As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which was a very old building of gray stone, and stood near a vil- lage, about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the church. The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew- tree, that had been trained against its walls, through the dense foliage of which, apertures had been formed to admit light into the small antique lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us. I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide, and stood off from each ear; so that his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets that would have held the church Bible and prayer-book : and his small legs seemed still smaller, from being planted in large shoes, decorated with enormous buckles. I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was a complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work printed in the Roman character. The edi- tions of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde were his delight ; and he was indefatigable in his researches after such old English writers as have fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the notions of 210 The Sketch-BooJc. Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations into the festive rites and holiday customs of former times; and had been as zealous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon companion ; but it was merely with that plodding spirit with which men of adust temperament follow up any track of study, merely because it is denominated learning ; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom, or of the ribaldry and ob- scenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old vol- umes so intensely, that they seemed to have been reflected in his countenance ; which, if the face be indeed an index of the mind, might be compared to a title-page of black- letter. On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuking the gray -headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the greens with which the church was decorated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies; and though it might be innocently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was he on this point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, before the parson would consent to enter upon the service of the day. The interior of the church was venerable but simple , on the walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workman- ship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor, with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it was one of the family who had signalized him- self in the Holy Land, and the same whose picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and repeated the responses very audibly ; evincing that kind of ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of the old school, and a man of old family connections. I observed too that he turned over the leaves of a folio Christmas Day. 211 prayer-book with something of a flourish ; possibly to show off an enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers, and which had the look of a family relic. But he was evidently most solicitous about the musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis. The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among which 1 particularly noticed that of the vil- lage tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point; and there was another, a short pursy man, stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head, like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morn- ing had given a bright rosy tint : but the gentlemen chor- isters had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks ; and as several had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country tombstones. The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time by travelling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset; the musicians became flurried; Master Simon was in a fever; everything went on lamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning " Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting company : all be- came discord and confusion ; each shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could, ex- cepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose ; who hap- 212 The Sketch-Book. pened to stand a little apart, and, being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of ob- serving it not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; supporting the correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of saints and fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one present seemed inclined to dispute ; but I soon found that the good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with; hav- ing, in the course of his researches on the subject of Christ- mas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian controver- sies of the Revolution, when the Puritans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the land by proclamation of Parliament. 1 The worthy parson lived but with times past, and knew but little of the present. Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as the gazettes of the day ; while the era of the Revo- lution was mere modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecution of poor mince-pie throughout the land ; when plum porridge was denounced "mere popery," and roast-beef as anti- christian ; and that Christmas had been brought in again 1 From the Flying Eagle, a small Gazette, published December 24th, 1652 — " The House spent much time this day about the business of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented with a terrible remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16; 1 Cor. xv. 14, 17 ; and in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scriptures John xx. 1 ; Rev. i. 10 ; Psalm cxviii. 24 ; LeV. xxiii. 7, 11 ; Mark xv. 8; Psalm lxxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is called Anti-christ's masse, and those Massemongers and Papists who observe it, etc. In consequence of which Parliament spent some time in consultation about the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the follow- ing day, which was commonly called Christmas day." Christmas Day. 213 triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardor of his contest, and the host of imaginar}^ foes with whom he had to combat; he had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three other forgotten champions of the Round Heads, on the subject of Christmas festivity; and con- cluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemn and affect- ing manner, to stand to the traditional customs of their fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful anniver- sary of the Church. I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church the con- gregation seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking hands; and the children ran about crying Ule ! Ule ! and repeating some uncouth rhymes, 1 which the par- son, who had joined us, informed me had been handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the hall, to take something to keep out the cold of the weather; and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which convinced me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas virtue of charity. On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed with generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising ground which commanded something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic merriment now and then reached our ears; the squire paused for a few moments, and looked around with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Not- withstanding the frostiness of the morning, the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient power to melt away + he '.hin covering of snow from every southern declivity, and i "Ule! Ule! Three puddings in a pule ; Crack nuts and cry ule ! " 214 The Sketch-Booh. to bring out the living green which adorns an English land- scape even in mid winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank, on which the broad rays rested, yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glittering through the dripping grass ; and sent up slight exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that hung just above the surface of the earth. There was something truly cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter ; it was, as the squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, breaking through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing every heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indications of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the comfortable farmhouses, and low thatched cottages. " I love," said he, " to see this day well kept by rich and poor ; it is a great thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it were, the world all thrown open to you ; and I am almost disposed to join with Poor Robin, in his malediction on every churlish enemy to this honest festival: Those who at Christmas do repine And would fain hence dispatch him, May they with old Duke Humphry dine, Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em." The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the games and amusements which were once prevalent at this season among the lower orders, and countenanced by the higher ; when the old halls of the castles and manor-houses were thrown open at daylight ; when the tables were covered with brawn, and beef, and humming ale ; when the harp and the carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and make merry. 1 " Our old i " An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, i. e., on Christmas clay in the morning, had all Ms tenants and neighbors enter his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the black-jacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else two young men must take the maiden (i. e. the cook) by the arms, and run her round the market-place till she is shamed of her laziness." —Round About our Sea-Coal Fire. Christmas Day. 215 games and local customs," said he, "had a great effect in making the peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of them by the gentry made him fond of his lord. They made the times merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can truly say, with one of our old poets : I like them well — the curious preciseness And all-pretended gravity of those That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, Have thrust away much ancient honesty. " The nation," continued he, " is altered ; we have almost lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their interests are separate. They have become too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to ale-house politicians, and talk of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good humor in these hard times would be for the nobility and gentry to pass more time on their estates, mingle more among the country people, and set the merry old English games going again." Such was the good squire's project for mitigating public discontent : and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept open house during the holidays in the old style. The country people, however, did not understand how to play their parts in the scene of hospitality ; many uncouth circumstances occurred ; the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into the neighborhood in one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year. Since then, he had contented himself with inviting the decent part of the neighboring peasantry to call at the hall on Christmas day, and with distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, that they might make merry in their own dwellings. We had not been long home when the sound of music was heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, then- hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands, was seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a large number 216 The Sketch-Booh. of villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreat- ing, and striking their clubs together, keeping exact time to the music, while one, whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept caper- ing round the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas box with many antic gesticulations. The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great inter- est and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he traced to the times when the Romans held posses- sion of the island; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the sword dance of the ancients. " It was now," he said, "nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it in the neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival; though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by the rough cudgel play, and broken heads in the evening." After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received with awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. It is true I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they were raising their tankards to their mouths, when the squire's back was turned, making something of a grimace, and giving each other the wink; but the moment they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were ex- ceedingly demure. With Master Simon, however, they all seemed more at their ease. His varied occupations and amusements had made him well known throughout the neighborhood. He was a visitor at every farmhouse and cottage ; gossiped with the farmers and their wives ; romped with their daughters ; and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the humblebee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country round. The bashf ulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer an' 1 affability. There is something genuine and affectionat' n the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above Christmas Day. 217 them; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word or a small pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart of the dependent more than oil and wine. When the squire had retired, the merriment increased, and there was much joking and laughter, particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village ; for I observed all his companions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gratuitous laugh before they could well understand them. The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merri- ment : as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of music in a small court, and looking through a window that commanded it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and tam- bourine ; a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several of the other servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, coloring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion. THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast! Let every man be jolly, Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, And every post with holly. Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, And Christmas blocks are burning; Their ovens they with bak't meats choke And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie, And if, for cold, it hap to die, Wee'le bury't in a Christmas pye, And evermore be merry. Withers' Juvenilia. I had finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a distinct thwack- ing sound, which he informed me was a signal for the serv- ing up of the dinner. The squire kept up old customs in kitchen as well as hall ; and the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser by the cook, summoned the servants to carry in the meats. Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving man, with dish in hand, March' d boldly up, like our train band, Presented and away. 1 The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing crackling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, and the flame went sparkling and wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great picture of the crusader and his white horse had been pro- 1 Sir John Suckling. 218 The Christmas Dinner. 219 fusely decorated with greens for the occasion ; and holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the helmet and weapons on the opposite wall, which I understood were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, by the by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the painting and armor as having belonged to the crusader, they cer- tainly having the stamp of more recent days; but I was told that the painting had been so considered time out of mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had been found in a lumber-room, and elevated to its present situation by the squire, who at once determined it to be the armor of the family hero ; and as he was absolute authority on all such subjects in his own household, the matter had passed into current acceptation. A sideboard was set out just under this chivalric trophy, on which was a display of plate that might have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade of the vessels of the temple: "flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers " ; the gorgeous utensils of good companionship that had gradually accumulated through many generations of jovial housekeepers. Before these stood the two Yule candles, beaming like two stars of the first magnitude ; other lights were distributed in branches, and the whole array glittered like a firmament of silver. We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool beside the fireplace, and twanging his instrument with a vast deal more power than melody. Never did Christmas board display a more goodly and gracious assemblage of countenances; those who were not handsome were, at least, happy; and happiness is a rare improver of your hard-favored visage. I always consider an old English family as well worth studying as a collection of Holbein's portraits or Albert Durer's prints. There is much anti- quarian lore to be acquired ; much knowledge of the physi- ognomies of former times. Perhaps it may be from having continually before their eyes those rows of old family por- traits, with which the mansions of this country are stocked ; certain it is, that the quaint features of antiquity are often 220 The Sketch-Book. most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient lines ; and I have traced an old family nose through a whole picture gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to gen- eration, almost from the time of the Conquest. Something of the kind was to be observed in the worthy company around me. Many of their faces had evidently originated in a Gothic age, and been merely copied by succeeding gen- erations ; and there was one little girl in particular, of staid demeanor, with a high Roman nose, and an antique vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of the squire's, being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of his ancestors who figured in the court of Henry VIII. The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these unceremonious days ; but a long, courtly, well-worded one of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as if some- thing was expected; when suddenly the butler entered the hall with some degree of bustle : he was attended by a ser- vant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore a silver dish, on which was an enormous pig's head, decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which was placed with great formality at the head of the table. The moment this pageant made its appearance, the harper struck up a flour- ish ; at the conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on re- ceiving a hint from h the squire, gave, with an air of the most comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which was as follows : — Caput apri defero, Reddens laudes Domino. The boar's head in hand bring I, With garlands gay and rosemary. I pray you all synge merrily Qui estis in convivio. Though prepared to witness many of these little eccen- tricities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host ; yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd a dish was introduced somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered from the conversation of the squire and the parson, that it The Christmas Dinner. 221 was meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's head ; a dish formerly served up with much ceremony and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great tables, on Christmas day. " I like the old custom," said the squire, " not merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself, but because it was observed at the college at Oxford at which I was edu- cated. When I hear the old song chanted, it brings to mind the time when I was young and gamesome — and the noble old college hall — and my fellow-students loitering about in their black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are now in their graves ! " The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such associations, and who was always more taken up with the text than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's ver- sion of the carol ; which he affirmed was different from that sung at college. He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commentator, to give the college reading, accompanied by sundry annotations; addressing himself at first to the com- pany at large ; but finding their attention gradually diverted to other talk and other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished, until he concluded his re- marks in an undervoice, to a fat-headed old gentleman next him, who was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of turkey. 1 1 The old ceremony of serving- up the boar's head on Christmas day is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable to such of my readers as are curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it entire. The boar's head in hand bear I, Bedeck' d with bays and rosemary : And I pray you, my masters, be merry Quot estis in convivio Caput apri defero, Reddens laudes Domino. The boar's head, as I understand, Is the rarest dish in all this land. Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland Let us servire cantico. Caput apri defero, etc. Our steward hath provided this In honor of the King of P.liss, Which on this day to be served is In Reginensi A trio. Caput apri defero, etc., etc., etc. 222 The SJcetch-Booh. The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and pre- sented an epitome of country abundance, in this season of overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted to " ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it ; being, as he added, "the standard of old English hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of expectation." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evi- dently something traditional in their embellishments ; but about which, as I did not like to appear over-curious, I asked no questions. I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently deco- rated with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. This, the squire confessed, with some little hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most authentical ; but there had been such a mortality among the peacocks this season, that he could not prevail upon himself to have one killed. 1 It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the other make-shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he was endeavoring to follow up, though at humble distance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect shown to his whims by his children and relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily into the full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in their parts : having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of profound gravity with which the butler 1 The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertainments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt ; at the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence^came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, " by cock The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast ; and Mas- singer, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden times : — Men may talk of Countrv Christmasses, Their thirty pound butter' d eggs, their pies of carp's tongues ; Their pheasants drench' d with ambergris; the carcases of three fat wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock. The Christmas Dinner. 223 and other servants executed the duties assigned them, how- ever eccentric. They had an old-fashioned look; having, for the most part, been brought up in the household, and grown into keeping with the antiquated mansion, and the humors of its lord ; and most probably looked upon all his whimsical regulations as the established laws of honorable housekeeping. When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed before the squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation; being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas festivity. The contents had been prepared by the squire himself ; for it was a beverage in the skilful mixture of which he particularly prided himself : alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for the comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him; being composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about the surface. 1 The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming round the board, for every one to follow his example, according to the primitive style ; pronouncing it "the ancient fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met together." 2 There was much laughing and rallying as the honest 1 The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine; with nutmeg:, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs; in this way the nut- brown beverage is still prepared in some old families, and round the hearths of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and is cele- brated by Herrick in his Twelfth Night : — Next crowne the bowle full With gentle Lamb's Wool ; Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger With store of ale too : And thus ye must doe To make the Wassaile a swinger. 2 The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having his cup. When the steward came to the doore with the AVassel, he was to cry three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappell (chaplein) was to answer with a song." — Arclueologia. 224 The Sketch-Book. emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by the ladies. When it reached Master Simon, he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a boon com- panion struck up an old Wassail chanson. The brown bowle, The merry brown bowle, As it goes round about-a, Fill Still, Let the world say what it will, And drink your fill all out-a. The deep canne, The merry deep canne, As thou dost freely quaff-a, Sing Fling, Be as merry as a king, And sound a lusty laugh-a. * Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, how- ever, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some gay widow, with whom he was accused of having a flirta- tion. This attack was commenced by the ladies ; but it was continued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gen- tleman next the parson, with the persevering assiduity of a slow hound; being one of those long-winded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, are unrivalled for their talents in hunting it down. At every pause in the general conversation, he renewed his bantering in pretty much the same terms; winking hard at me with both eyes, whenever he gave Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the sub- ject, as old bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform me, in an undertone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously fine woman, and drove her own curricle. The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, and, though the old hall may have resounded in its time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I 1 From Poor Robin's Almanac. The Christmas Dinner. 225 doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him ; and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity to freshen into smiles ! The joyous disposition of the worthy squire was perfectly contagious; he was happy himself, and disposed to make all the world happy; and the little eccen- tricities of his humor did but season, in a manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, became still more animated ; many good things were broached which had been thought of during dinner, but which would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and though I cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit pro- duce much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs ; but honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial companionship equal to that where the jokes are rather small, and the laughter abundant. The squire told several long stories of early college pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had been a sharer ; though in looking at the latter, it required some effort of imagination to figure such a little dark anat- omy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures of what men may be made by their different lots in life. The squire had left the university to live lustily on his paternal domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and sun- shine, and had flourished on to a hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor parson, on the contrary, had dried and with- ered away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and shadows of his study. Still, there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly glimmering in the bottom of his soul ; and as the squire hinted at a sly story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid, whom they once met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentleman made an " alphabet of faces," which, as far as I could discipher his physiognomy, I verily 226 The Sketch- Booh. believe was indicative of laughter ; — indeed, I have rarely met with an old gentleman that took absolute offence at the imputed gallantries of his youth. I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier and louder as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew ; his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song about the wooing of a widow, which he informed me he had gathered from an excellent black-letter work, en- titled Cupid? s Solicitor for £ove, containing store of good advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend me : the first verse was to this effect : He that will woo a widow must not dally, He must make hay while the sun doth shine; He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, But boldly say Widow, thou must be mine. This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck in the middle, everybody recollecting the latter part excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show the effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, and his wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this juncture we were summoned to the drawing- room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a proper love of decorum. After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy holiday season, and could not help stealing out of the drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. I found them at the game of blind-man's-buff. Master The Christmas Dinner. 227 Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occasions to fulfil the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord of Misrule, 1 was blinded in the midst of the hall. The little beings were as busy about him as the mock fairies about Falstaff ; pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One fine blue- eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in beau- tiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was the chief tormentor; and from the slyness with which Mas- ter Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was convenient. When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the com- pany seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had been brought from the library for his particular accommodation. From this venerable piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark weazen face so admirably ac- corded, he was dealing out strange accounts of the popu- lar superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, with which he had become acquainted in the course of his antiquarian researches. I am half inclined to think that the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men are very apt to be who live a recluse and studious life in a sequestered part of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled with the mar- vellous and supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, concerning the effigy of the crusader, which lay on the tomb by the church altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in that part of the country, it had always been regarded with feel- ings of superstition by the good wives of the village. It was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of 1 At Christmasse there was in the Kinge's house, wheresoever hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, and the like had ye in the house of every nobleman of honor, or good worshippe, were he spirituall or temporall.— Stowe. 228 The Sketch-Booh. the churchyard in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered ; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered on the churchyard, had seen it through the windows of the church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over which the spectre kept watch ; and there was a story current of a sexton in old times, who endeavored to break his way to the coffin at night, but, just as he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble hand of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the pave- ment. These tales were often laughed at by some of the sturdier among the rustics, yet, when night came on, there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led across the churchyard. From these and other anecdotes that followed, the cru- sader apj^eared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, was thought by the servants to have something supernatural about it ; for they remarked that, in whatever part of the hall you went, the eyes of the warrior were still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who had been born and brought up in the family, and was a great gossip among the maid servants, affirmed, that in her young days she had often heard say, that on Midsummer eve, when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become visible and walk abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come down from his picture, ride about the house, down the avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb; on which occasion the church door most civ- illy swung open of itself; not that he needed it; for he rode through closed gates and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the dairymaids to pass between two bars of the great park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. All these superstitions I found had been very much The Christmas Dinner. 229 countenanced by the squire, who, though not supersti- tious himself, was very fond of seeing others so. He lis- tened to every goblin tale of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high favor on account of her talent for the marvellous. He was himself a great reader of old legends and romances, and often lamented that he could not believe in them ; for a superstitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairy land. Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds from the hall, in which were mingled something like the clang of rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of many small voices and girlish laughter. The door suddenly flew open, and a train came trooping into the room, that might almost have been mistaken for the breaking up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit, Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as lord of misrule, had con- ceived the idea of a Christmas mummery or masking ; and having called in to his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, who were equally ripe for anything that should occasion romping and merriment, they had carried it into instant effect. The old housekeeper had been con- sulted; the antique clothes-presses and wardrobes rum- maged, and made to yield up the relics of finery that had not seen the light for several generations ; the younger part of the company had been privately convened from the parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out, into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask. 1 Master Simon led the van, as Ancient Christmas, quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that might have served for a village steeple, and must indubitably have figured in the days of the Covenant- ers. From under this his nose curved boldly forth, flushed 1 Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas in old times; and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under contribu- tion to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisingg. I strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's Masque of Christmas. 230 The Sketch-Booh. with a frost-bitten bloom, that seemed the very trophy of a December blast. He was accompanied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as Dame Mince Pie, in the venerable magnificence of a faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat and high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sporting dress of Kendal green, and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, natural to a young gallant in the presence of his mistress. The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as Maid Marian. The rest of the train had been metamor- phosed in various ways ; the girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles of the Bracebridge line, and the strip- lings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent the character of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was under the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate char- acter of Misrule; and I observed that he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller person- ages of the pageant. The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, according to ancient custom, was the consummation of up- roar and merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory by the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless, though giggling, Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of all the characters, which, from its medley of costumes, seemed as though the old family portraits had skipped down from their frames to join in the sport. Different centuries were figuring at cross hands and right and left; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons; and the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle, through a line of succeeding generations. The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, not- The Christmas Dinner. 231 withstanding that the latter was discoursing most authen- tically on the ancient and stately dance of the Pavon, or peacock, from which he conceived the minuet to be derived. 1 For my part, I was in a continual excitement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and warm- hearted hospitality breaking out from among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and catching once more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the scene, from the consideration that these fleeting customs were posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only family in England in which the whole of them was still punctiliously observed. There was a quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest : it was suited to the time and place; and as the old manor-house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of long departed years. 2 But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time for me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions asked by my graver readers, " To what purpose is all this — how is the world to be made wiser by this talk?" Alas! is there not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the world ? And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improvement ? — It is so much pleasanter to please than to instruct — to play the companion rather than the preceptor. What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my sagest deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of 1 Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pavo, a peacock, says, " It is a grave and majestic dance; the method of dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns and long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock." — History of Music. 2 At the time of the first publication of this paper, the picture of an old- fashioned Christinas in the country was pronounced by some as out of date. The author had afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost all the cus- toms above described, existing in unexpected vigor in the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will find some notice of them in the author's account of his sojourn atNewstead Abbey. 232 The Sketch- Book. others? Bat in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my own disappointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reacler more in good humor with his fellow beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain. LONDON ANTIQUES. I do walk Metliinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lantkorn, Stealing to set the town o'rlre; i' th' country I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, Or Robin Goodfellow. Fletcher. I am somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am fond of exploring London in quest of the relics of old times. These are principally to be found in the depths of the city, swallowed up and almost lost in a wilderness of brick and mortar ; but deriving poetical and romantic interest from the commonplace prosaic world around them. I was struck with an instance of the kind in the course of a recent summer ramble into the city ; for the city is only to be explored to advantage in summer-time, when free from the smoke and fog, and rain and mud of winter. I had been buffeting for some time against the current of population setting through Fleet-street. The warm weather had unstrung my nerves, and made me sensitive to every jar and jostle and discordant sound. The flesh was weary, the spirit faint, and I was getting out of humor with the bustling busy throng through which I had to struggle, when in a fit of desperation I tore my way through the crowd, plunged into a by-lane, and after passing through several obscure nooks and angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet court with a grassplot in the centre, overhung by elms, and kept perpetually fresh and green by a fountain with its sparkling jet of water. A student with book in hand was seated on a stone bench, partly reading, partly meditating on the movements of two or three trim nursery maids with their infant charges. « I was like an Arab, who had suddenly come upon an 233 234 The Sketch-Booh. oasis amid the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees the quiet and coolness of the place soothed my nerves and refreshed my spirit. I pursued my walk, and came, hard by, to a very ancient chapel, with a low-browed Saxon portal of massive and rich architecture. The interior was circular and lofty, and lighted from above. Around were monumental tombs of ancient date, on which were extended the marble effigies of warriors in armor. Some had the hands devoutly crossed upon the breast; others grasped the pommel of the sword, menacing hostility even in the tomb ! — while the crossed legs of several indicated soldiers of the Faith who had been on crusades to the Holy Land. I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars, strangely situated in the very centre of sordid traffic; and I do not know a more impressive lesson for the man of the world than thus suddenly to turn aside from the highway of busy money-seeking life, and sit down among these shadowy sepulchres, where all is twilight, dust, and for- getfulness. In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered another of these relics of a " foregone world " locked up in the heart of the city. I had been wandering for some time through dull monotonous streets, destitute of anything to strike the eye or excite the imagination, when I beheld before me a Gothic gateway of mouldering antiquity. It opened into a spacious quadrangle forming the courtyard of a stately Gothic pile, the portal of which stood invitingly open. It was apparently a public edifice, and as I was antiquity hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps. Meeting no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued on until I found myself in a great hall, with a lofty arched roof and oaken gallery, all of Gothic architecture. At one end of the hall was an enormous fireplace, with wooden settles on each side ; at the other end was a raised platform, or dais, the seat of state, above which was the portrait of a man in antique garb, with a long robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray beard. The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet and seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm, was, London Antiques. 235 that I had not met with a human being since I had passed the threshold. Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a recess of a large bow window, which admitted a broad flood of yellow sunshine, checkered here and there by tints from panes of colored glass ; while an open casement let in the soft summer air. Here, leaning my head on my hand, and my arm on an old oaken table, I indulged in a sort of reverie about what might have been the ancient uses of this edifice. It had evidently been of monastic origin ; perhaps one of those collegiate establishments built of yore for the promotion of learning, where the patient monk, in the ample solitude of the cloister, added page to page and volume to volume, emulating in the productions of his brain the magnitude of the pile he inhabited. As I was seated in this musing mood, a small panelled door in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, and a number of gray-headed old men, clad in long black cloaks, came forth one by one; proceeding in that manner through the hall, without uttering a word, each turning a pale face on me as he passed, and disappearing through a door at the lower end. I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their black cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style of this most venerable and mysterious pile. It was as if the ghosts of the departed years, about which I had been musing, were passing in review before me. Pleasing myself with such fancies, I set out, in the spirit of romance, to explore what I pictured to myself a realm of shadows, existing in the very centre of substantial realities. My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior courts, and corridors, and dilapidated cloisters, for the main edifice had many additions and dependencies, built at various times and in various styles; in one open space a number of boys, who evidently belonged to the establishment, were at their sports; but everywhere I observed those mysterious old gray men in black mantels, sometimes sauntering alone, sometimes conversing in groups : they appeared to be the pervading genii of the place. I now called to mind what I 236 The Sketch-Booh. had read of certain colleges in old times, where judicial astrology, geomancy, necromancy, and other forbidden and magical sciences were taught. Was this an establishment of the kind, and were these black-cloaked old men really professors of the black art? These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of strange and uncouth objects ; implements of savage war- fare ; strange idols and stuffed alligators ; bottled serpents and monsters decorated the mantel-piece ; while on the high tester of an old-fashioned bedstead grinned a human skull, flanked on each side by a dried cat. I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic cham- ber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer, when I was startled at beholding a human countenance staring at me from a dusky corner. It was that of a small, shrivelled old man, with thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray, wiry projecting eyebrows. I at first doubted whether it were not a mummy curiously preserved, but it moved, and I saw that it was alive. It was another of these black- cloaked old men, and, as I regarded his quaint physiognomy, his obsolete garb, and the hideous and sinister objects by which he was surrounded, I began to persuade myself that I had come upon the arch mago, who ruled over this mag- ical fraternity. Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited me to enter. I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for how did I know whether a wave of his wand might not meta- morphose me into some strange monster, or conjure me into one of the bottles on his mantel-piece? He proved, however, to be anything but a conjurer, and his simple garrulity soon dispelled all the magic and mystery with which I had en- veloped this antiquated pile and its no less antiquated inhabitants. It appeared that I had made my way into the centre of an ancient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and de- cayed householders, with which was connected a school for a limited number of boys. It was founded upwards of two centuries since on an old monastic establishment, and re- London Antiques. 237 tained somewhat of the conventual air and character. The shadowy line of old men in black mantles who had passed before me in the hall, and whom I had elevated into magi, turned out to be the pensioners returning from morning service in the chapel. John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities, whom I had made the arch magician, had been for six years a resident of the place, and had decorated this final nestling- place of his old age with relics and rarities picked up in the course of his life. According to his own account he had been somewhat of a traveller ; having been once in France, and very near making a visit to Holland. He regretted not having visited the latter country, " as then he might have said he had been there." — He was evidently a traveller of the simplest kind. He was aristocratical too in his notions ; keeping aloof, as I found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His chief associates were a blind man who spoke Latin and Greek, of both which languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant ; and a broken-down gentleman who had run through a for- tune of forty thousand pounds left him by his father, and ten thousand pounds, the marriage portion of his wife. Little Hallum seemed to consider it an indubitable sign of gentle blood as well as of lofty spirit to be able to squander such enormous sums. P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into which I have thus beguiled the reader is what is called the Charter House, originally the Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611, on the remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, being one of those noble charities set on foot by individual munificence, and kept up with the quaintness and sanctity of ancient times amidst the modern changes and innovations of London. Here eighty broken-down men, who have seen better days, are provided, in their old age, with food, cloth- ing, fuel, and a yearly allowance for private expenses. They dine together as did the monks of old, in the hall which had been the refectory of the original convent. At- tached to the establishment is a school for forty-four boys. 238 The Sketch-Book. Stowe, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speak- ing of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says, " They are not to intermeddle with any business touching the affairs of the hospital, but to attend only to the service of God, and take thankfully what is provided for them, without muttering, murmuring, or grudging. None to wear weapon, long hair, colored boots, spurs or colored shoes, feathers in their hats, or any ruffian-like or unseemly apparel, but such as becomes hospital men to wear." " And in truth," adds Stowe, "happy are they that are so taken from the cares and sorrows of the world, and fixed in so good a place as these old men are ; having nothing to care for, but the good of their souls, to serve God and to live in brotherly love." For the amusement of such as have been interested by the preceding sketch, taken down from my own observation, and who may wish to know a little more about the mysteries of London, I subjoin a modicum of local history, put into my hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown wig and snuff-colored coat, with whom I became ac- quainted shortly after my visit to the Charter House. I confess I was a little dubious at first, whether it was not one of those apocryphal tales often passed off upon inquir- ing travellers like myself ; and which have brought our general character for veracity into such unmerited reproach. On making proper inquiries, however, I have received the most satisfactory assurances of the author's probity ; and, indeed, have been told that he is actually engaged in a full and particular account of the very interesting region in which he resides ; of which the following may be con- sidered merely as a foretaste. LITTLE BRITAIN. What I write is most true ... I have a whole booke of cases lying by me which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity with me. Nashe. In the centre of the great city of London lies a small neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of Little Britain. Christ Church School and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound it on the west ; Smith field and Long Lane on the north; Aldersgate-street, like an arm of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city; whilst the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Lane, and the regions of New- gate. Over this little territory, thus bounded and desig- nated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly pro- tection. This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient times the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and trade creeping on at their heels, took posses- sion of their deserted abodes. For some time Little Britain became the great mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolific race of booksellers ; these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating beyond the great strait of New- gate-street, settled down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's Churchyard, where they continue to increase and multiply even at the present day. But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears traces of its former splendor. There are several 240 The Sketch- Book. houses ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes : and fruits and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate-street, certain remains of what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but which have in latter days been subdivided into several tenements. Here may often be found the family of a petty tradesman, with its' trumpery furniture, burrowing among the relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling time- stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. The lanes and courts also contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale, but, like your small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. These have their gable ends to the street; great bow windows, with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and low arched doorways. 1 In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the second floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices. My sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small panels, and set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular respect for three or four high-backed claw-footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen better days, and have doubt- less figured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me to keep together, and to look down with sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors ; as I have seen decayed gentry carry a high head among the plebeian society with which they were reduced to associate. The whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow window; on the panes of which are recorded the names of previous occupants for many generations, mingled with scraps of very indifferent gentlemanlike poetry, written in characters which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has 1 It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has in- cluded, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. Little Britain. 241 long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an idle personage, with no apparent occupation, and pay my bill regular^ every week, I am looked upon as the only in- dependent gentleman of the neighborhood ; and, being curi- ous to learn the internal state of a community so apparently shut up within itself, I have managed to work my way into all the concerns and secrets of the place. Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the city; the stronghold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of London as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great pres- ervation many of the holiday games and customs of yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas ; they send love-letters on Valentine's Day, burn the pope on the fifth of November, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. Roast beef and plum pudding are also held in superstitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their grounds as the only true English wines ; all others being considered vile outlandish beverages. Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world ; such as the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls ; the figures that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock ; the Monument ; the lions in the Tower ; and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still believe in dreams and fortune- telling, and an old woman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsistence by de- tecting stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses ; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There are even many ghost stories current, particularly concerning the old mansion-houses; in several of which it is said strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full-bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up and down the great waste chambers, on 242 The Sketch-Book. moonlight nights; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses. Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of the most important of the former is a tall, dry old gen- tleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothe- cary's shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and projections; with a brown circle round each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is much thought of by the old women, who consider him as a kind of conjurer, because he has two or three stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much given to pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions ; which last phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He has always some dis- mal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers, w T ith their doses; and thus at the same time puts both soul and body into an uproar. He is a great believer in omens and pre- dictions; and has the prophecies of Robert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make so much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day ; and he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his customers and disciples until they were nearly frightened out of their wits. He has lately got hold of a popular legend or proph- ecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying current among the ancient sibyls, who treas- ure up these things, that when the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place. This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church ; and fearful to relate, the dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his workshop. " Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may go star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations Little Britain. 243 of astrologers." Since these portentous weather-cocks have thus laid their heads together, wonderful events had already occurred. The good old king, notwithstanding that he had lived eighty-two years, had all at once given up the ghost; another king had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had died suddenly — another, in France, had been murdered; there had been radical meetings in all parts of the king- dom; the bloody scenes at Manchester; the great plot in Cato Street ; — and, above all, the queen had returned to England ! All these sinister events are recorded by Mr. Skryme, with a mysterious look, and a dismal shake of the head ; and being taken with his drugs, and associated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title-page of tribu- lation, they have spread great gloom through the minds of the people of Little Britain. They shake their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they never expected any good to come of taking down that steeple, which in old times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history of Whittington and his Cat bears witness. The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese- monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed he is a man of no little standing and importance ; and his renown extends through Huggin Lane, and Lad Lane, and even unto Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much taken in affairs of state, having read the Sunday papers for the last half century, together with the Gentleman's Magazine, Rapin's History of England, and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with invaluable maxims which have borne the test of time and use for centuries. It is his firm opinion that " it is a moral impossible," so long as England is true to herself, that anything can shake her ; and he has much to say on the subject of national debt; which, somehow or other, he proves to be a great national bulwark and blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having become rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, 244 The Sketch-Book. he begins to take his pleasure and see the world. He has therefore made several excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, and other neighboring towns, where he has passed whole afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis through a telescope, and endeavoring to descry the steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coachman of Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches his hat as he passes; and he is consid- ered quite a patron at the coach- office of the Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His family have been very urgent for him to make an expedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed thinks himself too advanced in life to under- take sea-voyages. Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and party spirit ran very high at one time in consequence of two rival Burial Societies being set up in the place. One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse /S y Aoe,and was patronized by the cheesemonger ; the other at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary : it is needless to say that the latter was the most nourishing. I have passed an evening or two at each, and have acquired much valuable information, as to the best mode of being buried, the comparative merits of churchyards, together with divers hints on the subject of patent-iron coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its bearings as to the legality of prohibiting the latter on account of their durability. The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily died of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely solicitous of funereal honors and of lying comfortably in their graves. Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite a different caste, which tends to throw the sunshine of good-humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half -moon, with a most seductive bunch of grapes. The old edifice is covered with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer ; such as " Truman, Little Britain. 245 Han bury, and Co.'s Entire," « Wine, Rum, and Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom, Rum and Compounds, etc." This indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus from time immemorial. It has always been in the family of the Wagstaffs, so that its history is tolerably preserved by the present landlord. It was much frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the wits of Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstafi' principally prides himself upon is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his famous walking- staff. This however is considered as rather a dubious and vainglorious boast of the landlord. The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes by the name of The Roaring Lads of Little Britain. They abound in old catches, glees, and choice stories, that are traditional in the place, and not to be met with in any other part of the metropolis. There is a mad-cap under- taker who is inimitable at a merry song ; but the life of the club, and indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully Wagstaif himself. His ancestors were all wags before him, and he has inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from generation to gen- eration as heir-looms. He is a dapper little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red face, with a moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind. At the open- ing of every club night he is called in to sing his " Con- fession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl from Gammer Gurtorfs Needle. He sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as he received it from his father's lips ; for it has been a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written: nay, he affirms that his predecessors have often had the honor of singing it before the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Little Britain was in all its glory. 1 1 As mine host of the Half-Moon's "Confession of Faith "may not be familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would observe, that the whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful thump- ing on the table and clattering of pewter pots : 246 The Sketch-Book. It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, the shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue from this jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into a confectioner's window, or snuffing up the steams of a cook-shop. There are two annual events which produce great stir and sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholomew's fair, and the Lord Mayor's day. During the time of the fair, which is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gossiping and gadding about. I cannot eate but lytle ineate, My stomacke is not good, But sure I thinke, that I can drinke With him that weares a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I nothing am a colde, I stuff my skyn so full within, Of joly good ale and olde. Cliorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, Booth foote and hand go colde, But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe Whether it be new or olde. I have no rost, but a nut browne toste, And a crab laid in the fyre ; A little breade shall do me steade, Much breade I not desyre. No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, Can hurte mee, if I wolde, I am so wrapt and throwly lapt Of joly good ale and olde. Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. *And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, Loveth well good ale to seeke, Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, The teares run downe'her cheeke. Then doth she trowle to me the bowle, Even as a mault-worme sholde, And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte Of this joly good ale and olde. Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, Even as goode fellowes sholde doe. They shall not mysse to have the blisse, Good ale doth bring men to ; And all poore soules that have scowred bowles, Or have them lustily trolde, God save the lyves of them and their wives, Whether they be yonge or olde. Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. Little Britain. 247 The late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun with an irruption of strange figures and faces; every tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from the tap-room, morning, noon, and night; and at each window may be seen some group of boon companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth, and tank- ard in hand, fondling, and prosing, and singing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum of pri- vate families, which I must say is rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors, is no proof against this Satur- nalia. There is no such thing as keeping maid-servants within doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding with Punch and the Puppet Show; the Flying Horses; Signior Polito; the Fire-Eater; the celebrated Mr. Paap ; and the Irish Giant. The children, too, lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles. But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach with six horses as the summit of human splendor ; and his procession, with all the Sheriffs and Aldermen in his train, as the grandest of earthly pageants. How they exult in the idea, that the King himself dare not enter the city, without first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar, and asking per- mission of the Lord Mayor : for if he did, heaven and earth! there is no knowing what might be the consequence. The man in armor who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, has orders to cut down everybody that offends against the dignity of the city; and then there is the little man with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at the window of the state coach, and holds the city sword, as long as a pike-staff — Od's blood! If he once draws that sword, Majesty itself is not safe ! Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an effectual barrier against all interior foes; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw him- self into the Tower, call in the train bands, and put the 248 The Sketch-Book. standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid defiance to the world ! Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart to this great fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy John Bullism were garnered up, like seed corn, to renew the national character, when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony that prevailed throughout it; for though there might now and then be a few clashes of opin- ion between the adherents of the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial soci- eties, yet these were but transient clouds, and soon passed away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted with a shake of the hand, and never abused each other except behind their backs. I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at which I have been present; where we played at All- Fours, Pope- Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games; and where we sometimes had a good old English country dance to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. Once a year also the neighbors would gather together, and go on a gypsy party to Epping Forest. It would have done any man's heart good to see the merriment that took place here as we banqueted on the grass under the trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry undertaker ! After dinner, too, the young folks would play at blind-man's-buff and hide-and-seek; and it was amusing to see them tangled among the briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now and then squeak from among the bushes. The elder folks would gather round the cheesemonger and the apothecary, to hear them talk politics ; for they generally brought out a newspaper in their pockets, to pass away time in the coun- try. They would now and then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument; but their disputes were always adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella-maker in a double chin, who, never exactly comprehending the subject, Little Britain. 249 managed somehow or other to decide in favor of both parties. All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and inno- vation creep in ; factions arise ; and families now and then spring up, whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into confusion. Thus in latter days has the tran- quility of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners threatened with total subver- sion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. The family of the Lambs had long been among the most thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased when Old Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop, and put his name on a brass plate on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of being a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore three tower- ing ostrich feathers on her head. The family never got over it ; they were immediately smitten with a passion for high life ; set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the errand boy's hat, and have been the talk and detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since. They could no longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or Blind- man's-buff ; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain ; and they took to reading novels, talking bad French, and play- ing upon the piano. Their brother, too, who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts: and he con- founded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Jievieta. What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ; but they had a great deal of genteel company from Theo- bald's Road, Red Lion Square, and other parts towards the west. There were several beaux of their brother's acquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton Garden ; and not less than three Aldermen's ladies with their 250 The Sketch-Book. daughters. This was not to be forgotten or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar with the smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the rattling and the jingling of hackney coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping their night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by ; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that kept a look-out from a house just opposite the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every one that knocked at the door. This dance was the cause of almost open war, and the whole neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements with her quality acquaint- ance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some of her old cronies, " quite," as she would say, " in a friendly way"; and it is equally true that her invitations were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the con- trary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would condescend to strum an Irish melody for them on the piano ; and they would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family, of Portsoken- ward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved their consciences, and averted the reproaches of their confederates, by can- vassing at the next gossiping convocation everything that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout all to pieces. The only one of the family that could not be made fash- ionable was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe brush, and a broad face mottled like his own beef. It was in vain that the daughters ahvays spoke of him as "the old gentleman," addressed him as " papa," in tones of infi- nite softness, and endeavored to coax him into a dressing- gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there was no keeping down the butcher. His Little Britain. 251 sturdy nature would break through all their glozings. He had a hearty vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible. His very jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder; and he persisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at two o'clock, and having a "bit of sausage with his tea." He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his family. He found his old comrades gradually growing cold and civil to him ; no longer laughing at his jokes ; and now and then throwing out a fling at " some people," and a hint about " quality binding." This both nettled and per- plexed the honest butcher ; and his wife and daughters, with the consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advan- tage of the circumstance, at length prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon's pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's; to sit after dinner by himself, and take his pint of port — a liquor he detested — and to nod in his chair in solitary and dismal gentility. The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux; and talking and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves of every good lady within hearing. They even went so far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced a French dancing master to set up in the neighborhood ; but the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such precipitation, that he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely the overflowing of their zealfor good old English manners, and their horror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent contempt they were so vociferous in expressing, for up- start pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection had taken hold ; and that my neighbors, after condemning were be- ginning to follow their example. I overheard my land- lady importuning her husband to let their daughters have 252 The Sketch-Booh. one quarter at French and music, and that they might take a few lessons in quadrille. I even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than five French bonnets, pre- cisely like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little Britain. I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neigh- borhood; might die, or might run away with attorneys' apprentices ; and that quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the community. But unluckily a rival power arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a widow with a large jointure and a family of buxom daughters. The young ladies had long been repining in secret at the par- simony of a prudent father, which kept down all their elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being now no longer restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly took the field against the family of the butcher. It is true that the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances; but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be behindhand ; and though they might not boast of as good company, yet they had double the number, and were twice as merry. The whole community has at length divided itself into fashionable factions, under the banners of these two fam- ilies. The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely discarded; there is no such thing as getting up an honest country dance; and on my attempting to kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I was in- dignantly repulsed; the Miss Lambs having pronounced it " shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the most fashionable part of Little Britain ; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. Little Britain. 253 Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears ; and what will be the result would puzzle the apothecary him- self, with all his talent at prognostics, to determine ; though I apprehend that it will terminate in the total downfall of genuine John Bullism. The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore in high favor with both parties, and have to hear all their cabinet councils and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have com- mitted myself most horribly with both parties, by abusing their opponents. I might manage to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly accommodating one, but I can- not to my apprehension — if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation, and compare notes, I am ruined! I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and am actually looking out for some other nest in this great city, where old English manners are still kept up ; where French is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken ; and where there are no fashionable families of retired trades- men. This found, I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old house about my ears ; bid a long, though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode, and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trotters to divide the distracted empire of Little Britain. STRATFORD-ON-AVON. Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream; The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, For hallow' d the turf is which pillow' d his head. Gakkick. To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feel- ing of something like independence and territorial conse- quence, when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it may; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little parlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of life ; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day : and he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence, knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and mo- ments of enjoyment. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? " thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether Iliad rung. I understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, 254 Stratford-on-Avon. 255 and putting the Stratford Guide- Booh under my arm, as a pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakespeare, the Jubilee, and David Garrick. The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was about the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had sud- denly given way; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; and a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty. I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft of wool-combing. - It is a small, mean-looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peasant; and present a simple, but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like all other cele- brated shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very matchlock with which Shakespeare shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box ; which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh : the sword also with which he played Hamlet; and the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! There was an ample sup- ply also of Shakespeare's mulberry -tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powers of self-multplication as the wood of the true cross ; of which there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shake- 256 The Sketch-Book. speare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolving spit with all the longing of an urchin; or of an evening, listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the custom of every one that visits the house to sit ; whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say, I merely mention the fact; and mine hostess privately assured me, that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be new bottomed at least once in three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the his- tory of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter; for though sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old chimney corner. I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men; and would advise all travellers who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to us, whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can per- suade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality ? There is nothing like resolute good-humored credulity in these matters ; and on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, unluckily, for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own composition, which set all belief in her consan- guinity at defiance. From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the par- ish church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the /Stratford-on-Avon. 257 Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and retired : the river runs murmuring at the foot of the churchyard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the j^ard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown with grass; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have built their nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirping; and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty gray spire. In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows; and was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which pervade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and pol- ished, lay the family Bible and prayer-book, and the drawer contained the family library, composed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that important article of cottage furniture, ticked on the opposite side of the room: with a bright warming-pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jams. In one corner sat the old man's granddaughter sew- ing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, whom he addressed by the 258 The Sketch-Booh. name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his com- panion from childhood. They had played together in infancy; they had worked together in manhood; they were now tottering about and gossiping away the evening of life ; and in a short time they will probably be buried to- gether in the neighboring churchyard. It is not often that we see two streams of existence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom scenes" of life that they are to be met with. I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard from these ancient chronicles ; but they had nothing new to impart. The long interval during which Shake- speare's writings lay in comparative neglect has spread its shadow over his history ; and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely anything remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures. The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpenters on the preparation for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who, according to the sexton, was " a short punch man, very lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cut- ting down Shakespeare's mulberry-tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign quick- ener of literary conception. I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakespeare house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her valuable collection of relics, particularly her remains of the mulberry-tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to Shakespeare having been born in her house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb ; the latter having com- paratively but few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge into different channels even at the fountain head. We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with Stratford- on- Avon. 259 carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture and embellishments superior to those of most country churches. There are several ancient monu- ments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang fune- ral escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short dis- tance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been writ- ten by himself, and which have in them something ex- tremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which seems nat- ural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds. Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare To dig the dust enclosed here. Blessed be he that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones. Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely-arched forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he was as much characterized among his contempo- raries as by the vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age at the time of his decease — fifty-three years ; an untimely death for the world : for what fruit might not have been expected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissi- tudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favor. The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space 260 The Sketch-Book. almost like an arch, through which one might have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with his remains, so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, should be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished and the aperture closed again. He told me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones ; nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakespeare. Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe of usurious memory ; on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything that is not connected with Shakespeare. His idea pervades the place; the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence : other traces of him may be false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement, there was something intense and thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakespeare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place ; and as I passed through the churchyard, I plucked a branch from one of the yew-trees, the only relic that I have brought from Stratford. I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devo- tion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucy's, at Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shakespeare, in company with some of theroystersof Strat- ford, committed his youthful offence of deer-stealing. In this hare-brained exploit we are told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper's lodge, where he re- mained all night in doleful captivity. When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have been galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his Stratford- 0)1- Avon. 261 spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the park gate at Charlecot. 1 This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer-stalker. Shakespeare did not wait to brave the united puissance of a knight of the shire and a country attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon and his paternal trade ; wandered away to London ; became a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an actor ; and, finally, wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber, and the world gained an immortal poet. He retained, how- ever, for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself in his writ- ings; but in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by the justice's armorial bearings, which, like those of the knight, had white luces 2 in the quarterings. Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften and explain away this early transgression of the poet; but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his situation and turn of mind. Shakespeare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic temperament has naturally something in it of the vagabond. When left to itself it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in everything eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, - The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : — A parliament member, a justice of peace, At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. He thinks himself great; Yet an asse in his state. We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 2 The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot. 262 The Sketch-Book. whether a natural genius shall turn out a great rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shakespeare's mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have as daringly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws. I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was found to be in the company of all kinds of odd anoma- lous characters ; that he associated with all the madcaps of the place, and was one of those unlucky urchins, at men- tion of whom old men shake their heads, and predict that they will one day come to the gallows. To him the poach- ing in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and as yet untamed, imagination, as something delightfully adventurous. 1 The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly interesting, from being connected with this whimsical but eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house stood but little more than three miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedes- trian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of 1 A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and associates in his youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his Picturesque Views on the Avon. About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation of The Bedford Topers, and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. Among others, the people of Stratford were called out to prove the strength of their heads ; and in the number of the champions was Shakespeare, who, in spite of the proverb that " they who drink beer will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to carry them off the field. They had scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they were forced to lie down under a crab-tree, where they passed the night. It is still standing, and goes by the name of Shakespeare's tree. In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed return- ing to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drank with Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. " The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the epithets thus given them : the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the pipe and tabor; Hilborough is now called Haunted Hilborough; and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." Stratford- on- . I y on . 263 those scenes from which Shakespeare must have derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of the weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing over the senses ; to see the moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the green sprout and the tender blade : and trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. The cold snow-drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before the cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves and budding hedges; the robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain ; and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind Shakespeare's exquisite little song in Cyrn- beline : Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs, On chaliced flowers that lies. And winking mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet arise ! Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground : everything is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. Every old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft 264 The Sketch-Booh. into his dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a pop- ular amusement in winter evenings "to sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars." l My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and windings through a wide and fertile valley ; sometimes glittering from among willows, which fringed its bor- ders ; sometimes disappearing among groves, or beneath green banks; and sometimes rambling out into full view, and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the Avon. After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields, and under hedgerows, to a private gate at the park ; there was a stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; there being a public right of way through the grounds. I delight in these hospitable estates, in which every one has a kind of property — at least as far as the footpath is con- cerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recreation. He breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as the lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of pay- ing for it, and keeping it in order. I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and 1 Scot, in his Discoverie of Witchcraft, enumerates a host of these fireside fancies. "And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarf es. giantes, imps, calcars, conjurers, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin -good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the tier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowes." Stratford- on- Avon. 265 elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, with nothing to inter- rupt the view but a distant statue, and a vagrant deer stalk- ing like a shadow across the opening. There is something about these stately old avenues that has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of long duration, and of having had their origin in a period of time with which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also the long-settled dignity, and proudly-concentrated independence of an ancient family; and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that "money could do much with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there was no such thing as suddenly building up an avenue of oaks." It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shakespeare's commentators have sup- posed he derived his noble forest meditations of Jaques, and the enchanting woodland pictures in As You Like It. It is in lonely wanderings through such scenes, that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into revery and rapture; vague but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon it; and we revel in a mute and almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in some such mood, and perhaps under one of those very trees before me, which threw their broad shades over the grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little song which breathes the very soul of a rural volup- tuary : Under the green wood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry throat Unto the sweet bird's note, 266 The Sketch-Book. Come hither, come hither, come hither Here shall he see No enemy, But winter and rough weather. I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large build- ing of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from the park into a kind of courtyard in front of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbican ; being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers ; though evidently for mere ornament, instead of defence. The front of the house is completely in the old style; with stone-shafted casements, a great bow- window of heavy stone- work, and a portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weather-cock. The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just at the foot of a gently-sloping bank, which sweeps down from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon its borders ; and swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable old mansion, I called to mind Falstaff's encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference and real vanity of the latter : Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John : marry, good air. Whatever may have been the joviality of the old man- sion in the days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of still- ness and solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the courtyard was locked ; there was no show of ser- vants bustling about the place ; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer harried by the moss-troop- Stratford-on-Avon. 267 ers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life that I met with was a white cat, stealing with wary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly ab- horrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial power which was so strenuously manifested in the case of the bard. After prowling about for some time, I at length found my way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day en- trance to the mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civility and com- municativeness of her order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater part has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of living; there is a fine old oaken staircase ; and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still retains much of the appearance it must have had in the days of Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty ; and at one end is a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family por- traits. There is a wide hospitable fireplace, calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying- place of winter festivity. On the opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow- window, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the courtyard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was de- lighted to observe in the quarterings the three white luces, by which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having "beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken into his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offenses of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shal- 268 The Sketch-Book. low to be a caricature of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas. Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star- Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, Esq. Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. Slender. Ay, and ratolorum too, and a gentleman born, master parson; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quit- tance, or obligation, Armigero. Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done anytime these three hundred years. Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and all his ancestors that come after him may; they may give the dozen white luces in their coat.* * * * * Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no fear of Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. Shallow. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it! Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and in- formed me that this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of the fam- ily estate, among which was that part of the park where Shakespeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands thus lost had not been entirely regained by the family even at the present day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm. The picture which most attracted my attention was a great painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in the latter part of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vindictive knight himself, but the house- keeper assured me that it was his son ; the only likeness extant of the former being an effigy upon his tomb in the Stratford- on- Avon. 269 church of the neighboring hamlet of Charlecot. 1 The pic- ture gives a lively idea of the costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet ; white shoes with roses in them ; and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, "a Cain-colored beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side of the picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children have a most venerable stiffness and formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in the foreground, and one of the children holds a bow ; — all intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawk- ing and archery — so indispensable to an accomplished gentleman in those days. 2 I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country squire of former days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural domains ; and in which it might be presumed the 1 This effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in complete armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb is the following inscription : which, if really composed by her husband, places him quite above the intellectual level of Master Shallow : Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sr Thomas Lucy of Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire who departed out of this wretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true and faythful servant of her good God, never detected of any cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband most fayth- ful and true. In friendship most constant; to what in trust was com- mitted unto her most secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of her house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did converse with her moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospitality. Greatly es- teemed of her betters ; misliked of none unless of the envyous. When all is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with virtue as not to be bettered and hardlv to be equalled by any. As shee lived most virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowe what hath byn written to be true. Thomas Lucye. 2 Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, ob- serves, " his housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs, and serving-men attendant on their kennels; and the dee] ness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobilitv, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and lmveiiisfist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, " he kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, o'er, and badger; and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His irreat hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels." 270 The Sketch-Booh. redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state when the recreant Shakespeare was brought before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the morn- ing after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded by his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving-men, with their badges; while the luckless culprit was brought in, forlorn and chop- fallen, in the custody of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whip- pers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half-opened doors ; while from the gallery the fair daughters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, eying the youthful prisoner with that pity " that dwells in womanhood." — Who would thought that this poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority of a country squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the delight of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, the dictator to the human mind ; and was to confer im- mortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a last year's pippin of his own grafting, with a dish of cara- ways; " but I had already spent so much of the day in my ramblings that I was obliged to give up any further inves- tigations. When about to take my leave I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I would take some refreshment : an instance of good old hos- pitality which, I grieve to say, we castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the present representative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shakespeare, even in his carica- ture, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing instances to Falstaff. By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night ... I will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be ex- Stratford- on- Avon. 271 cused . . . Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell Wil- liam Cook. I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and characters connected, with it, that I seemed to be actually living among them. Everything brought them as it were before my eyes ; and as the door of the dining- room opened, I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth his favorite ditty : — "Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, And welcome merry Shrove-tide! On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the very face of nature ; to give to things and places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this " working-day world " into a perfect fairy land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell oper- ates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shakespeare I had been walking all day in a complete delusion. I had sur- veyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings ; with mere airy noth- ings, conjured up by poetic power ; yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak; had beheld the fair Rosalind and her com- panion adventuring through the woodlands; and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illu- sions ; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures in my checkered path ; and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life ! As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I 272 The Sketch- Book. paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the maledic- tion, which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor could his name have de- rived from being mingled in dusty companionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude ? What would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mauso- leum ! The solicitude about the grave may be but the off- spring of an over- wrought sensibility; but human nature is made up of foibles and prejudices ; and its best and tender- est affections are mingled with these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honor among his kindred and his early friends. And when the weary heart and failing head begin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should return to it covered with renown ; that his name should be- come the boast and glory of his native place ; that his ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious treasure; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle land- scape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not. Speech of an Indian Chief. There is something in the character and habits of the North American savage, taken in connection with the scenery over which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless forests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, wonderfully striking and sub- lime. He is formed for the wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, simple and enduring; fitted to grapple with difficulties and support privations. There seems but little soil in his heart for the support of the kindly virtues; and yet, if we would but take the trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism and ha- bitual taciturnity, which lock up his character from casual observation, we should find him linked to his fellow-man of civilized life by more of those sympathies and affections than are usually ascribed to him. It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged by the white men. They have been dispossessed of their hereditary possessions by mercenary and frequently wanton warfare ; and their characters have been traduced by bigoted and interested writers. The colonist often treated them like beasts of the forest; and the author has endeavored to justify him in his outrages. The for- mer found it easier to exterminate than to civilize; the latter to vilify than to discriminate. The appellations of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to sanction the hostilities of both ; and thus the poor wanderers of 273 274 The Sketch-Booh, the forest were persecuted and defamed, not because they were guilty, but because they were ignorant. The rights of the savage have seldom been properly ap- preciated or respected by the white man. In peace he has too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he has been regarded as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was a question of mere precaution and convenience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own safety is endangered, and he is sheltered by impunity; and little mercy is to be expected from him, when he feels the sting of the reptile and is conscious of the power to destroy. The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, exist in common circulation at the present day. Certain learned societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored to investigate and record the real characters and manners of the Indian tribes ; the American govern- ment, too, has wisely and humanely exerted itself to incul- cate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them, and to protect them from fraud and injustice. 1 The current opin- ion of the Indian character, however, is too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes which infest the frontiers, and hang on the skirts of the settlements. These are too com- monly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted and en- feebled by the vices of society, without being benefited by its civilization. That proud independence, which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed and daunted by the superior knowl- edge and power of their enlightened neighbors. Society has advanced upon them like one of those withering airs that will sometimes breed desolation over a whole region of fertility. It has enervated their strength, multiplied their diseases, and superinduced upon their original barbarity the 1 The American government has been indefatigable in its exertions to ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them the arts of civilization, and civil and religious knowledge. To protect them from the frauds of the white traders, no purchase of land from them by individ- uals is permitted ; nor is any person allowed to receive lands from them as a present, without the express sanction of government. These precautions are strictly enforced. Traits of Indian Character. 275 low vices of artificial life. It lias given them a thousand superfluous wants, whilst it has diminished their means of mere existence. It has driven before it the animals of the chase, who fly from the sound of the axe and the smoke of the 'settlement, and seek refuge in the depths of remoter forests and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find the Indians on our frontiers to be the mere wrecks and rem- nants of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the vi- cinity of the settlements, and sunk into a precarious and vag- abond existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in savage life, corrodes their spirits, and blights every free and noble quality of their na- tures. They become drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like vagrants about the settle- ments, among spacious dwellings replete with elaborate comforts, which only render them sensible of the compara- tive wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury spreads its ample board before their eyes ; but they are excluded from the banquet. Plenty revels over the fields ; but they are starving in the midst of its abundance : the whole wil- derness has blossomed into a garden ; but they feel as rep- tiles that infest it. How different was their state while yet the undisputed lords of the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means of gratification within their reach. They saw every one around them sharing the same lot, enduring the same hard- ships, feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in the same rude garments. No roof then rose, but was open to the homeless stranger; no smoke curled among the trees, but he was welcome to sit down by its fire, and join the hunter in his repast. "For," says an old historian of New Eng- land, " their life is so void of care, and they are so loving also, that they make use of those things they enjoy as com- mon goods, and are therein so compassionate, that rather than one should starve through want, they would starve all; thus they pass their time merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content with their own, which some men esteem so meanly of." Such were the Indians, whilst in the pride and energy of their primitive natures : they 276 The Sketch-Book. resemble those wild plants, which thrive best in the shades of the forest, but shrink from the hand of cultiva- tion, and perish beneath the influence of the sun. In discussing the savage character, writers have been too prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exag- geration, instead of the candid temper of true philosophy. They have not sufficiently considered the peculiar circum- stances in which the Indians have been placed, and the peculiar principles under which they have been educated. No being acts more rigidly from rule than the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated according to some general max- ims early implanted in his mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, but few ; but then he conforms to them all; — the white man abounds in laws of religion, morals, and manners, but how many does he violate ! A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wanton- ness with which, in time of apparent peace, they will sud- denly fly to hostilities. The intercourse of the white men with the Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, and insulting. They seldom treat them with that confidence and frankness which are indispensable to real friendship ; nor is sufficient caution observed not to offend against those feelings of pride or superstition, which often prompt the Indian to hostility quicker than mere con- siderations of interest. The solitary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are not diffused over so wide a surface as those of the white man ; but they run in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his affections, his superstitions, are all directed towards fewer objects; but the wounds inflicted on them are proportionably severe, and furnish motives of hostility which we cannot sufficiently appreciate. Where a community is also limited in number, and forms one great patriarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of the whole ; and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instantaneously diffused. One council fire is sufficient for the discussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the fighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and super- Traits of Indian Character. 277 stition combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator awakens their martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a kind of religious desperation, by the visions of the prophet and the dreamer. An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in an old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The planters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the Sachem's mother of some skins with which it had been decorated. The Indians are remarkable for the reverence which they entertain for the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when by chance they have been travel- ling in the vicinity, have been known to turn aside from the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accurate tradition, have crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in the woods, where the bones of their tribes were anciently deposited; and there have passed hours in silent meditation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been violated, gath- ered his men together, and addressed them in the following beautifully simple and pathetic harangue ; a curious speci- men of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial piety in a savage. " When last the glorious light of all the sky was under- neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes w^ere fast closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled ; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, < Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take revenge of those wild people who have defaced my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and honorable customs? See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the com- mon people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and implores thy aid against this thievish people, who have newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, 278 The Sketch-BooJc. I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to get some strength, and recollect my spirits that were fled, and determined to demand your counsel and assistance." I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and generous motives, which our inattention to Indian character and customs prevents our properly appreciating. Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes called nations, were never so formidable in their numbers, but that the loss of several warriors was sensibly felt ; this was particularly the case when they had been frequently engaged in warfare ; and many an instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, that had long been formidable to its neighbors, has been broken up and driven away, by the capture and massacre of its principal fight- ing men. There was a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor to be merciless ; not so much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for future security. The Indians had also the superstitious belief, frequent among barbarous nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, that the manes of their friends who had fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, who are not thus sacrificed, are adopted into their families in the place of the slain, and are treated with the confidence and affection of relatives and friends; nay, so hospitable and tender is their entertainment, that when the alterna- tive is offered them, they will often prefer to remain with their adopted brethren, rather than return to the home and the friends of their youth. The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was formerly a compliance with policy and superstition, has been exasperated into a gratification of vengeance. They Traits of Indian Character. 279 cannot but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the gradual destroyers of their race. They go forth to battle, smarting with injuries and indignities which they have individually suffered, and they are driven to madness and despair by the wide-spreading desolation, and the over- whelming ruin of European warfare. The whites have too frequently set them an example of violence, by burning their villages, and laying waste their slender means of subsist- ence : and yet they wonder that savages do not show mod- eration and magnanimity towards those who have left them nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treach- erous, because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to open force ; but in this they are fully justified by their rude code of honor. They are taught early that stratagem is praiseworthy ; the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take every advantage of his foe : he triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which he has been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone to subtilty than open valor, owing to his physical weakness in comparison with other animals. They are endowed with natural weapons of de- fence : with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; but man has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his en- counters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to strat- agem ; and when he perversely turns his hostility against his fellow-man, he at first continues the same subtile mode of warfare. The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to our enemy with the least harm to ourselves; and this of course is to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous cour- age which induces us to despise the suggestions of pru- dence, and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the off- spring of society, and produced by education. It is hon- orable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those yearnings after personal ease and security, which society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the 280 The Sketch-Booh. fear of shame ; and thus the dread of real evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil which exists but in the imagination. It has been cherished and stimulated also by various means. It has been the theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splendors of fiction ; and even the historian has forgotton the sober gravity of nar- ration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been its reward : monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and opulence its treasures, have been erected to per- petuate a nation's gratitude and admiration. Thus arti- ficially excited, courage has risen to an extraordinary and factitious degree of heroism : and arrayed in all the glori- ous " pomp and circumstance of war," this turbulent qual- ity has even been able to eclipse many of those quiet, but invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble the human char- acter, and swell the tide of human happiness. But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhi- bition of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and adventure are congenial to his nature ; or rather seem necessary to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to his existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, he is always prepared for fight, and lives with his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in fearful singleness through the solitudes of ocean ; — as the bird mingles among clouds and storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of air ; — so the Indian holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions may vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade of the knight-errant. He traverses vast forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and pin- ing famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no obstacles to his wanderings: in his light canoe of bark he sports, like a feather, on their waves, and darts, with the swiftness of an arrow, down the roaring rapids of the rivers. Traits of Indian Character. 281 His very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers of the chase : he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps among the thunders of the cataract. No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which he sustains its cruellest infliction. Indeed we here behold him rising superior to the white man, in con- sequence of his peculiar education. The latter rushes to glorious death at the cannon's mouth ; the former calmly contemplates its approach, and triumphantly endures it, amidst the varied torments of surrounding foes and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in tor- menting his persecutors, and provoking their ingenuity of torture : and as the devouring flames prey on his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an uncon- quered heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness that he dies without a groan. Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early histo- rians have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through, which throw a degree of melancholy lustre on their memo- ries. Facts are occasionally to be met with in the rude annals of the eastern provinces, which, though recorded with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for themselves ; and will be dwelt on with applause and sym- pathy, when prejudice shall have passed away. In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In one place we read of the surprisal of an Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams were wrapped in flames, and the miserable inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting to escape, " all being despatched and ended in the course of an hour." After a series of simi- lar transactions, " our soldiers," as the historian piously 282 The Sketch-Booh. observes, " being resolved by God's assistance to make a final destruction of them," the unhappy savages being hunted from their homes and fortresses, and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty, but gallant band, the sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, with their wives and children, took refuge in a swamp. Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by de- spair ; with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied igno- miny of their defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death to submission. As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dis- mal retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, their enemy " plied them with shot all the time, by which means many were killed and buried in the mire." In the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day some few broke through the besiegers and escaped into the woods : " the rest were left to the conquerors, of which many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit still and be shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore for mercy. When the day broke upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, " saw several heaps of them sitting close together, upon whom they discharged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol bullets at a time, putting the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of them ; so as, besides those that were found dead, many more were killed and sunk into the mire, and never were. minded more by friend or foe." Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, without admiring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of human nature? When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, they found the senators clothed in their robes, and seated with stern tranquillity in their curule chairs ; in this manner they suffered death without resist- Traits of Indian Character. 283 ance or even supplication. Such conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and magnanimous ; in the hapless Indian it was reviled as obstinate and sullen ! How truly are we the dupes of show and circumstance ! How dif- ferent is virtue, clothed in purple and enthroned in state, from virtue, naked and destitute, and perishing obscurely in a wilderness ! But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The eastern tribes have long since disappeared; the forests that sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of them in the thickly settled states of New England, excepting here and there the Indian name of a village or a stream. And such must, sooner or later, be the fate of those other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and have occasionally been inveigled from their forests to min- gle in the wars of white men. In a little while, and they will go the way that their brethren have gone before. The few hordes which still linger about the shores of Huron and Superior, and the tributary streams of the Mis- sissippi, will share the fate of those tribes that once spread over Massachusetts and Connecticut, and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the Susquehanna; and of those various nations that flourished about the Potomac and the Rappahannock, and that peopled the forests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like a vapor from the face of the earth ; their very history will be lost in forgetfulness ; and " the places that now know them will know them no more forever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of them should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the poet, to people in imagination his glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he venture upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness; should he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled, driven from their native abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers, hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and sent down with violence and butchery to the grave, posterity will either turn with horror and incredulity from the tale, or 284 The Sketch-Booh blush with indignation at the inhumanity of their fore- fathers. — " We are driven back," said an old warrior, "until we can retreat no farther — our hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are nearly extin- guished : — a little longer, and the white man will cease to persecute us — for we shall cease to exist ! " PHILIP OF POKANOKET. AN INDIAN MEMOIR. As monumental bronze unchanged his look ; A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook : Train' d from his tree-rock' d cradle to his bier The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. Campbell. It is to be regretted that those early writers, who treated of the discovery arid settlement of America, have not given us more particular and candid accounts of the re- markable characters that flourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have reached us are full of pecul- iarity and interest ; they furnish us with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in a comparatively primitive state, and what he owes to civilization. There is something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon these wild and unexplored tracts of human nature ; in witness- ing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment, and perceiving those generous and romantic qualities which have been artificially cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude magnificence. In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his fellow-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and peculiar traits of native character are refined away, or softened down by the levelling influence of what is termed good-breeding ; and he practises so many petty deceptions, and affects so many generous sentiments, for the purpose of popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from his artificial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints and refinements of pol- ished life, and, in a great degree, a solitary and independent 285 286 The Sketch-Book. being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment; and thus the attributes of his nature, be- ing freely indulged, grow singly great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, who would study nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the tor- rent, and dare the precipice. These reflections arose on casually looking through a volume of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great bitterness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the settlers of New England. It is painful to perceive even from these partial narratives, how the foot- steps of civilization may be traced in the blood of the abo- rigines; how easily the colonists were moved to hostility by the lust of conquest : how merciless and exterminating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, how many intellectual beings were hunted from the earth, how many brave and noble hearts, of nature's sterling coinage, were broken down and trampled in the dust. Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massa- chusetts and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a number of contemporary Sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the Narragansets, the Wampanoags, and the other eastern tribes, at the time of the first settlement of New England ; a band of native untaught heroes, who made the most generous struggle of which human nature is capa- ble ; fighting to the last gasp in the cause of their country, without a hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, and fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, like gigantic shad- ows, in the dim twilight of tradition. 1 When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called 1 While correcting the proof sheets of this article, the author is informed that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished an heroic poem on the story of Philip of Pokanoket. Philip of Pok'anoket. 287 by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation was to the last degree gloomy and disheart- ening. Few in number, and that number rapidly perish- ing away through sickness and hardships; surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage tribes; exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter, and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate ; their minds were filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved them from sinking into despondency but the strong excitement of religious enthu- siasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by Mas- sasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty number of the strangers, and expelling them from his territories, into which they had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a generous friendship, and extended towards them the rites of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by a mere handful of followers, entered into a solemn league of peace and amity ; sold them a portion of the soil, and promised to secure for them the good- will of his savage allies. What- ever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been im- peached. He continued a firm and magnanimous friend of the white men ; suffering them to extend their possessions, and to strengthen themselves in the land ; and betraying no jealousy of their increasing power and prosperity. Shortly before his death, he came once more to New Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the purpose of renewing the covenant of peace, and of securing it to his posterity. At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the mission- aries ; and stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw off his people from their ancient faith ; but finding the English obstinately opposed to any such condi- tion, he mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they had been named by the English), to the 288 The Sketch-Book. residence of a principal settler, recommending mutual kind- ness and confidence ; and entreating that the same love and amity which had existed between the white men and him- self might be continued afterwards with his children. The good old Sachem died in peace, and was happily gathered to his fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe ; his chil- dren remained behind to experience the ingratitude of white men. His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his hereditary rights and dignity. ' The intrusive policy and dictatorial conduct of the strangers excited his indignation ; and he beheld with uneasiness their exterminating wars with the neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of plotting with the Narragan- sets to rise against the English and drive them from the land. It is impossible to say whether this accusation was warranted by facts or was grounded on mere suspicion. It is evident, however, by the violent and overbearing meas- ures of the settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel conscious of the rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treatment of the natives. They despatched an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring him before their courts. He was traced to his woodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting house, where he was reposing with a band of his followers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The suddenness of his arrest, and the outrage offered to his sovereign dignity, so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud savage, as to throw him into a raging fever. He was permitted to return home, on condition of sending his son as a pledge for his reappearance : but the blow he had received was fatal, and before he had reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit. The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, or King Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him an object of great jealousy and apprehension, and he was Philip of Pokanoket. 289 accused of having always cherished a secret and implaca- ble hostility towards the whites. Such may very probably, and very naturally, have been the case. He considered them as originally but mere intruders into the country, who had presumed upon indulgence, and were extending an in- fluence baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race of his Countrymen melting before them from the face of the earth; their territories slipping from their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered and dependent. It may be said that the soil was originally purchased by the settlers; but who does not know the nature of Indian pur- chases, in the early periods of colonization ? The Euro- peans always made thrifty bargains through their superior adroitness in traffic ; and they gained vast accessions of territory by easily provoked hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements of law, by which an injury may be gradually and legally inflicted. Leading facts are all by which he judges ; and it was enough for Philip to know that before the intrusion of the Europeans his countrymen were lords of the soil, and that now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. But whatever may have been his feelings of general hos- tility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, he suppressed them for the present, renewed the contract with the settlers, and resided peaceably for many years at Pokanoket, or, as it was called by the English, Mount Hope, 1 the ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at first but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and substance ; and he was at length charged with attempting to instigate the vari- ous eastern tribes to rise at once, and by a simultaneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is diffi- cult at this distant period to assign the proper credit clue to these early accusations against the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence, on the part of the whites, that gave weight and importance to every idle tale. Informers abounded where talebearing 1 Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 290 The Sketch-Book. met with countenance and reward; and the sword was readily unsheathed when its success was certain, and it carved out empire. The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose nat- ural cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he had received among the settlers. He changed his faith and his allegiance two or three times, with a facility that evinced the looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as Philip's confidential secretary and coun- sellor, and had enjoyed his bounty and protection. Find- ing, however, that the clouds of adversity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his service and went over to the whites ; and, in order to gain their favor, charged his former benefactor with plotting against their safety. A rigorous investigation took place. Philip and several of his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing was proved against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too far to retract ; they had previously determined that Philip was a dangerous neighbor ; they had publicly evinced their distrust; and had done enough to insure his hostility ; according, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruction had become necessary to their security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was shortly afterwards found dead, in a pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one of whom was a friend and counsellor of Philip, were apprehended and tried, and, on the testimony of one very questionable witness, were condemned and executed as murderers. This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious punish- ment of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet awakened him to the gathering storm, and he determined to trust himself no longer in the power of the white men. The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled in his mind ; and he had a further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the Narragansets, who, after manfully facing his accus- ers before a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself Philip of Pohanoket. 291 from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, had been perfidiously dispatched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered his fighting men about him; persuaded all strangers that he could, to join his cause ; sent the women and children to the Narragansets for safety, and wherever he appeared, was continually sur- rounded by armed warriors. When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous, and committed various petty depredations. In one of their maraudings a warrior was fired on and killed by a settler. This was the signal for open hostilities ; the Indians pressed to revenge the death of their comrade, and the alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth colony. In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times we meet with many indications of the diseased state of the public mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, and the wildness of their situation, among trackless for- ests and savage tribes, had disposed the colonists to super- stitious fancies, and had filled their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. Thev were much given also to a belief in omens. The trouble's with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great and public calamities. The perfect form of an Indian bow appeared in the air at New Plymouth, which was looked upon by the inhabitants as a " prodigious apparition." At Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in their neighbor- hood, " was heard the report of a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking of the earth and a considerable echo." 1 Others were alarmed on a still, sunshiny morning by the discharge of guns and muskets; bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the air, seeming to pass away to the westward; others fancied that they heard the galloping of horses over their heads ; and certain monstrous births, which took place about the time, 1 The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 292 The Sketch-Book. filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebod- ings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to natural phenomena : to the northern lights which occur vividly in those latitudes ; the meteors which explode in the air ; the casual rushing of a blast through the top branches of the forest ; the crash of fallen trees or disrupted rocks; and to those other uncouth sounds and echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These may have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have been exaggerated by the love for the marvellous, and listened to with that avidity with which we devour what- ever is fearful and mysterious. The universal currency of these superstitious fancies, and the grave record made of them by one of the learned men of the day, are strongly characteristic of the times. The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and savages. On the part of the whites it was conducted with superior skill and success ; but with a wastefulness of the blood, and a disregard of the natural rights of their antag- onists: on the part of the Indians it was waged with the desperation of men fearless of death, and who had nothing to expect from peace, but humiliation, dependence, and decay. The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy clergyman of the time; who dwells with horror and indig- nation on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifi- able, whilst he mentions with applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a traitor ; without considering that he was a true-born prince, gallantly fighting at the head of his subjects to avenge the wrongs of his family ; to retrieve the tottering power of his line ; and to deliver his native land from the oppression of usurping strangers. The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and, had it not been prematurely discovered, might have been overwhelming in its consequences. The war that ac- Philip of Pol-anoket. 203 tually broke out was but a war of detail, a mere succession of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prowess of Philip; and wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations that have been given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind, a fertility of expe- dients, a contempt of suffering and hardship, and an un- conquerable resolution, that command our sympathy and applause. Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, be threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that skirted the settlements, and were almost imper- vious to anything but a wild beast, or an Indian. Here he gathered together his forces, like the storm accumulating its stores of mischief in the bosom of the thunder cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There were now and then indications of these impending ravages, that filled the minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension. The report of a distant gun would perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland, where there was known to be no white man ; the cattle which had been wandering in the woods would sometimes return home wounded; or an Indian or two would be seen lurking about the skirts of the for- ests, and suddenly disappearing ; as the lightning will some- times be seen playing silently about the edge of the cloud that is brewing up the tempest. Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by the settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would be lost to all search or inquiry, until he again emerged at some far distant quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his strongholds, were the great swamps or morasses, which extend in some parts of New England ; composed of loose bogs of deep black mud; perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds, rendered them almost impracticable to the white man, 294 The Sketch-Book. though the Indian could thrid their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven with a band of his followers. The English did not dare to pursue him, fear- ing to venture into these dark and frightful recesses, where they might perish in fens and miry pits, or be shot down by lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance to the Neck, and began to build a fort, with the thought of starving out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of the night, leaving the women and children behind; and escaped away to the westward, kindling the flames of war among the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck coun- try, and threatening the colony of Connecticut. In this way Philip became a theme of universal appre- hension. The mystery in which he was enveloped exagger- ated his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in darkness ; whose coming none could foresee, and against which none knew when to be on the alert. The whole coun- try abounded with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed almost possessed of ubiquity ; for, in whatever part of the widely extended frontier an irruption from the forest took place, Philip was said to be its leader. Many superstitious no- tions also were circulated concerning him. He was said to deal in necromancy, and to be attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, whom he consulted, and who assisted him by her charms and incantations. This indeed was fre- quently the case with Indian chiefs; either through their own credulity, or to act upon that of their followers ; and the influence of the prophet and the dreamer over Indian superstition has been fully evidenced in recent instances of savage warfare. At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset, his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had been thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the whole of his resources. In this time of adversity he found a faithful friend in Canonchet, chief Sachem of all the Nar- ragansets. He was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great Sachem, who, as already mentioned, after an honor- Philip of Pokanoket. 295 able acquittal of the charge of conspiracy, had been pri- vately put to death at the perfidious instigations of the settlers. " He was the heir," says the old chronicler, " of all his father's pride and insolence, as well as of his malice towards the English ; " — he certainly was the heir of his insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his mur- der. Though he had forborne to take an active part in this hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his broken forces with open arms ; and gave them the most generous counte- nance and support. This at once drew upon him the hos- tility of the English ; and it was determined to strike a signal blow that should involve both the Sachems in one common ruin. A great force was therefore gathered to- gether from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and was sent into the Narraganset country in the depth of win- ter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, could be traversed with comparative facility, and would no longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians. Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the greater part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, the women and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress; where he and Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their forces. This fortress, deemed by the Indians impreg- nable, was situated upon a rising mound or kind of island, of five or six acres, in the midst of a swamp ; it was con- structed with a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed in Indian fortification, and indicative of the martial genius of these two chieftains. Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, through December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumul- tuous. The assailants were repulsed in their first attack, and several of their bravest officers were shot down in the act of storming the fortress sword in hand. The assault was renewed with greater success. A lodgment was effected. The Indians were driven from one post to another. They disputed their ground inch by inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most of their veterans were cut to pieces; and after a long and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, with 296 The Sketch-Book. a handful of surviving warriors, retreated from the fort, and took refuge in the thickets of the surrounding forest. The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; the whole was soon in a blaze; many of the old men, the women, and the children perished in the flames. This last outrage overcame even the stoicism of the savage. The neighboring woods resounded with the yells of rage and despair, uttered by the fugitive warriors, as they beheld the destruction of their dwellings, and heard the agonizing cries of their wives and offspring. " The burning of the wigwams," says a contemporary writer, " the shrieks and cries of the women and children, and the yelling of the war- riors, exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, so that it greatly moved some of the soldiers." The same writer cautiously adds, " they were in much doubt then, and after- wards seriously inquired, whether burning their enemies alive could be consistent with humanity, and the benevo- lent principles of the Gospel." l The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of particular mention : the last scene of his life is one of the noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. Broken down in his power and resources by this signal defeat, yet faithful to his ally, and to the hapless cause which he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on condition of betraying Philip and his followers, and declared that "he would fight it out to the last man, rather than become a servant to the English." His home being destroyed, his country harassed and laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors, he was obliged to wander away to the banks of the Connecticut ; where he formed a rallying point to the whole body of western Indians, and laid waste several of the English settlements. Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedi- tion, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed corn to plant for the sustenance of his troops. This little band of adventurers had passed safely through the Pequod country, and were in the centre of the Narraganset, resting at some MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. Philip of Pokanoket. 297 wigwams near Pawtucket River, when an alarm was given of an approaching enemy. Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet despatched two of them to the top of a neighboring hill, to bring intelligence of the foe. Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger. Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. He then sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and affright, told him that the whole British army was at hand. Canonchet saw there was no choice but immediate flight. He attempted to escape round the hill, but was perceived and hotly pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him to be Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This accident so struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards confessed, " his heart and his bowels turned within him, and he became like a rotten stick, void of strength." To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized by a Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he made no resistance, though a man of great vigor of body and boldness of heart. But on being made prisoner the whole pride of his spirit arose within him ; and from that moment, we find, in the anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of elevated and prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of the English who first came up with him, and who had attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted warrior, looking with lofty con- tempt upon his youthful countenance, replied, « You are a child — you cannot understand matters of war — let your brother or your chief come — him will I answer." Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on condition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any pro- 298 The Sketch- Booh. posals of the kind to the great body of his subjects ; saying, that he knew none of them would comply. Being re- proached with his breach of faith towards the whites ; his boast that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag nor the paring of a Wampanoag's nail ; and his threat that he would burn the English alive in their houses ; he disdained to justify himself, haughtily answering that others were as forward for the war as himself, and " he desired to hear no more thereof." So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the generous and the brave ; but Canonchet was an Indian; a being towards whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no compassion — he was condemned to die. The last words of him that are recorded, are worthy the greatness of his soul. When sentence of death was passed upon him, he observed "that he liked it well, for he should die before his heart was soft, or he had spoken anything unworthy of himself." His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for he was shot at Stoningham, by three young Sachems of his own rank. The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death of Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by stirring up the Mohawks to take arms ; but though pos- sessed of the native talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the superior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution of the neighboring tribes. The unfortunate chief- tain saw himself daily stripped of power, and his ranks rap- idly thinning around him. Some were suborned by the whites; others fell victims to hunger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which they were harassed. His stores were all captured ; his chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes ; his uncle was shot down by his side ; his sister was carried into captivity ; and in one of his narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his beloved wife and only son to the mercy of the enemy. " His ruin," says the historian, " being thus gradually carried on, his Philip of PokanoJcet. 299 misery was not prevented, but augmented thereby, being himself made acquainted with the sense and experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family rela- tions, and being stripped of all outward comforts, before his own life should be taken away." To till up the measure of his misfortunes, his own follow- ers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they might purchase dishonorable safety. Through treach- ery a number of his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was among them at the time, and at- tempted to make her escape by crossing a neighboring river : either exhausted by swimming, or starved by cold and hun- ger, she was found dead and naked near the water side. But persecution ceased not at the grave. Even death, the refuge of the wretched, where the wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no protection to this outcast female, whose great crime was affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. Her corpse was the object of unmanly and dastardly vengeance ; the head was severed from the body and set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton, to the view of her captive subjects. They immediately rec- ognized the features of their unfortunate queen, and were so affected by this barbarous spectacle, that we are told they broke forth into the " most horrid and diabolical lamenta- tions." However Philip had borne up against the complicated miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treach- ery of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despondency. It is said that "he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had success in any of his designs." The spring of hope was broken — the ardor of enterprise was extinguished — he looked around, and all was danger and darkness ; there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of followers, who still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the 300 The Sketch-BooJc. ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked about, like a spectre, among the scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family and friend. There needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous situation, than that furnished by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. " Philip," he says, " like a savage wild beast, having been hunted by the English forces through the woods, above a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death came by divine permission to exe- cute vengeance upon him." Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sul- len grandeur gathers around his memory. We picture him to ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, brood- ing in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. Defeated, but not dismayed — crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce satis- faction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but great minds rise above it. The very idea of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to death one of his follow- ers, who proposed an expedient of peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were immediately despatched to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. Before he was aware of their approach, they had begun to surround him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet ; all resistance was vain ; he rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt to escape, but was shot through the heart by a renegado Indian of his own nation. Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate King Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dis- Philip of JPokanoket. 301 honored when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty character suf- ficient to awaken sympathy for his fate, and respect for his memory. We find that, amidst all the harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal tenderness, and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity of his "beloved wife and only son " are mentioned with ex- ultation as causing him poignant misery : the death of any near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities; but the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, and to have bereaved him of all further comfort. He was a patriot attached to his native soil — a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, and with an untamable love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the forests or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to sub- mission, and live dependent and despised in the ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior, and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the his- torian ; he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and tempest — without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle. JOHN BULL. An old song, made by an aged old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. Like an old courtier, etc. Old Song. There is no species of humor in which the English more excel, than that which consists in caricaturing and giving ludicrous appellations, or nicknames. In this way they have whimsically designated, not merely individuals, but nations ; and, in their fondness for pushing a joke, they have not spared even themselves. One would think that, in personifying itself, a nation would be apt to picture something grand, heroic, and imposing; but it is character- istic of the peculiar humor of the English, and of their love for what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they have embodied their national oddities in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered hat, red waist- coat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most pri- vate foibles in a laughable point of view ; and have been so successful in their delineations, that there is scarcely a being in actual existence more absolutely present to the public mind than that eccentric personage, John Bull. Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the nation ; and thus to give reality to what at first may have been painted in a great measure from the imagination. Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are continually ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem 302 John Bull. 303 wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal which they have formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. Unluckity, they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism an apolog}^ for their prejudice and grossness ; and this I have especially no- ticed among those truly homebred and genuine sons of the soil who have never migrated beyond the sound of Bow- bells. If one of these should be a little uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths, he confesses that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If he now and then flies into an unreasonable burst of passion about trifles, he observes, that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his passion is over in a moment, and he bears no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insen- sibility to foreign refinements, he thanks heaven for his ignorance — he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and nicknacks. His very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under the plea of munificence — for John is always more generous than wise. Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict him- self of being the honestest fellow in existence. However little, therefore, the character may have suited in the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, or rather they have adapted themselves to each other; and a stranger who wishes to study English pecu- liarities, may gather much valuable information from the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one of those fertile humorists, that are continually throwing out new portraits, and presenting different aspects from different points of view; and, often as he has been de- scribed, I cannot resist the temptation to give a slight sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. John Bull, to all appearances, is a plain downright matter- of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich prose. There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor more 304 The Sketch-Book. than in wit ; is jolly rather than gay : melancholy rather than morose ; can easily be moved to a sudden tear, or sur- prised into a broad laugh ; but he loathes sentiment, and has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you allow him to have his humor, and to talk about him- self; and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life and purse, however soundly he may be cudgelled. In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, who thinks not merely for himself and family, but for all the country round, and is most generously disposed to be every- body's champion. He is continually volunteering his ser- vices to settle his neighbors' affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter of consequence with- out asking his advice ; though he seldom engages in any friendly office of the kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with all parties, and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the noble science of defence, and having accomplished himself in the use of his limbs and his weapons, and become a per- fect master at boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a trouble- some life of it ever since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant of his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to fumble with the head of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor does not require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed he has extended his relations of pride and policy so completely over the whole country, that no event can take place, without infringing some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in his little domain, with these filaments stretching forth in every direction, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old spider, who has woven his web over a whole chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling his repose, and causing him to sally forth wrathfully from his den. Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of contention. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he only relishes the beginning of an affray ; he always goes John Bull. 305 into a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling even when victorious ; and though no one fights with more obstinacy to carry a contested point, yet when the battle is over, and he comes to the reconciliation, he is so much taken up with the mere shaking of hands, that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all that they have been quarrel- ling about. It is not, therefore, fighting that he ought so much to be on his guard against, as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him out of a farthing ; but put him in a good humor, and you may bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. He is like a stout ship, which will weather the roughest storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard in the succeeding calm. He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of pulling out a long purse ; flinging his money bravely about at boxing matches, horse races, cock fights, and carrying a high head among " gentlemen of the fancy : " but immedi- ately after one of these fits of extravagance, he will be taken with violent qualms of economy ; stop short at the most trivial expenditure ; talk desperately of being ruined and brought upon the parish ; and, in such moods, will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill, without violent alterca- tion. He is in fact the most punctual and discontented paymaster in the world ; drawing his coin out of his breeches pocket with infinite reluctance ; paying to the uttermost farthing, but accompanying every guinea with a growl. With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful provider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how he may afford to be extravagant ; for he will begrudge himself a beefsteak and pint of port one day, that he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors on the next. His domestic establishment is enormously expensive : not so much from any great outward parade, as from the great consumption of solid beef and pudding; the vast number of followers he feeds and clothes ; and his singular dispo- sition to pay hugely for small services. He is a most kind 306 The Sketch-Booh. and indulgent master, and, provided his servants humor his peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little now and then, and do not peculate grossly on him before his face, they may manage him to perfection. Everything that lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat. His house-servants are well paid, and pampered, and have little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and prance slowly before his state carriage ; and his house-dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will hardly bark at a house-breaker. His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray with age, and of a most venerable, though weather-beaten appearance. It has been built upon no regular plan, but is a vast accumulation of parts, erected in various tastes and ages. The centre bears evident traces of Saxon architec- ture, and is as solid as ponderous stone and old English oak can make it. Like all the relics of that style, it is full of obscure passages, intricate mazes, and dusky chambers ; and though these have been partially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many places where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have been made to the original edifice from time to time, and great alterations have taken place ; towers and battlements have been erected during wars and tumults : wings built in time of peace ; and out- houses, lodges, and oftices, run up according to the whim or convenience of different generations, until it has become one of the most spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. An entire wing is taken up with the family chapel, a rever- end pile, that must have been exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of having been altered and simplified at various periods, has still a look of solemn religious pomp. Its walls within are storied with the monuments of John's ancestors ; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions and well-lined chairs, where such of his family as are inclined to church services, may doze comfortably in the discharge of their duties. To keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; but he is staunch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the circumstance that many dissenting chapels have been erected in his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with whom he has had quarrels, are strong papists. John Bull. 307 To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most learned and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in his opin- ions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the children when refractory, and is of great use in exhorting the tenants to read their Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all, to pay their rents punctually, and without grumbling. The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn magnificence of former times; fitted up with rich, though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of massy gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting halls, all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which the modern festivity at the manor-house is but a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of rooms apparently deserted and time-worn ; and towers and tur- rets that are tottering to decay ; so that in high winds there is danger of their tumbling about the ears of the house- hold. John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice thoroughly overhauled ; and to have some of the useless parts pulled down, and the others strengthened with their materials ; but the old gentleman always grows testy on this subject. He swears the house is an excellent house — that it is tight and weather proof, and not to be shaken by tempests — that it has stood for several hundred years, and, therefore, is not likely to tumble down now — that as to its being inconvenient, his family is accustomed to the incon- veniences, and would not be comfortable without them — that as to its unwieldy size and irregular construction, these result from its being the growth of centuries, and being improved by the wisdom of every generation — that an old family, like his, requires a large house to dwell in ; new, upstart families may live in modern cottages and snug boxes ; but an old English family should inhabit an old English manor-house. If you point out any part of the 308 The Sketch-Booh. building as superfluous, he insists that it is material to the strength or decoration of the rest, and the harmony of the whole ; and swears that the parts are so built into each other, that if you pull down one, you run the risk of having the whole about your ears. The secret of the matter is, that John has a great dispo- sition to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to the dignity of an ancient and honorable family, to be bounteous in its appointments, and to be eaten up by dependents ; and so, partly from pride, and partly from kindheartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter and maintenance to his superannuated servants. The consequence is, that, like many other venerable family establishments, his manor is encumbered by old retainers whom he cannot turn off, and an old style which he cannot lay down. His mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use in housing some useless personage. Groups of veteran beef- eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired heroes of the buttery and the larder, are seen lolling about its walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches at its doors. Every office and out-house is garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their families ; for they are amazingly prolific, and when they die off, are sure to leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. A mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldering tumble-down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or loop- hole, the gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, who has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes the most grievous outcry at their pulling down the roof from over the head of a worn-out servant of the family. This is an appeal that John's honest heart never can withstand ; so that a man, who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding all his life, is sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard in his old days. A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, where his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze undisturbed for the remainder of their existence — a worthy John Bull. 309 example of grateful recollection, which if some of his neigh- bors were to imitate, would not be to their discredit. In- deed, it is one of his great pleasures to point out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good qualities, extol their past services, and boast, with some little vainglory, of the perilous adventures and hardy exploits through which they have carried him. He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family usages, and family incumbrances, to a whimsical extent. His manor is infested by gangs of gypsies ; yet he will not suffer them to be driven off, because they have infested the place time out of mind, and been regular poachers upon every generation of the family. He will scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from the great trees that surround the house, lest it should molest the rooks, that have bred there for centuries. Owls have taken possession of the dovecote ; but they are hereditary owls, and must not be disturbed. Swallows have nearly choked up every chimney with their nests ; martins build in every frieze and cornice ; crows flutter about the towers, and perch on every weather- cock; and old gray-headed rats may be seen in every quarter of the house, running in and out of their holes un- dauntedly in broad daylight. In short, John has such a reverence for everything that has been long in the family, that he will not hear even of abuses being reformed, because they are good old family abuses. All these whims and habits have concurred woefully to drain the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself on punctuality in money matters, and wishes to maintain his credit in the neighborhood, they have caused him great perplexity in meeting his engagements. This, too, has been increased by the altercations and heart-burnings which are continually taking place in his family. His children have been brought up to different callings, and are of different ways of thinking ; and as they have always been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do not fail to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the present posture of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the race, and are clear that the old establishment should be kept up in all its 310 The Sketch-Book. state, whatever maybe the cost; others, who are more pru- dent and considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench his expenses, and to put his whole system of housekeeping on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their whole- some advice has been completely defeated by the obstreper- ous conduct of one of his sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects his business to frequent ale-houses — is the orator of village clubs, and a complete oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants. No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention reform or retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes the words out of their mouths, and roars out for an overturn. When his tongue is once going nothing can stop it. He rants about the room ; hectors the old man about his spendthrift prac- tices ; ridicules his tastes and pursuits ; insists that he shall turn the old servants out of doors ; give the broken-down horses to the hounds ; send the fat chaplain packing, and take a field preacher in his place — nay, that the whole family mansion shall be levelled with the ground, and a plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He rails at every social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives up to the door. Though constantly complaining of the emptiness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket-money in these tavern convocations, and even runs urj scores for the liquor over which he preaches about his father's extravagance. It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has become so irritable, from repeated crossings, that the mere mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter is too sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run so high, that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer who has served abroad, but is at present living at home on half-pay. This last is sure to stand by the old gentleman, right or John Bull. 311 wrong; likes nothing so much as a racketing, roystering life ; and is ready at a wink or nod, to out sabre, and flour- ish it over the orator's head, if he dares to array himself against paternal authority. These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and are rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. People begin to look wise, and shake their heads, whenever his affairs are mentioned. They all " hope that matters are not so bad with him as represented ; but when a man's own children begin to rail at his extravagance, things must be badly managed. They understand he is mortgaged over head and ears, and is continually dabbling with money lenders. He is certainly an open-handed old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too fast ; indeed, they never knew any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, revelling, and prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very tine one, and has been in the family a long time ; but, for all that, they have known many finer estates come to the hammer." What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and smug rosy face, which he used to present, he has of late become as shrivelled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days when he sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about him like a mainsail in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, and apparently have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy legs. Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three- cornered hat on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and bring- ing it down every moment with a hearty thump upon the ground ; looking every one sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave of a catch or a drinking song ; he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself, with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches pockets, which are evidently empty. 312 The Sketch-Book. Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet for all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathy or con- cern, he takes fire in an instant ; swears that he is the rich- est and stoutest fellow in the country ; talks of laying out large sums to adorn his house or buy another estate ; and with a valiant swagger and grasping of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to have another bout at quarter-staff. Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation with- out strong feelings of interest. With all his odd humors and obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good as his neighbors represent him. His virtues are all his own ; all plain, homebred, and unaffected. His very faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His extravagance savors of his generosity; his quarrelsomeness of his courage; his credulity of his open faith; his vanity of his pride; and his bluntness of his sincerity. They are all the redundancies of a rich and liberal character. Pie is like his own oak, rough without, but sound and solid within ; whose bark abounds with excrescences in proportion to the growth and grandeur of the timber ; and whose branches make a fear- ful groaning and murmuring in the least storm, from their very magnitude and luxuriance. There is something, too, in the appearance of his old family mansion that is ex- tremely poetical and picturesque ; and, as long as it can be rendered comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble to see it meddled with, during the present conflict of tastes and opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good architects, that might be of service ; but many, I fear, are mere levellers, who, when they had once got to work with their mattocks on this venerable edifice, would never stop until they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is, that John's present troubles may teach him more prudence in future ; that he may cease to distress his mind about other people's affairs ; that he may give up the fruitless attempt to pro- John Bull. 313 mote the good of his neighbors, and the peace and happiness of the world, by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at home ; gradually get his house into repair ; cul- tivate his rich estate according to his fancy ; husband his income — if he thinks proper ; bring his unruly children into order — if he can ; renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity; and long enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, an honorable, and a merry old age. THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. May no wolfe howle ; or screech-owle stir A wing about thy sepulcher! No boysterouse winds or stormes come hither, To starve or wither Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring, Love keep it ever flourishing. Herrick. In 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 secluded parts of the country, and stopped one afternoon at a village, the situa- tion 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 carved ornament, peered through the ver- dant covering. It was a lovely evening. The early part of the day had been dark and showery, but in the afternoon it had cleared up ; and though sullen clouds still hung over- head, 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. The Pride of the Village. 315 I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on past scenes and early friends — on those who were distant and those who were dead — and indulging in that kind of melancholy 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 unison with the scene, and, instead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings ; 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 reap- peared 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 un- married female. The corpse was followed by the parents. They were a venerable couple of the better order of peas- antry. 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, were 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 youthful companions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the 316 The Sketch-Book. assurance, that the dead are blessed which die in the Lord ; but the mother only thought of her child as a flower of the field cut down and withered in the midst of its sweetness; she was like Rachel, " mourning over her children, and would not be comforted." On returning to the inn, I 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 was an only child, and brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity of rural life. She had been the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little flock. The good man watched over her education with paternal care ; it was 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 par- ents, and the exemption from all ordinary occupations, 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 manners. It might be truly said of her : " This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever Ran on the green-sward; nothing she does or seems. But smacks of something greater than herself ; Too noble for this place." The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint observance of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, 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 vil- The Pride of the Village. 317 lage 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 situa- tion 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 mak- ing it more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of the 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 wonder that they should readily win a heart, young, guileless, and sus- ceptible? As to her, she loved almost unconsciously ; she scarcely inquired what was the 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 318 The Sketch-Book. figure of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his mil- itary attire, might 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 un worthiness. 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 triumph of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of - spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart had not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a wandering and a dissipated life: it caught fire from the very flame it sought to kindle ; and before 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 on a proud and unyielding father — all for- bade him to think of matrimony: — but when he looked down upon this innocent being, so tender and confiding, there was a purity in her manners, a blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching modesty in her looks that awed down every licentious feeling. In vain did he try to fortify 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 : The Pride of the Village. 319 whenever he came into her presence, she was still sur- rounded by that mysterious but impassive charm of virgin purity in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought can live. The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to the continent completed the confusion of his mind. He remained for a short time in a state of the most painful irresolution ; he 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 kissed the tears from her soft cheek ; nor did he meet with a repulse, for there are moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness, which hallow the caresses of affec- tion. 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 com- prehend 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 repent- ant. 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-re- proach, and stifled his tenderness ; yet, amidst the stir of 320 The Sketch- Book. 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 loiter- ing along it, leaning on his arm, and listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious affection. The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruction 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 melan- choly. 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 trum- pet, 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. Some- times 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 bloom, and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses around the form, they would make way for her, as for something spirit- ual, 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 The Pride of the Village. 321 it was extinguished. 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 con- duct was the cause. She even depicted the sufferings which she had experienced; but concluded with saying, that she could not die in peace, until she had sent him her forgive- ness and her blessing. By degrees her strength 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 blossom of their hopes, still flattering them- selves 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 afternoon ; 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 around 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 vil- lage church ; the bell had tolled for the evening service ; the last villager was lagging into the porch; and every- thing had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over some faces, had given to hers the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue eye. — Was she thinking of her faithless lover? — or were her thoughts wandering to that distant churchyard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered ? 322 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, yet 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 gathered of this village story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little novelty to recommend them. In the present rage also for strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and 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 place since, and visited the church again, from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a wintry evening; the trees were stripped of their foliage ; the 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. I have seen many monuments, where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of the spec- tator, but I have met with none that spoke more touchingly to my heart, than this simple but delicate memento of departed innocence. THE ANGLER. This day dame Nature seem'd in love, The lusty sap began to move, Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines And birds had drawn their valentines. The jealous trout that low did lie, Rose at a well-dissembled flic There stood my friend, with patient skill, Attending of his trembling quill. Sir H. Wotton. It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run away from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring life, from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I sus- pect that, in like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle rods in hand, may trace the origin of their passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studying his Complete Angler several years since, in com- pany with a knot of friends in America, and moreover that we were all completely bitten with the angling mania. It was early in the year ; but as soon as the weather was auspicious, and the spring began to melt into the verge of summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the coun- try, as stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading books of chivalry. One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness of his equipments : being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. He wore a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters; a basket slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod, a landing net, and a score of other inconveniences, only to be found in the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of stare and wonderment among 323 324 The Sketch-Booh. the country folk, who had never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of La Mancha among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the highlands of the Hudson ; a most unfortunate place for the execution of those piscatory tactics which had been invented along the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was one of those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to fill the sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the trees threw their broad balancing sprays, and long nameless weeds hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping with diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs ; and, after this termagant career, would steal forth into open day with the most placid demure face imaginable ; as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after fill- ing her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling out of doors, swimming and courtesying, and smiling upon all the world. How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such times, through some bosom of green meadow-land among the mountains : where the quiet was only interrupted by the occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among the clover, or the sound of a woodcutter's axe from the neighboring forest. For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport that require either patience or adroitness, and had not angled above half an hour before I had completely " satisfied the sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is something like poetry — a man must be born to it. I hooked myself instead of the fish ; tangled my line in every tree ; lost my bait ; broke my rod ; until I gave up the attempt in despair, and passed the day under the trees, reading old Izaak ; satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that had bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. My companions, however, were more persevering in their The Angler. 325 delusion. I have them at this moment before my eyes, stealing along the border of the brook, where it lay open to the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising with hollow scream as they break in upon his rarely invaded haunt ; the kingfisher watch- ing them suspiciously from his dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill-pond, in the gorge of the hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways from off the stone or log on which he is sunning himself ; and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and spreading an alarm throughout the watery world around. I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and creeping about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lub- berly country urchin came down from the hills with a rod made from a branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall help me ! I believe a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm — and in half an hour caught more fish than we had nibbles throughout the day ! But, above all, I recollect, the " good, honest, wholesome, hungry " repast, which we made under a beech-tree, just by a spring of pure sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill ; and how, when it was over, one of the party read old Izaak Walton's scene with the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass and built castles in a bright pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. All this may appear like mere egotism ; yet I cannot refrain from uttering these recollections, which are passing like a strain of music over my mind, and have been called up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed not long since. In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beau- tiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a group seated on the margin. On approaching, I found it to consist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very much but very carefully patched, betokening poverty, honestly come by, and decently maintained. His face bore the marks of former storms, but present fair 326 The Sketch-Booh. weather; its furrows had been worn into an habitual smile ; his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had alto- gether the good-humored air of a constitutional philosopher who was disposed to take the world as it went. One of his companions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to any gentleman's fish-pond in the neighborhood in the dark- est night. The other was a tall, awkward, country lad, with a lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was busy in examining the maw of a trout which he had just killed, to discover by its contents what insects were seasonable for bait; and was lecturing on the subject to his companions, who appeared to listen with infinite deference. I have a kind feeling towards all " brothers of the angle," ever since I read Izaak Walton. They are men he affirms of a "mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit " ; and my esteem for them has been increased since I met with an old Tretyse of fishing with the Angle, in which are set forth many of the maxims of their inoffensive fra- ternity. "Take good hede," sayeth this honest little tretyse, "that in going about your disportes ye open no man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to the encreasing and sparing of your money only, but principally for your solace, and to cause the helth of your body and specyally of your soule." * I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before me an exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards him. I could not but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped from one part of the brook to another ; waving his rod in the air, to keep the line from dragging on the ground, or catching among the bushes ; and the adroitness with which he would throw his fly to 1 From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more industri- ous and devout employment than it is generally considered. — "For when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, which might let you of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge effectually your customable prayers. And thus doying,ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydlenes, which is a principall cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is right well known." The Angler. 327 any particular place; sometimes skimming it lightly along a little rapid ; sometimes casting it into one of those dark holes macle by a twisted root or overhanging bank in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile he was giving instructions to his two disciples; showing them the manner in which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, and play them along the surface of the stream. The scene brought to my mind the instructions of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The country around was of that pastoral kind which Walton is fond of describing. It was a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where the interior Welsh hills begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows. The day, too, like that recorded in his work, w r as mild and sunshiny, with now and then a soft-dropping shower, that sowed the whole earth with diamonds. I soon fell into conversation w T ith the old angler, and was so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving instructions in his art, I kept company with him almost the whole day; wandering along the banks of the stream, and listening to his talk. He was very communicative, having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age ; and I fancy was a little flattered by having an opportunity of displaying his piscatory lore ; for who does not like now and then to play the sage ? He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed some years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, where he had entered into trade, and had been ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He had afterwards experienced many ups and downs, in life, until he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by a cannon ball, at the battle of Camperdown. This was the only stroke of real good fortune he had ever experienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with some small paternal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his native village, where he lived quietly and independently ; and devoted the remainder of his life to the " noble art of angling." I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and 328 The Sketch-Booh. he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted about the world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, was good and beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in different countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor and kindness, appearing to look only on the good side of things : and, above all, he was almost the only man I had ever met with who had been an unfortunate adven- turer in America, and had honesty and magnanimity enough to take the fault to his own door, and not to curse the country. The lad that was receiving his instructions, I learnt, was the son and heir apparent of a fat old widow who kept the village inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, and much courted by the idle gentlemanlike personages of the place. In taking him under his care, therefore, the old man had probably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room, and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. There is certainly something in angling — if we could for- get, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted on worms and insects — that tends to produce a gentleness of spirit, and a pure serenity of mind. As the English are methodical even in their recreations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, it has been reduced among them to perfect rule and system. Indeed it is an amuse- ment peculiarly adapted to the mild and highly-cultivated scenery of England, where every roughness has been soft- ened away from the landscape. It is delightful to saunter along those limpid streams which wander, like veins of silver, through the bosom of this beautiful country ; leading one through a diversity of small home scenery; sometimes winding through ornamented grounds; sometimes brimming along through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled with sweet-smelling flowers ; sometimes venturing in sight of villages and hamlets, and then running capri- ciously away into shady retirements. The sweetness and serenity of nature, and the quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing ; which are now The Angler. 329 and then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the distant whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish, leaping out of the still water, and skimming transiently about its glassy surface. " When I would beget content," says Izaak Walton, " and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other little living creatures that are not only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in him." I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the same innocent and happy sjririt : Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace; And on the world and my Creator think: Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace; And others spend their time in base excess Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill ; So I the fields and meadows green may view, And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, Among the daisies and the violets blue, Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil. x On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place of abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the village a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him out. I found him living in a small cottage, con- taining only one room, but a perfect curiosity in its method and arrangement. It was on the skirts of the village, on a green bank, a little back from the road, with a small garden in front, stocked with kitchen herbs, and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the cottage was overrun 1 J. Davors. 330 The Sketch-Booh. with a honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a weather- cock. The interior was fitted up in a truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and convenience having been acquired on the berth-deck of a man-of-war. A hammock was slung from the ceiling, which, in the daytime, was lashed up so as to take but little room. From the centre of the chamber hung a model of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table, and a large sea-chest, formed the principal movables. About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such as Admiral Hosier's Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom Bowline, intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, among which the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place. The mantel-piece was decorated with sea-shells; over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of most bitter-looking naval commanders. His implements for angling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the room. On a shelf was arranged his library, con- taining a work on angling, much worn, a Bible covered with canvas, an odd volume or two of voyages, a nautical almanac, and a book of songs. His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated himself, in the course of one of his voyages ; and which uttered a variety of sea phrases with the hoarse brattling tone of a veteran boatswain. The establishment reminded me of that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe; it was kept in neat order, everything being « stowed away" with the regularity of a ship of war ; and he informed me that he " scoured the deck every morning, and swept it between meals." I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung in the centre of his cage. He had been angling all day, and gave me a history of his sport with as much minuteness as a general would talk over a campaign ; being particularly animated in relating the manner in which he had taken a large trout, which had completely tasked all his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the inn. The Angler. 331 How comforting it is to see a eheerfnl and contented old age ; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being tem- pest-tost through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the evening of his days ! His happiness, how- ever, sprung from within himself, and was independent of external circumstances; for he had that inexhaustible good- nature, which is the most precious gift of Heaven ; spread- ing itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought, and keep- ing the mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather. On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was a universal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the tap- room ; where he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sinbad, astonished them with his stories of strange lands, and shipwrecks, and sea-fights. He was much no- ticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neighborhood ; had taught several of them the art of angling ; and was a priv- ileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being principally passed about the neighboring streams, when the weather and season were favorable ; and at other times he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing tackle for the next campaign, or man- ufacturing rods, nets, and flies, for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his particular request that when he died he should be buried in a green spot, which he could see from his seat in church, and which he had marked out ever since he was a boy, and had thought of when far from home on the raging sea, in danger of being food for the fishes — it was the spot where his father and mother had been buried. I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ; but I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy " brother of the angle " ; who has made me more than ever in love with the theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in the practice of his art : and I will conclude this rambling sketch in the words of honest Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing of St. Peter's master upon my reader, "and upon all that are true lovers of virtue; and dare trust in his Providence ; and be quiet ; and go a " angling." THE LEGEND OF S L E E P Y H O L L O W. FOUND AMONG THE PAPEES OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKEEBOCKEK. A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half -shut eye ; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky. Castle of Indolence. In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occa- sional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squir- rel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades 332 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 333 one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neigh- boring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the settlement ; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Mas- ter Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvel- lous beliefs ; are subject to trances and visions; and fre- quently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon ball, in some nameless battle during the revolution- ary war ; and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the val- 334 The Sketch- Book. ley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and espec- ially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. In- deed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the float- ing facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head ; and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the church- yard before daybreak. Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows ; and the spectre is known, at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by everyone who re- sides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative — to dream dreams, and see apparitions. I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, manners, and customs, remain fixed ; while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this rest- less country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water which border a rapid stream; where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undis- turbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its shel- tered bosom, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 335 In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane; who so- journed, or, as he expressed it, " tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut ; a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woods- men and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but ex- ceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock, perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window shutters; so that, though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out; an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a bee-hive ; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command ; or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery 336 The Sketch- Book. path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." — Ichabod Crane's scholars cer- tainly were not spoiled. I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of their subjects ; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence ; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called " doing his duty by their parents " ; and he never inflicted a chas- tisement without following it by the assurance, so consola- tory to the smarting urchin, that " he would remember it, and thank him for it the longest day he had to live." When school hours were over, he was even the compan- ion and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday after- noons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda ; but to help out his main- tenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed. With these he lived suc- cessively a week at a time ; thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both use- The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 337 fill and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms; helped to make hay; mended the fences ; took the horses to water ; drove the cows from pasture ; and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers ; where, in his own mind, he completely car- ried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation ; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that chnrch, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little make- shifts in that ingenious way which is commonly denom- inated " by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who under- stood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonder- fully easy life of it. The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being consid- ered a kind of idle gentlemanlike personage, of vastly su- perior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a su- pernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man of letters, there- 338 The Sketch- Book. fore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the church- yard, between services on Sundays ! Gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travel- ling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house ; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's History of New England Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed. He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence in this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capa- cious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful wood- land, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination ; the moan of the whip-poor-will 1 from the hillside ; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm ; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of i The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 339 uncommon brightness would stream across his path ; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; — and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody, " in linked sweet- ness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and par- ticularly of the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would de- light them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut ; and would frighten them wofully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars ; and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy ! But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud- dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to "show his face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk home- wards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night ! — With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant win- dow ! — How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path ! — How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his 340 The Sketch-Bool: feet ; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him ! — and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phan- toms of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely peram- bulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils ; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in spite of the devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was — a woman. Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a sub- stantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; plump as a partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam ; the tempting stomacher of the olden time ; and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round. Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex ; and it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes ; more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm - } but within those everything was snug, happy, and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 341 well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty abun- dance, rather than the style in which he lived. His strong- hold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it ; at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well, formed of a barrel ; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn that might have served for a church; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resound- ing within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves ; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens ; whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoin- ing pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks ; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a war- rior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart — some- times tearing up the earth with his feet, and then gener- ously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his de- vouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting- pig running about with a pudding in his belly and an apple in his mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a com- 342 The Sketch-Book. fortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relish- ing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a neck- lace of savory sausages ; and even bright chanticleer him- self lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burthened with ruddy fruit, which sur- rounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and pre- sented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling be- neath ; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Ten- nessee, or the Lord knows where. When he entered the house the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers ; the low pro- jecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Tinder this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 343 formed the centre of the mansion and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun ; in another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom ; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables, shone like mirrors; and irons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops ; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantel- piece ; strings of various colored birds' eggs w r ere sus- pended above it ; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well- mended china. From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Yan Tassel. In this enterprise, how- ever, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight- errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily con- quered adversaries, to contend with ; and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart was confined ; all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie ; and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of wdiims and caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments ; and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic ad- mirers, who beset every portal to her heart ; keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against any new competitor. Among these, the most formidable one was a burly, roar- 344 The Sketch-Book. ing, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, accord- ing to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double- jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had received the nickname of Brom Bones, by which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock-fights ; and, with the ascendency which bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition ; and, with all his overbear- ing roughness, there was a' strong dash of waggish good- humor at the bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks ; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, " Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang ! " The neigh- bors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good- will; and when any madcap prank, or rustic brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 345 gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, " sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in despair and carried the war into other quarters. Such was the formidable rival with whomlchabod Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack — yielding, but tough ; though he bent, he never broke ; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away — jerk ! he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating manner. Undercover of his character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farm- house ; not that he had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul ; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior who, armed with a 346 The Sketch-Book. sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access ; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for the man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is there- fore entitled to some renown ; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Cer- tain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former rapidly declined ; his horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have settled their pretensions to the lady according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights- errant of yore — by single combat ; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him : he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would " double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own schoolhouse " ; and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something ex- tremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whim- sical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing school, by stopping up the chimney ; broke into The Legend of Bleep y Hollo tc. 347 the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fasten- ings of withe and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy : so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportu- nities of turning him into ridicule in the presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in psalmody. In this way matters went on for some time, without pro- ducing any material effect on the relative situation of the contending powers. On a line autumnal afternoon, Icha- bod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little lit- erary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power ; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers ; while on the desk before him might be seen sundry con- traband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins ; such as half-munched apples, pop- guns, whirligigs, fly- cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master ; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned about the schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry- making or "quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and having delivered his message with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, Avhich a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away, up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission. 348 The Sketch- Bo oh. All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, without stopping at trifles ; those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves, ink- stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early emancipation. The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school- house. That he might make his appearance before his mis- tress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Kipper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had out- lived almost everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral ; but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had lire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal ; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurk- ing devil in him than in any young filly in the country. Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 349 the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abun- dance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yel- low, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field. The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note ; and the twitter- ing blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the golden- winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little monteiro cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white under-clothes ; screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pre- tending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove. As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with de- 350 The Sketch- Book. light over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples ; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees ; some gathered into baskets and bar- rels for the market : others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample pros- pects of the most luxurious of pies ; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and gar- nished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and " sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark-gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging use- lessly against the mast ; and as the reflection of the sky gleamecl along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air. It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 351 Their brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted shortgowns, homespun petticoats, with scis- sors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or per- haps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square-skirted coats with rows of stupen- dous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious dis- play of red and white ; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to the experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, the ten- derer oly koek, and the crisp crumbling cruller ; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple-pies and peach-pies and pumpkin-pies ; besides slices of ham and smoked beef ; and moreover delectable dishes of pre- served plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces ; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst — 352 The Sketch-Booh. Heaven bless the mark ! I want breadth and time to dis- cuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer ; and whose spirits rose with eating as some men's do, with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old schoolhouse ; snap his finger in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade ! Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good-humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to "fall to, and help themselves." And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accom- panying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head ; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought Saint Vitas himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the ad- miration of all the negroes ; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 353 forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the fiogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? the lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner. When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawing out long stories about the war. This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly-favored places which abound with chronicle and great men. The British and American line had run near it during the war ; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding, and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit. There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue- bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate witli an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White plains, being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, insomuch that he abso- lutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at the hilt : in proof of which he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination. But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and supersti- 354 The Sketch-Booh. tions thrive best in these sheltered long-settled retreats ; but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Be- sides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away from the neighbor- hood ; so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities. The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of su- pernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region ; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infect- ing all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Yan Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights be- fore a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spec- tre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been several times of late, patrolling the country ; and who, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard. The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hud- The Legend of /Sleepy Hollow. 355 son. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sun- beams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge ; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. This was one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman ; and the place where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbe- liever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvel- lous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the gal- loping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but, just as they came to the church-bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire. All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers 356 The Sketch-Boole. gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually died away — and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, accord- ing to the custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, how- ever, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chop-fallen. — Oh these women ! these women ! Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks ? — Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival? — Heaven only knows, not I ! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen- roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover. It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel home- wards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarrytown, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watch- dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from tins faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 357 long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farmhouse away among the hills — but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if sleep- ing uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker ; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip- tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations told concerning it. As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle : he thought his whistle was answered — it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white hanging in the midst of the tree — he paused and ceased whistling ; but on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan — his teeth chattered and his knees smote against the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him. 358 The Sketch-Booh. About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark. As he approached the stream his heart began to thump ; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge ; but instead of starting for- ward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with his contrary foot : it was all in vain ; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffing and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this mo- ment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller. The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escap- ing ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind ? Summoning up, therefore, a show The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 359 of courage, lie demanded in stammering accents — " Who are you " ? He received no reply. lie repeated his de- mand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with invol- untary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and way- wardness. Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind — the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him ; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gi- gantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror- struck, on perceiving that he was headless ! — but his horror was still more increased, on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of the saddle : his terror rose to desperation ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip — but the spectre started full jump with him. Away then they dashed, through thick and thin; 360 The Sketch-Booh. stones flying, and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the sad- dle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and he had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind — for it was his Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for petty fears ; the goblin was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider that he was !) he had much ado to maintain his seat ; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's back-bone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder. An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflec- tion of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones' ghostly competitor had disap- peared. "If I can but reach that bridge," thought Icha- bod, " I am safe." Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him ; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge ; he thun- The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 361 dered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side ; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash — he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpow- der, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind. The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast — dinner-hour came, but no Icha- bod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious sj:>eed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Icha- bod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. The brook was searched but the body of the school- master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half ; two stocks for the neck ; a pair or two of worsted stockings ; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of psalm tunes, full of dog's ears ; and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling ; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of 362 The Sketch-Book. verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper ; who from that time for- ward determined to send his children no more to school ; observing, that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disappearance. The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others, were called to mind ; and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him. The school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead. It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit several years after, and from whom this account of ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at hav- ing been suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country ; had kept school and studied law at the same time, had been ad- mitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin, which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. Postscript. 363 The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening tire. The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The schoolhouse being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the ploughboy, loitering homeward of a still summer even- ing, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. POSTSCRIPT, FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor, — he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry- looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout: now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds — when they have reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove ? The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked 364 The Sketch- Book. at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed, that the story was intended most logically to prove : — " That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it: " That therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to have rough riding of it. " Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the state." The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed, that all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the extravagant — there were one or two points on which he had his doubts. "Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, " as to that matter, I don't believe one-half of it myself." D. K. L'ENVOY.i Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, And specially let this be thy prayere, Unto them all that thee will read or hear, Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, Thee to correct in any part or all. Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Mercie. In concluding a second volume of the Sketch-Book, the Author cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with which his first has been received, and of the liberal disposition that has been evinced to treat him with kind- ness as a stranger. Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by others, he has found to be a singularly gentle and good-natured race ; it is true that each has in turn objected to some one or two articles, and that these individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would amount almost to a total condemnation of his work ; but then he has been consoled by observing, that what one has particu- larly censured, another has as particularly praised ; and thus, the encomiums being set off against the objections, he finds his work, upon the whole, commended far beyond its deserts. He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this kind favor by not following the counsel that has been lib- erally bestowed upon him; for where abundance of valua- ble advice is given gratis it may seem a man's own fault if he should go astray. He can only say, in his vindication, that he faithfully determined, for a time, to govern himself in his second volume by the opinions passed upon his first; but he was soon brought to a stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly advised him to avoid the 1 Closing the second volume of the London edition. 366 The Sketch-Booh. ludicrous ; another to shun the pathetic ; a third assured him that he was tolerable at description, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone; while a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knack of turning a story, and was really entertaining when in a pensive mood, but was grievously mistaken if he imagined himself to possess a spirit of humor. Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in turn closed some particular path, but left him all the world beside to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels would, in fact, be to stand still. He remained for a time sadly embarrassed ; when, all at once, the thought struck him to ramble on as he had begun ; that his work being miscellaneous, and written for different humors, it could not be expected that any one would be pleased with the whole ; but that if it should contain something to suit each reader, his end would be completely answered. Few guests sit down to a varied table with an equal appetite for every dish. One has an elegant horror of a roasted pig ; another holds a curry or a devil in utter abomination ; a third can- not tolerate the ancient flavor of venison and wild fowl; and a fourth, of truly masculine stomach, looks with sove- reign contempt on those knick-knacks, here and there dished up for the ladies. Thus each article is condemned in its turn ; and yet, amidst this variety of appetites, seldom does a dish go away from the table without being tasted and relished by some one or other of the guests. With these considerations he ventures to serve up this second volume in the same heterogeneous way with his first; simply requesting the reader, if he should find here and there something to please him, to rest assured that it was written expressly for intelligent readers like himself ; but entreating him, should he find anything to dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those articles which the author has been obliged to write for readers of a less refined taste. To be serious. — The author is conscious of the numerous faults and imperfections of his work ; and well aware how little he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of authorship. His deficiencies are also increased by a diffi- L> Envoy. 367 dence arising from his peculiar situation. He finds him- self writing in a strange land, and appearing before a public which he has been accustomed, from childhood, to regard with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. He is full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet finds that very solicitude continually embarrassing his powers, and de- priving him of that ease and confidence which are neces- sary to successful exertion. Still the kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier footing ; and thus he proceeds, half venturing, half shrinking, surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering at his own temerity. APPENDIX NOTES CONCERNING WESTMINSTER ABBEY. Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain, under the dominion of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry, Pope Gregory the Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo- Saxon youths exposed for sale in the market-place at Rome, con- ceived a fancy for the race, and determined to send missionaries to preach the gospel among these comely but benighted islanders. He was encouraged to this by learning that Ethelbert, king of Kent, and the most potent of the Anglo-Saxon princes, had mar- ried Bertha, a Christian princess, only daughter of the king of Paris, and that she was allowed by stipulation the full exercise of her religion. The shrewd pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters of religious faith. He forthwith despatched Augustine, a Roman monk, with forty associates, to the court of Ethelbert at Canter- bury, to effect the conversion of the king and to obtain through him a foothold in the island. Ethelbert received them warily, and held a conference in the open air; being distrustful of foreign priestcraft, and fearful of spells and magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him as good a Christian as his wife ; the conversion of the king of course produced the conversion of his loyal subjects. The zeal and suc- cess of Augustine were rewarded by his being made archbishop of Canterbury, and being endowed with authority over all the British churches. One of the most prominent converts was Segebert or Sebert, king of the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned at London, of which Mellitus, one of the Roman monks who had come over with Augustine, was made bishop. Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the river side to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of Apollo, being, in fact, the origin of the present pile of West- minster Abbey. Great preparations were made for the consecra- tion of the church, which was to be dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of the appointed day, Mellitus, the bishop, proceeded with great pomp and solemnity to perform the ceremony. On approaching the edifice he was met by a fisherman, who informed him that it was needless to proceed, as the ceremony was over. Appendix. 369 The bishop stared with surprise, when the fisherman went on to relate, that the night before, as he was in his boat on the Thames, St. Peter appeared to him, and told him that he intended to con- secrate the church himself, that very night. The apostle accord- ingly went into the church, which suddenly became illuminated. The ceremony was performed in sumptuous style, accompanied by strains of heavenly music and clouds of fragrant incense. After this, the apostle came into the boat and ordered the fisher- man to cast his net. He did so, and had a miraculous draught of fishes; one of which he was commanded to present to the bishop, and to signify to him that the apostle had relieved him from the necessity of consecrating the church. Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirma- tion of the fisherman's tale. He opened the church doors, and beheld wax candles, crosses, holy water; oil sprinkled in various places, and various other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had still any traces of lingering doubts, they were completely re- moved on the fisherman's producing the identical fish which he had been ordered by the apostle to present to him. To resist this would have been to resist ocular demonstration. The good bishop accordingly was convinced that the church had actually been con- secrated by St. Peter in person; so he reverently abstained from proceeding further in the business. The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King Edward the Confessor chose this place as the site of a religious house which he meant to endow. He pulled down the old church and built another in its place in 1045. In this his remains were deposited in a magnificent shrine. The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a re- construction, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume its present appearance. Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that monarch turning the monks away, and seizing upon the revenues. RELICS OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR. A curious narrative was printed in 1688, by one of the choristers of the cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry of the sacred edifice, giving an account of his rummaging among the bones of Edward the Confessor after they had quietly reposed in their sepulchre upwards of six hundred years, aud of his drawing forth the crucifix and golden chain of the deceased monarch. During eighteen years that he had officiated in the choir, it had been a common tradition, he says, among his brother choristers, and the gray-headed servants of the abbey, that the body of King Edward was desposited in a kind of chest or coffin, which was 370 The Sketch-Boole. indistinctly seen in the upper part of the shrine erected to his memory. None of the abbey gossips, however, had ventured upon a nearer inspection, until the worthy narrator, to gratify his curiosity, mounted to the coffin by the aid of a ladder and found it to be made of wood, apparently very strong and firm, being secured by bands of iron. Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used in the coronation of James II., the coffin was found to be broken, a hole appearing in the lid, probably made, through accident, by the workmen. No one ventured, however, to meddle with the sacred depository of royal dust, until, several weeks afterwards, the cir- cumstances came to the knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. He forthwith repaired to the abbey in company with two friends, of congenial tastes, who were desirous of inspecting the tombs. Procuring a ladder, he again mounted to the coffin, and found, as had been represented, a hole in the lid about six inches long and four inches broad, just in front of the left breast. Thrusting in his hand, and groping among the bones, he drew from underneath the shoulder a crucifix, richly adorned and enamelled, affixed to a gold chain twenty-four inches long. These he showed to his in- quisitive friends, who were equally surprised with himself. " At the time," says he, " when I took the cross and chain out of the coffin, I drew the head to the hole and viewed it, being very sound and firm, with the upper and nether jaws whole and full of teeth, and a list of gold above an inch broad, in the nature of a coronet, surrounding the temples. There was also in the coffin, white linen and gold-colored flowered silk, that looked indifferent fresh; but the least stress put thereto showed it was well-nigh perished. There were all his bones, and much dust likewise, which I left as I found." It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride than the skull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently pulled about in its coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to grin face to face with him through a hole in the lid ! Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and chain back again into the coffin, and sought the dean, to apprise him of his discovery. The dean not being accessible at the time, and fearing that the "holy treasure" might be taken away by other hands, he got a brother chorister to accompany him to the shrine about two or three hours afterwards, and in his presence again drew forth the relics. These he afterwards delivered on his knees to King James. The king subsequently had the old coffin inclosed in a new one of great strength: "each plank being two inches thick and cramped together with large iron wedges, where it now remains (1688) as a testimony of his pious care, that no abuse might be offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited." As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a descrip- tion of it in modern times. "The solitary and forlorn shrine," says a British writer, "now stands a mere skeleton of what it was. Appendix. 371 A few faint traces of its sparkling decorations inlaid on solid mortar catches the rays of the sun, forever set on its splendor. . . Only two of the spiral pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is much broken, and covered with dust. The mosaic is picked away in every part within reach; only the lozenges of about a foot square and rive circular pieces of the rich marble remain." — Mal- colm, Lond. rediv. INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO IN THE SKETCH. Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess his second wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble family; for all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters vir- tuous. This Duchess was a wise, witty, and learned lady, which her many Bookes do well testify : she was a most virtuous, and loving and careful wife, and was with her lord all the time of his banishment and miseries, and when he came home, never parted from him in his solitary retirements. In the winter-time, when the days are short, the service in the afternoon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect is fine of the choir partially lighted up, while the main body of the cathedral and the transepts are in profound and cavernous dark- ness. The white dresses of the choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the open slats and canopies; the partial illumination makes enormous shadows from columns and screens, and darting into the surrounding gloom, catches here and there upon a sep- ulchral decoration, or monumental effigy. The swelling notes of the organ accord well with the scene. When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling, in the old conventual part of the pile, by the boys of the choir, in their white dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes through the abbey and along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches and grim sepulchral monuments, and leaving all behind in darkness. On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's Yard, the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage catches a distant view of a white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which a strong glare thrown by a gas light has quite a spectral effect. It is a mural monument of one of the Pultneys. NOTES. Some English classics require close annotation and crit- ical verbal, analytical, and textual study, in order that they may be fully understood and appreciated. The Sketch- Book is not of this class. It needs but light annotation — oftentimes a mere reference, question, or suggestion — since it contains few obscurities or subtleties requiring expo- sition. The following notes are not intended to supply the student with information which he can readily procure for himself, nor to deprive him of the wholesome benefits and scholarly habits which are to be acquired through system- atic use of the ordinary books of reference. The ambitious student will often prefer to master his difficulties in his own way, and such self-dependence is an earnest of the future scholar. Many of these notes have not hitherto appeared in any edition of the Sketch-Book, so far as the editor is aware ; others have been used in numerous editions until they have become common property. The editor has availed himself freely of all material within his reach. To have searched for the original commentators in order to give credit in each case, would have been an affectation of erudition and scholarship quite outside the purposes of this unpretentious volume. Page 9. eftsoons. — Quickly; speedily. 9. Lyly's Euphues. — John Lyly (1553-1609) was a celebrated writer of the Elizabethan period. He won fame by his novel "Euphues" in 1579 and afterwards became a dramatist. The distinguishing marks of his writings are extravagant language, studied mannerisms, abundant antitheses, fanciful conceits, super- ficial allegory, and repartee. The word "euphuism," which has been applied to this style of writing, is taken from the name of Lyly's novel "Euphues," in which he first popularized and prop- agated this kind of prose literature. 372 Notes. 373 9. In the early authorized editions of the Sketch-Book the fol- lowing quotation from Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy was printed on the title-page: " 1 have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how they play their parts; which, methinks, are diversely presented unto me, as from a common theatre or scene." 9. my native city. — Read chap. XXII. of Todd's The Story of the City of New York, published by Putnams. Read pp. 23-25 of Warner's Washington Irving in American Men of Letters Series. 9. town=crier. — Consult the Century Dictionary and the Standard Dictionary. Read Holmes's The Last Leaf. 11. for I had read in the works of various philosophers. Read Irving's English Writers on America, p. 53 of this book; also Lowell's paper On a Certain Condescension in Foreigyiers. 11. St. Peter's, or the Coliseum, etc. —Consult Hawthorne's The Marble Faun, chapters 17, 38, 39; Byron's Childe Harold, canto IV. ; also T. B. Read's poem, Drifting. The Church of St. Peter in Rome is built upon the site of the religious edifice erected in the time of Constantine. It is the most famous church building in the world. Consult the encyclo- paedias. The Coliseum was a vast amphitheatre in Rome, built about the beginning of the Christian era. It was used for public pur- poses about five hundred years, and was the greatest popular resort that Rome ever had. It was partly destroyed by the over- flowing of the Tiber in the year 555. Consult the encyclopaedias. Terni is a town of Italy in the province of Perugia, noted for the Falls of Velino — a cascade of remarkable volume and beauty. " No other place in the world combines within the same com- pass so much natural beauty with so many objects of interest to the antiquary, the historian, and the geologist, as the Bay of Naples." 12. a lengthening chain. — See Goldsmith's The Traveller, line 10; also the first paragraph of his third letter in Citizen of the World: "The farther I travel I feel the pain of separation with stronger force: those ties that bind me to my native country and you, are still unbroken. By every move I only drag a greater length of chain." 13. I said that at sea. — Commentators have pointed out the melody and rhythm of this paragraph and the two or three succeeding ones, and have compared them with the sounds of the paragraph beginning "I confess," on p. 16. 15. across the banks of Newfoundland. — One of the greatest and most celebrated fisheries in the world. 374 The Sketch-Booh. 17. As we sailed up the Mersey. — A river in the county of Lancaster, England, which opens into a fine estuary before reach- ing the sea at Liverpool. 19. Roscoe. — See Allibone's Dictionary of Authors and the encyclopaedias. 20. the Medici. — Consult the encyclopaedias on this title. The volume by Roscoe, alluded to by Irving, is one of the books of the Bohn Library, Macmillan & Co., agents for America. 25. Pompey's column. — Consult Chambers's Encyclopaedia, under "Pompey's Pillar." 34. Diedrich Knickerbocker. — See Irving's Knickerbocker's History of New York from the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty. 34. By Woden, God of Saxons . . . Truth is a thing that ever I will keep . . . Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy. — This whole introduction to Rip Van Winkle is in as fine a vein of rich, quaint humor as is to be found in American literature. 35. a Queen Anne's farthing. — One of the rarest of English coins; hence, eagerly sought for by coin collectors, who preserved them with great care. 35. Kaatskill. — Catskill, a range of mountains in Eastern New York. 35. Appalachian family. — Referring to the range of moun- tains extending from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to Alabama, and including the White, Green, Adirondack, Catskill, and Alleghany mountains. 35. Peter Stuy vesant. — The last of the Dutch governors of the colony of New Netherlands, now New York. Consult the Cyclopedia of American Biography ; also Knickerbocker" 1 s History of New York. 36. province of Great Britain. — The English under the Duke of York took control of New Netherlands, and changed its name to New York. 36. Fort Christina. — A Swedish fort, situated five miles north of what is now Newcastle, Delaware. It was besieged and captured by the Dutch of New Netherlands, under command of Governor Stuyvesant, in 1655. 36. henpecked husband. — Note the derivation and etymol- ogy. In what consists the appropriateness of the composition of the word " henpecked " ? Notes. 375 36. curtain lecture.— What is the meaning? Why called a curtain lecture? 37. galligaskins. — A kind of leggings or wide breeches, supposed to take their name from the Latin words caligtB Vas- conum, meaning hose worn by the people of Gascony. 38. terrors of a woman's tongue. — See Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew, Act I, Scene 2: " Have I not in a pitched battle heard Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang? And do you tell me of a woman's tongue, That gives not half so great a blow to th' ear As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire ? " 38. gallows air. — With the appearance of one about to be hanged; a " hang-dog " look. 39. George the Third. — Ascended the English throne in 1760, and reigned sixty years. 39. dapper. — Neat, trim, tidy. 39. junto. — A select, deliberative assembly. 39. virago. — A turbulent woman, a scold, a vixen. 40. wallet. — A kind of knapsack or bag, suspended by a strap thrown over the shoulder. 41. jerkin. — A jacket, short coat, or upper doublet, much worn in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. 41. amphitheatre. — Literally, a place for looking about. 42. doublets. — A close-fitting garment, covering the body from the neck to below the waist. 42. hanger. — "A short broadsword worn from the girdle, and slightly curved at the point." 43. Hollands. — Holland gin. 43. flagon. — A vessel for holding liquids. The term is usually applied to a vessel for liquors. 43. roysters. — Blustering, uproarious, turbulent fellows. 45. red night=cap. — " During the French Revolution the red cap was regarded as the symbol of liberty. Irving represents the villagers as having erected a liberty-pole with a red cap on its top, and flung the American flag to the breezes, thereby celebrating the recently-acquired independence of the country." 46. phlegm. — Dulness, sluggishness, stupidity. 46. Babylonish jargon. — Babylon is supposed to have stood on the spot where the Tower of Babel was built; unintelligible talk, gabble. 376 The Sketch- Book. 46. Federal or Democrat. — The names of the two political parties of that day. At the time of the formation and adoption of the Federal Constitution, the party favoring it was called the Federal party and the party opposing it was called the Democratic party. These parties also held opposite views on the general questions of foreign and domestic policy of the nation. 47. Tory* — The conservative or royalist party of England. During the Revolution, one who favored Great Britain was called a tory. 47. Stony Point. — A promontory on the Hudson River, forty- two miles north of New York. A fort on this promontory was captured from the British in 1779 by general Anthony Wayne, better known as " Mad Anthony." 47. Anthony's Nose. — The name of another rocky headland on the Hudson, fifty-seven miles from New York. For an inter- esting account see Irving's Knickerbocker's History of New York. 49. Hendrick Hudson. — "A distinguished English navigator, who made four voyages, attempting to find a shorter passage to China than by the way of the Cape of Good Hope. On the third of these voyages he entered the bay now called New York Bay, and (Sept. 11, 1609) sailed up what is now the Hudson River. During his fourth voyage, two years later, he penetrated the straits and discovered the great bay of Canada which now bears his name. Here his mutinous sailors cast him adrift in a small boat, and left him to die." 51. narrated with his usual fidelity. —The "Note" and Postscript are in the same vein of quaint humor as the intro- duction to Bip Van Winkle. 53. English Writers on America. — In this connection read Lowell's essay On a Certain Condescension in Foreigners. 53. flethinks I see. — This well-known quotation is from Milton's Areopagitica, an essay on the freedom of the press, rec- ognized as one of the great masterpieces of English prose. 67. The Flower and the Leaf. — This is a rather pretty poem in seven-line stanzas. The language is that of the fifteenth cen- tury. It professes to be written by a gentlewoman, but most critics assign the authorship to Chaucer, as does Irving. It is an allegory written to celebrate the marriage of Phillipa, John of G aunt's daughter, with John, King of Portugal. The poem con- tains many beautiful passages. 72. Young E . — Robert Emmet. Consult the encyclope- dias; also Pierre Irving's Biography of Irving, vol. I. p. 420. 73. a late celebrated Irish Barrister, — John Philpot Curran. Notes. 377 80. The Paradise of Daintie Devices. — For an interesting account of this curious work, see Hazlitt's Bibliography of Old English Literature. 82. this learned Theban. — Consult the works of reference, especially the Century Dictionary. 85. — Have you not seen the nightingale. — The poem from which this selection is taken maybe found in Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, vol. II. Book the Third, p. 32G. It is an excellent old song, and was preserved in David Lloyd's Mem- ories of those that suffered in the cause of Charles I. 88. his perpetual blindness. — Read Milton's sonnet On II is Blindness, and Wordsworth's sonnet on Milton. 89. Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall. — For this poem see Chambers's Cycloxjedia of English Literature, vol I. p. 39. 93. has made it a universal study. —The reference is to Scott's novels. 96. Vaucluse. — Consult the Enclyclopedia Britannica. 97. Beggar's Bush. — For an interesting account of this curi- ous old song, see Hazlitt's Bibliography of Old English Literature. 100. it was one long Lord Hayor's day. — " The day for the inauguration of the Lord Mayor elect of the city of London, was formerly marked by much festivity and display, the latter of a tawdry sort. Always a popular holiday, it has brought down from remote centuries a characteristic ' procession ' of which mention is made in a later ' sketch.' The student is advised to secure a copy of the Illustrated London News, Nov. 11 and 18, 1893, or to send to S. Marks and Sons, 72 Houndsditch, Bishops- gate Street, London, for their Panorama of the Lord Mayor's Show, price about sixpence. See the New York Evening Post of Nov. 9, 1893." 103. The Widow and Her Son. — Irving wrote the introduc- tory part for the first edition of this " sketch " as follows. Com- pare this with the form in the text*. " During my 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. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy in its repose, such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of Nature, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us. " 'Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky!" 378 The Sketch-BooJc. " I cannot lay claim to the merit of being a devout man; but there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the beau- tiful 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. " But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me." 107. press=gang. — Read Thomas Hood's poem, Faithless Sally Brovm, noting especially the second stanza. 113. Mother Bombie. — For an account of this curious and interesting old piece, written by John Lyly, consult Hazlitt's Bibliography of Old English Literature. 125. Doomsday Book. — The student should consult the books of reference, especially Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. 128. Robert Groteste. — Consult Morley's English Writers for an account of this author and the other obscure and forgotten writers mentioned in this connection. 131. Sir Philip Sidney. — This charming but much neglected author and the other authors here mentioned are treated in Saintsbury's History of Elizabethan Literature. 133. knew little of Latin and nothing of Greek. —Un- doubtedly based on Ben Jonson's well-known remark of Shakes- peare's knowing "little Latin and less Greek." But the truth seems to be that Shakespeare was a well-educated man. 135. as in the case of Chaucer. — Chaucer is best read in the original form. Any "resetting" or modernizing of his writings robs them of their beauty and takes away their charm. This is equally true of most of the other early writers. 152. all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. — Con- sult the Encyclopedia Britannica, vol. x., p. 525. 155. with Saus und Braus. — With roar and tumult. 167. Westminster Abbey. — One of the world's most famous and most ancient cathedrals, extremely rich in historic associa- tions. It is in the form of a Latin cross, 511 feet long and 203 feet wide. It was the first cruciform church in England. All the English sovereigns from Edward the Confessor to Queen Vic- toria, have been crowned in this cathedral. It contains the tombs and monuments of many of the sovereigns of Great Britain, and the memorials of England's greatest men in all the walks of life. 167. Westminster School. — One of the three most celebrated English schools. It was chartered by Henry VIII. in 1540. Notes. 379 167 the cloisters. — The cloisters were begun by Edward the Confessor and finished shortly after the Conquest. They are the arched passages running about the interior court. 167. verger. —The official who takes care of the church building. 168 The gray walls. — " There is one religious structure in the kingdom that stands in its original finishing, exhibiting all those modest hues that the native appearance of the stone so pleasingly bestows. This structure is the Abbey Church of West- minster'. . . . There I rind my happiness the most complete. This church has not been whitewashed:' — John Carter. 168 mural monuments. — The memorials of the dead to be found about the walls and nearly everywhere about the interior of the Abbey. 168. death's heads. — Naked human skulls personifying death. 168. keystones. — The topmost stones of the arches. 168 effigies. — " It was once a feature of the great funerals to have a waxen effigy of the deceased person on a platform highly decorated with black hangings. It remained for a month in the abbey, near the grave; but in the case of sovereigns a much longer time. The effigies here referred to are, of course, ot stone." 168. Vitalis . . . Crispinus . . . Laurentius. " Vitalis was a Norman. He was an abbot at Bernay in Normandy, and was expressly sent for by the King (William the Conqueror) to govern at Westminster. He had the character of a wise and prudent man. He died June 19, 1082, and was interred in the south cloister." ^ T - , , " Gislebertus Crispinus (Gilbert Crispin) was a Norman of noble rank He was particularly famous as a sound theologist and a ready disputant. After a long life of piety and good deeds, he died Dec. 6, 1114, and was buried at the feet of Vitalis, hisprede- cessor " "Laurentius (or Lawrence) was educated, and resided for many years, at St. Albans. He was chosen for Westminster Abbey about the year 1159, through the influence of Henry II., who thought highly of him. He was a man of talents. He was ap- pointed by the King, the Pope, and the Archbishop of Canter- bury, to decide several disputed causes. He was buried in the south walk of the cloister." 169 Poet's Corner. — To the student of literature the most suggestive and interesting portion of the Abbey Read Victor Hugo's William Shakespeare, Part Third Book I chap. 2. Chaucer was the first to be buried in Poet's Corner, through the royal favor of Henry IV. 380 The Sketch- Book. 170. that fabled city. — The reference is to one of the stories of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments. 171. all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters vir= tuous. — This is a portion of the inscription on the tomb of the Duke and Duchess of Newcastle. 172. rirs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. — "In memory of Joseph Gascoigne Nightingale, Esq., of Mine- head, Devonshire, who died in 1752; and the Lady Elizabeth, his wife, who died soon after marriage. A tradition of the Abbey records that a robber, coming into the Abbey by moonlight, was so startled by the figure as to have fled in dismay, and left his crowbar on the pavement." " Roubillac (1695-1762) was an able French sculptor, born at Lyons. He settled in London in 1720, and soon became the most popular sculptor of the time in England. His chief works in the Abbey are the monuments of Handel, Admiral Warren, Marshal Wade, Mrs. Nightingale, and the Duke of Argyll." 172. Henry the Seventh's chapel. — Henry VII. determined to found at Westminster a chapel more magnificent than that he had designed at Windsor, a greater than the Confessor's shrine, " in order," according to his will, " right shortly to translate into the same the body and reliques of his uncle of blissful memory, King Henry VI.," but the chapel became the chapel not of Henry VI. but of Henry VII. It is the most signal contrast between his closeness in life and " his magnificence in the structures he hath left to posterity." His pride in its grandeur was commem- orated by the ship, vast for those times, which he built, " of equal cost with his chapel, which afterwards, in the reign of Mary, sank in the sea and vanished in a moment." 173. Knights of the Bath. — In the reign of George I. a per- manent change was effected in one of the accompaniments of the coronation, — namely, the Knights of the Bath. In the earlier coronations it had been the practice of the sovereigns to create a number of knights before they started on their procession from the tower. These knights, being made in time of peace, were not enrolled in any existing order, and for a long time had no special designation; but, inasmuch as one of the foremost, striking and characteristic parts of their admission was the complete attention of their persons on the vigil of their knighthood, as an emblem of the cleanliness and purity of their future profession, they were called Knights of the Bath. The king himself bathed with them. They were completely undressed, placed in large baths and then wrapped in soft blankets. The distinctive name first appears in the time of Henry V. Notes. 381 173. the sepulchre of its founder. — Edward the Confessor (1004-1060). He acceded to the throne in 1042. He rebuilt the ancient Abbey of Westminster. 174. the haughty Elizabeth . . . and unfortunate nary. — Elizabeth (born in 1533) reigned as Queen of England from 1558 to 1603, when she died. She was the last of the Tudors, and was called "the lionhearted Elizabeth." James I. had the body of Queen Elizabeth taken from the Cathedral Church of Peterbor- ough, and a monument erected over her in Westminster Abbey. Mary Queen of Scots, daughter of James V. of Scotland, was born in 1542. She was charged by Queen Elizabeth with having entered into a conspiracy against the life of the latter, and ordered to be executed. Queen Elizabeth signed the death warrant on the 1st of February, 1587; and on the morning of the 8th of February, Mary Queen of Scots, protesting her innocence, was beheaded. 174. her national emblem the thistle. — The Thistle of Scot- land. The conquering Danes thought it cowardly to attack an en- emy by night, but on one occasion deviated from their rule. On they crept, barefooted, noiselessly, and unobserved, when one of the men set his foot on a thistle, which made him cry out. The alarm was given, the Scotch fell upon the invaders, defeated them with terrible slaughter, and drove them from Scotland. Ever since the thistle has been adopted as the insignia of Scotland, with the motto, Nemo me impune lacessit "No one tramples upon me with impunity." 175. The great chair of coronation. — The celebrated Stone of Scone. Edward I. removed to London, and placed in West- minster Abbey, the great stone upon which the kings of Scotland had been crowned. It is said to have been brought to Scotland from Ireland by Fergus, son of Eric, who led the Dalriads to the shores of Argyllshire. It was brought from Scotland to West- minster Abbey in 1296, and the English coronation chair was es- pecially constructed for its reception. It has been constantly used at coronations ever since. The coronation takes place while the sovereign is seated in this chair. The last time it was brought out from the chapel where it stands was at the Jubilee Thanks- giving service (June 21, 1887), when the Queen sat in it during the ceremonial. The stone of Scone has been called Jacob's Pillow from the legend that it was the pillow upon which the patriarch slept when he beheld the vision of the ladder reaching to heaven. 177. Pharaoh is sold for balsams. — Formerly mummies were highly valued for their supposed medicinal properties. They were ground into powder and formed one of the ordinary drugs found in the apothecary shops. It was commonly pre- scribed by physicians. 382 The Sketch-Book. 179. Christmas. — Christ and mass (Anglo-Saxon Moesm, a holy day), the Christian festival of the Nativity. The festival properly begins on the evening of December 24, and lasts until Epiphany, January 6, the whole being termed " Christmas-tide." December 25 is the day specifically observed. 179. Hue and Cry after Christmas.— Written by Ben Jonson. 179. Old Song. — From Guild Hall Giants, by Thomas Hood. 180. the season of Advent. — The season of moral and relig- ious preparation, between St. Andrew's Day (November 30) and Christmas. At one time it was observed as strictly as Lent. 180. Good=wilI to men. — No war was declared and no capital punishment inflicted during this season of good-will. 183. the sound of the Waits. — Originally a kind of night- watchman who sounded the hours and guarded the streets ; later, a musician who sang out of doors at Christmas time, going from house to house. 185. Omne bene. — A free translation : " There's a time for hard playing, With nothing to fear. Drop books without delaying — The hour is here." 186. Bucephalus. —The horse of Alexander the Great. 188. Cyclops. — The cyclops, according to Greek mythology and story, were a race of stalwart giants with one eye in their foreheads : hence their name (Greek Jeuklopes, kvJclos, " a circle," and ops, " eye "), the round-eyed. They forged the thunderbolts of Zeus, the trident of Poseidon, and the Helmet of Pluto. The allusion is to their size and strength as gigantic blacksmiths. 192. Chesterfield. — An English statesman and author, re- nowned as a model of politeness. He is best known by his Let- ters to Ms Son, written for the improvement of his manners. These letters have been often republished, and they afford a good idea of the mental and moral calibre of the author. 193. stomacher.— An article of dress, usually rich in material and ornament, for the breast and stomach, having the gown or doublet laced over it; worn in the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries. 195. Charles the Second's time. — Charles II. (born 1630) was proclaimed king by the Scottish Parliament in 1649. He landed in Scotland in 1650, and was crowned the following year. He marched into England against Cromwell, but was defeated at Worcester in 1651. Notes. 383 196. the twelve days of Christmas. — The period between December 24 and January 6. 197. Christinas candles. — " Christmas was called the ' Feast of Lights ' in the Western or Latin Church, because they used many lights or candles at the feast ; or, rather, because Christ, the Light of all lights, that true Light, came into the wo Id : hence the Christmas candle. 1 ' 202. a lofty tester. — The canopy over an old-fashioned bed. 205. grandee. — A Spanish nobleman. 206. That soiles my land. — Gives my land a, soil; i. e., en- riches the soil, thus insuring a plentiful harvest. 207. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert. —The author of The Book of Husbandry — the first published work on agriculture in the Eng- lish language. 211. like old Cremona fiddles. — Cremona is a city in Lom- bardy, once celebrated for its fine violins. Great prices were paid for them. 214. Squire Ketch.— Jack Ketch, the hangman, who executed Lord Kussell, the Duke of Monmouth, and many others. 220. Caput apri defero. Reddens laudes Domino. — " I bring the boar's head, Returning praises to the Lord." Qui estis in convivio.— " As many as are at the banquet." 230. pirouettes and rigadoons. — Peculiar, whirling dances, gay and brisk in character. 242. nother Shipton by heart. — Mother Shipton lived in the reign of Henry VIII. , and was famous for her prophecies in which she foretold the death of Wolsey, Lord Percy, etc., and many wonderful events of the future times. All her " prophe- cies " are still extant. 243. wonderful events had already occurred. — Consult Knight's Popular History of England, Vol. VIII. 255. Shakespeare's mulberry=tree.— Consult the Encyclope- dia Britannica, under "Stratford." 256. Santa Casa. — The phrase is from the Italian and means " the holy house." The reputed house in which the Virgin Mary lived at Nazareth, miraculously translated to Fiume, in Dalmatia, in 1291, and thence to Eecanati in 1294, and finally to Macerata, in Italy, to a piece of land belonging to the lady Loretto. Hence the name, " The Santa Casa of Loretto." 384 The Sketch-Book. 273. Logan. — The name has come to be applied to the Ameri- can Indian, as "John Bull" designates the Englishman, and " Brother Jonathan " the American. Consult the Cyclopedia of American Biography under " John Logan." 303. beyond the sound of Bow=belIs. — Bow Church, or the church of St. Mary-le-Bow, is nearly the centre of the city of London. Hence to be born within sound of Bow-bells is to be a true cockney. Bow Church has long had one of the most celebra- ted bell-peals in London. John Dun, mercer, gave in 1472 two tenements to maintain the ringing of Bow-bell every night at nine o'clock, to direct travellers on the road to town; and in 1520 Wil- liam Copland gave a bigger bell for the purpose of " sounding a retreat from work." 316. the once popular rites of flay. —Bead Tennyson's The May Queen. 323. Complete Angler. — A most charming book and a master- piece of English literature, written by Izaak Walton. The book reveals so much of the author and his quaint, genial, sportsman- like spirit, that it becomes of biographical interest. 330. quadrant. — An instrument for taking the altitudes and distances of the heavenly bodies. 332. Castle of Indolence. — James Thomson, author of the poem, was the son of a Scotch minister. Thomson, in his clay, was one of the most widely popular poets in our language, and he is still much read. His best and most popular work is The Sea- sons, a work which gave him a great reputation. 332. Tappan Zee. — Irving called this the " Mediterranean " of the river. It is the first and largest expansion of the Hudson. This "sea" and its surroundings are rich in romantic and historic associations and legendary lore. 332. St. Nicholas. — The mariner's saint, and patron of those who lead a seafaring life. He is also regarded as the especial patron of the young, and particularly of scholars. 332. Tarrytown. — A Dutch village of considerable antiquity, among the hills on the Hudson, twenty-seven miles from New York. It is famous both historically and from its connection with Washington Irving, whose celebrated cottage, "Sunnyside," is in the vicinity. These lines appeared in the New York Evening Post of December 1, 1859, with the following editorial intro- duction : " The beauty of the day on which Mr. Irving's funeral took place, and the charming aspect of the surrounding country, in the glorious sunshine which then closed our long Indian Sum- mer, have prompted the ensuing lines, which we have from the pen of a friend of the departed author, himself eminent in the world of letters : " — Notes. 385 SUNNYSIDE. BY HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. The dear, quaint cottage, as we pass, No clambering rose nor locusts hide ; And dead leaves neck the matted grass, And shadow rests on Sunnyside : Not by the flying cloud-rack cast, Nor by the summer foliage bred, The life-long shadow which the Past Lets fall where cherish' d joys have fled. For he whose fancy wove a spell As lasting as the scene is fair, And made the mountain, stream, and dell His own dream-life forever share ; He who with England's household grace, And with the brave romance of Spain, Tradition's lore and Nature's face, Imbued his visionary brain ; Mused in Granada's old arcade As gush'd the Moorish fount at noon, With the last minstrel thoughtful stray'd To ruin'd shrines beneath the moon ; And breathed the tenderness and wit Thus garner'd, in expression pure, As now his thoughts with humor flit, And now to pathos wisely lure ; Who traced with sympathetic hand, Our peerless chieftain's high career; His life, that gladden' d all the land, And blest a home — is ended here. What pensive charms of nature brood O'er the familiar scene to-day, As if, with smile and tear she wooed Our hearts a mutual rite to pay! The river that he loved so well, Like a full heart, is awed to calm; The winter air that wafts his knell Is fragrant with autumnal balm. 386 The Sketch- Book. A veil of mist hangs soft and low Above the Catskill's wooded range, While sunbeams on the slope below Their shroud to robes of glory change. How to the mourner's patient sight Glide the tall sails along the shore Like a procession clad in white Down a vast temple's crystal floor. So light the haze, its floating shades, Like tears through which we dimly see, With incense crown the Palisades, With purple wreathe the Tappan Zee. And ne'er did more serene repose Of cloud and sunshine, brook and brae Round Sleepy Hollow fondly close, Than on its lover's burial day. The End, :