THE WORKS OF WASHO&TON lEYING. NEW EDITION, REVISED. _p VOL. 11. - THE SKETCH BOOK NEW-YORK. GEORGE P. PUTNAM 1850. THE SKETCH BOOK OF GEOFFEEY CRAYON, Gentn ' I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator of other men's fortnnes and adventures, and hovr they play their parte; which, methinks, are diversely presented nnto me, as from a common theatre or scene." — Burton. uJ cL^aJyu.'Vt-y^^ THE AUTHOR'S REVISED EDITION. COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. NEW. YORK: GEORGE P. PUTNAM, 165 BROADWAV And 142 Strand, London. 1850. &^ ^ S^ Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by Washington Irving, j]) the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New- York. EXCHANGE lap JUh 12 1944 1 Serial Record Division Copy John F. Trow, Printer and StereotypeTf 49 Ann-street, N.Y. CONTENTS \ ■ i The Author's Account of Himself The Voyage, RoscoE, The Wife, V Rip Van Winkle, En&lish Writers on America, -^ Rural Life in England, ^ The Broken Heart, The Art of Book-makinol he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was told of his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far above the reach of my pity. Those who live only for the world, and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of adversity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overoome by the reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in upon the resources of his own mind ; to the superior society of his own thoughts ; which the best of men are apt sometimes to neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthy associates. He is independent of the world around him. He lives mth antiquity and posterity ; with antiquity, in the sweet communion of studious retirement; and with posterity, in the generous aspirings after future renown. The solitude of such a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited by those elevated meditations which are the proper ahment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the wilderness of this world. While my feehngs were yet alive on the subject, it was my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. After riding a short distance, we came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the Grecian style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was delight- ful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a broad quiet 26 THE SKETCH BOOK. sheet of water through an expanse of green meadow-land ; while the Welsh mouiitams, blended with clouds^ and melting into dis- tance, bordered the horizon. This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and liter- ary retirement. The house was now silent and deserted. I saw the windows of the study, which looked out upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows were closed — the library was gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were loitering about the place, whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It was like visiting some classic fountain, that had once welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles. I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. It had passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was dispersed about the country. The good people of the vicinity thronged like wreckers to get some part of the noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associa- tions, we might imagine something whimsical in this strange irruption in the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the armory of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons which they could not wield. We might pic-ture to ourselves some knot of speculators, debating with calculating brow over the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete author; of the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with which some suc- cessful purchaser attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain he had secured. It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's mis- ROSCOE. 37 fortunes, and one wliicli cannot fail to interest the studious mind, that the parting with his books seems to have touched upon his tenderest feelings, and to have been the only circumstance that could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the seasons of adversity. TVTien all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of Liver- pool had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe and themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat with others that might seem merely fanciful ; but it certainly appears to me such an oppor- tunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling under misfortunes, by one of the most delicate, but most ex- pressive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He becomes mingled and confounded with other men. His great qualities lose their novelty, we become too familiar with the com- mon materials which form the basis even of the loftiest character Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a man of business ; others as a politician ; all find him engaged like themselves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity of character, which gives 28 THE SKETCH BOOK. the nameless grace to real excellence, may cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who do not know that true worth is always void of glare and pretension. But the man of letters, who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe. — The intelligent traveler who visits it inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the distant scholar. — He is, like Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic dignity. The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. If any thing can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction, that the whole is no effusi(»n of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the writer's heart. TO MY BOOKS. As one who, destined from his friends to pan. Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile To share their converse and enjoy their smile, And tempers as he may affliction's dart ; Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder an, Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; ROSCOE. 29 For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. And happier seasons may their dawn unfold. And all your sacred fellowship restore : When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, Mind shall with mind direct communion hold. And kindred spirits meet to part no more. THE WIFE, The treasures of the deep are not so precioDS As are the conceal'd comfoits of a man Locked up in woman's lx)ve. I scent the air Of blessings, when I come but near the house. What a delicious breath marriage sends forth . . The violet bed's not sweeter. MiDDLETON. I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and support of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firm- ness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful fohage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing 33 THE SKETCH BOOK- tendrils, and bind up its shattered bougbs ; so is it beautiiullj ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding herself inta the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the droop- ing head, and binding up the broken heart. I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. " I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasnk, " than to hav& a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man falling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one ; partly because he is more stimulated to exer- tion hj the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self- respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable hfe. She had, it is true, no for- tune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and admin- istering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of THE WIFR 33 witchery about the sex.—" Her life," said he, " shall be like a fairy tale." The very difference in their characters produced an harmonious combination : he was of a romantic and somewh&t serious cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rap- ture with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. AYhen leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path of early and well- suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations ; and he had not been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced almost to penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; and what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love 34 THE SKETCH BOOK. her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile wiU vanish from that cheek — the song will die away from those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed dowTi like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situa- tion in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard him through I inquired, " Does your wife know all this ?" — At the question he burst into an agony of tears. " For God's sake !" cried he, " if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife ; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness 1" " And why not ?" said I. " She must know it sooner or later : you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon her in a more startling manner, than if imparted by your- self; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympa- thy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together — an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love will not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." " Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! that she is to forego aU the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of society — to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have continued to move in constant brightness — the light of every eye THE WIFE. 35 — ^the admiration of every heart ! — How can she l>5ar poverty ? she has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect ? she has been the idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart — it will break her heart ! — " I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had sub- sided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the sub- ject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively. " But how are you to keep it from her ? It is necessary she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the altera- tion of your circumstances. You must change your style of living nay," observing a pang to pass across his counte- nance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never placed your happiness in outward show — you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not thick the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary " " I could be happy with h'^,r," cried he, convulsively, " in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty and the dust ! — I could — I could — God bless her ! — God bless her !" cried h3, burst- ing into a transport of grief and tenderness. " And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasp- ing him warmly by the hand, " believe me she can be the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triui'^ ph to her — it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympa- thies of her nature; for she will rejoice to prove that she lovr: you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a sppi^ of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blaze" in tba 35 THE SKETCH BOOK dark hour of adversity. No man knows what tlie wife of liig bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is — until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world.'' There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited ima- gination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; and following up the impression I had made, 1 finished by persuading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife. I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasures ? Her gay S[)irits might revolt at the dark downward path of low humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto reveled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifica- tions, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. — In short, I could not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. " And how did she bear it P'^ " Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind^ for she threw her arras round my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately made me unhappy.' — But, poor girl," added he, *' she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract ; she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation ; she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniencies nor elegancies. When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." " But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the THE WIFE. 37 secret tlie better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then It is a single misery, and soon over : whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furni- niture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself ; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. "Poor Mary!" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. 38 THE SKETCH BOOK. " And what of her ?" asked I : " has any thing happened to her?" " What," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation ?" " Has she then repined at the change ?" "Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and gcwi humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her ; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort!" "Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, my friend; you never were so rich — you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that woman." " Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience ; she has been introduced into a humble dwelling — she has been employed all day in arranging its misera- ble equipments — she has, for the first time, known the fatigues of domestic employment — she has, for the first time, looked round her on a home destitute of every thing elegant, — almost of every thing convenient; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty." There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its THE WIFE. 39 appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine liad overrun one end with a profusion of foliage; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grassplot in front. A small wicket gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm ; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. » I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping forth to meet us : she was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look so lovely. " My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come ! I have been watching and watching for you ; and running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I've been gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of them — and we have such excellent cream — and every thing is so sweet and still here — Oh !" said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his face, " Oh, we shall be so happy !" Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom — he folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and again — he 40 THE SKETCH BOOK. could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has often assured me, that though the world has since gone pros- perously with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity. RIP VAN WINKLE. [The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New- York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men ; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics ; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book-worm. The result of all these researches was a history of the province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years siiice. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned, on its first appearance, but has since been completely estab- lished ; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say, that his time might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the 42 THE SKETCH BOOK. truest deference and affection ; yet his errors and follies are remembered " more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected, that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk, whose good opinion is well worth having ; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes ; and have thus given him a cliance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne's fartliing.] RIP VAN WINKLE. A POSTHUMOUS AYHITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKEE. By Woden, God of Saxons, From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensaay. Truth is a thing that ever I will keep Unto thylke day in which I creep into My sepulchre Uartwright. Whoever^ has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barome- ters. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print theii' bold outlines on the clear even- ing sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloud- less, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have 44 THE SKETCH BOOK. descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh gi^een of the nearer land- scape. It is a Httle village, of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace !) and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks. In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Yan Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple good-natured man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity ; for those men are most apt to be obse- quious and conciliating abroad, who are under the disciphne of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teach- ing the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing ; and if so. Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. RIP VAN WINKLE. 45 Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles ; and never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assf-^ted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clam- bering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aver- sion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be en- couraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone-fences ; the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word Rip was ready to attend to any body's business but his own ; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm ; it 46 - THE SKETCH BOOK. was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country ', every thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces ; his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than any where else ; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do ; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm in the neighborhood. His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and every thing he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always RIP VAN WINKLE. 47 provoked a fresh volley from his wife ; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only- side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. Eip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, aS the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured t?ie woods — ^but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a side- long glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping preci- pitation. Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village ; which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any states- man's money to have heard the profound discussions that some- times took place, when by chance an old newspaper feU into their hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would 48 THE SKETCH BOOK. listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was not to be daunted bj the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place. The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the callage, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), per- fectly understood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When any thing that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent and angry puffs ; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds ; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. From even this strong-hold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call the members all to naught ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. RIP VAN WINKLE. 49 Here lie would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, A^'ith whom he sympa- thized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. " Poor Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee !" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, und if dogs can feel pity, I verily beheve he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. In a lon^ ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaat- skill mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile X)f rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Pip lay musing on this scene ; evening was gradually advancing ; the mountains began tc throw their long blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 3 bO THE SKETCH BOOK. As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, ballooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle !" He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air ; " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle !" — at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over him ; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and per- ceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. On nearer approach he w^s still more surprised at the singu- larity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist — several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving each other, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they as- cended. Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like dis- tant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path con- RIP VAN WINKLE. 51 ducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be tbe muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, lilce a small amphitheatre, sur- rounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the wfiole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marveled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and' checked familiarity. On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder pre- sented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion ; some wore short doublets, others jerkins^ with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar : one had a large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes : the face of another seemed to con- sist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance ; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Hip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had been brouo;ht over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 52 THE SKETCH BOOK. What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, Avhich, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue- like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling ; they quaffed the liquor, in pro- found silence, and then returned to their game. By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye w^as fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another ; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually de- clined, and he fell into a deep sleep. On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," thought Rip, " I have not slept here all night." He recalled the oc- currences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of RIP VAN WINKLE. 53 liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks — the wohegone party at nine-pins — the flagon — " Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked flagon !" thought E-ip — " what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle I" He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well- oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gam- bol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. " These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, " and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Yan Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the glen : he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening ; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and some- times tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of net- work in his path. At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through 54 THE SKETCH BOOK. the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog ; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his break- fast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would not do to starve among the moun- tains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps home- ward. As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonish- ment, he found his beard had grown a foot long ! He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered; it was larger and more populous. There RIP VAN WINKLE. 55 were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors — strange faces at the windows — ■ every thing was strange. His mind nov/ misgave him; he began to doubt ^^ hether both he and the world around him were , not bewitched- Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the dPtj before. There stood the Kaatskill mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — ^'That flagon last night," thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly r It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the hinges- A half-starved dog that iooked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, shovred his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed — " JMy very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me !" He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It w^as empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned- This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife and children- — the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden build- ing stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the 56 THE SKETCH BOOK. door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that nsed to sheher the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with some- thing on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recog- nized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but even this was singularly metamorphosed, The red coat was changed for one of blue and bufi*, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and under- neath was painted in large characters. General Washing- ton. There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it^ instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of hand- bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elec- tions — members of congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and chil- dren at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politi- cians. They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot RIP VAN WINKLE. 57 with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired " on which side he voted ?" Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " Whe- ther he was Federal or Democrat ?" Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, " what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village ?" — Alas ! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him !" Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — " A tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him !" It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order ; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking ? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. " Well — who are they ? — name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where's Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin piping voice, " Nicholas Yedder ! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden tombstone in 3* 58 THE SKETCH BOOK, the churcli-yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." " Where's Brom Dutcher ?" " Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back again." " Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ?" " He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now in congress." Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormoujj lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand : war — congress — Stony Point ; — he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Pip Van Winkle ?" " Oh, Pip Van Winkle !" exclaimed two or three, " Oh, to be sure! that's Pip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." Pip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain : apparently as lazy, and certainly as rag- ged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name ? " God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end ; " Pm not my- self — Fm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's RIP VAN WINKLE. 69 changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell whaf s my name, or who I am I" The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a ^^ hisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipita- tion. At this critical moment a fresh comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray -bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you little fool ; the old man w^on't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recol- lections in his mind. " What is your name, my good woman ?" asked he. "Judith Gardenier." " And your father's name ?" "Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog came home without him ; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with a faltering voice : " Where's your mother ?" " Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedler." There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father !" cried 60 THE SKETCH BOOK. he — " Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now I — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ?" All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough 1 it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighboi — Why, where have you been these twenty long years ?" Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks : and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head- — upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the won- derful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill moun- tains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon ; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his name. That his father RIP VAN WINKLE. 61 had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine- pins in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her ; she had a snug, well- furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to cUmb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm ; but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to any thing else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times " before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war — that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England — and that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on liim ; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long 62 THE SKETCH BOOK. groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Happily that was at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. TVT^ienever her name Avas mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder- storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins ; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neigh- borhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. NOTE. The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knick- erbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kypphaiiser mountain: the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with hia usual fidelity : " The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but never- RIP VAN WINKLE. 63 theless I give it my foil belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settle- vnents to have been very subject to marvelous events and appearances. Indeedj [ have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages cilong the Hudson ; all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bar- gain ; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice, and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, there- fore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. D. K." POSTSCRIPT. The following are traveling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr. Knick- erbocker : The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a reojon foil of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air : until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, caus- ing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web ; and when these clouds broke, wo betide the valleys ! In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a 64 THE SKETCH BOOK. deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and among ragged rocks ; and then sprmg off with a loud ho ! ho ! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging torrent. The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mouxitains, and, from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies, which lie on the surface. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had lost his way, penetrated to the garden rock, where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day ; being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill. ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. '■ MetJiinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks : methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her migmy youth, and kindUng her endazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam." Milton on the Liberty of the Press. It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary ani- mosity daily growing up between England and America. Great curiosity has been awakened of late with respect to the United States, and the London press has teemed with volumes of travels through the Republic ; but they seem intended to diffuse error rather than knowledge ; and so successful have they been, that, notwithstanding the constant intercourse between the nations, there is no people concerning whom the great mass of the British public have less pure information, or entertain more numerous prejudices. English travelers are the best and the worst in the world. Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal them for profound and philosophical views of society, or faithful and graphical descriptions of external objects ; but when either the interest or reputation of their own country comes in collision with that of another, they go to the opposite extreme, and forget their usual probity and candor, in the indulgence of splenetic remark, and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 66 THE SKETCH BOOK. Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the more remote the country described. I would place implicit confidence in an Englishman's description of the regions beyond the cataracts of the Nile ; of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea ; of the inte- rior of India ; or of any other tract which other travelers might be apt to picture out with the illusions of their fancies; but I would cautiously receive his account of his immediate neighbors, and of those nations with which he is in habits of most frequent intercourse. However I might be disposed to trust his probity, I dare not trust his prejudices. It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be visited by the worst kind of English travelers. While men of philo- sophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from England to ransack" the poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study the manners and customs of barbarous nations, with which she can have no permanent intercourse of profit or pleasure ; it has been left to the broken-down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the wandering mechanic, the Manchester and Birmingham agent, to be her' oracles respecting America. From such sources she is content to receive her information respecting a country in a sin- gular state of moral and physical development ; a country in which one of the greatest political experiments in the history of tiie world is now^ performing ; and which presents the most pro- found and momentous studies to the statesman and the phi- losopher. That such men should give prejudicial accounts of America is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contempla- tion are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The national character is yet in a state of fermentation ; it may have its frothi- ness and sediment, but its ingredients are sound and wholesome ; ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 67 it has already given proofs of powerful and generous qualities ; and the whole promises to settle down into something substan- tially excellent. But the causes which are operating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indication of admirable properties, are all lost upon these purblind observers ; who are only affected by the little asperities incident to its present situation. They are capable of judging only of the surface of things ; of those mat- ters which come in contact with their private interests and per- sonal gratifications. They miss some of the snug conveniences and petty comforts which belong to an old, highly-finished, and over-populous state of society ; where the ranks of useful labor are crowded, and many earn a painful and servile subsistence by studying the very caprices of appetite and self-indulgence. These minor comforts, however, are all-important in the estimation of narrow minds ; which either do not perceive, or will not acknow- ledge, that they are more than counterbalanced among us by great and generally diffused blessings. They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some unrea- sonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have pictured America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold and silver abounded, and the natives were lacking in sagacity ; and where they were to become strangely and suddenly rich, in some unfore- seen, but easy manner. The same weakness of mind that in- dulges absurd expectations produces petulance in disappointment. Such persons become embittered against the country on finding that there, as every where else, a man must sow before he can reap ; must win wealth by industry and talent ; and must contend with the common difficulties of nature, a,nd the shrewdness of an intelligent and enterprising people. Perhaps, through mistaken, or ill-directed hospitality, or from G8 THE SKETCH BOOK. the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the stranger, prevalent among my countrymen, thej may have been treated with unwonted respect in America ; and having been accustomed all their lives to consider themselves below the surface of good society, and brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant on the common boon of civility : they attribute to the lowliness of others their own elevation ; and underrate a society Avhere there are no artificial distinctions, and where, by any chance, such individuals as themselves can rise to conse- quence. One would suppose, however, that information coming from such sources, on a subject where the truth is so desirable, would be received with caution by the censors of the press ; that the motives of these men, their veracity, their opportunities of inquiry and observation, and their capacities for judging correctly, would be rigorously scrutinized before their evidence was admitted, in such sweeping extent, against a kindred nation. The very reverse, however, is the case, and it furnishes a striking instance of human inconsistency. Nothing can surpass the vigilance with which English critics will examine the credibility of the traveler who publishes an account of some distant, and comparatively unimpor- tant, country. How warily will they compare the measurements of a pyramid, or the descriptions of a ruin ; and how sternly will they censure any inaccuracy in these contributions of merely cu- rious knowledge : while they will receive, with eagerness and unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations of coarse and ob- scure writers, concerning a country with which their own is placed in the most important and delicate relations. Nay, they will even make these apocryphal volumes text-books, on which to enlarge with a zeal and an ability worthy of a more generous cause. ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 69 I sliall not, however, dwell on tliis irksome and hackneyed topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the undue interest apparently taken in it by my countrymen, and certain injurious effects which I apprehended it might produce upon the national feeling. We attach too much consequence to these attacks. They cannot do us any essential injury. The tissue of misrepre- sentations attempted to be woven round us are like cobwebs woven round the limbs of an infant giant. Our country continu- ally outgrows them. One falsehood after another fails off of itself. We have but to live on, and every day we live a wliole volume of refutation. All the writers of England united, if we could for a moment suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy a combination, could not conceal our rapidly-growing importance, and matchless prosperity. They could not conceal that these are owing, not merely to physical and local, but also to moral causes — to the political liberty, the general diffusion of knowledge, the prevalence of sound moral and religious principles, which give force and sustained energy to the character of a people ; and which, in fact, have been the acknowledged and wonderful sup- porters of their own national power and glory. But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of England? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by the contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us ? It is not in the opinion of England alone that honor lives, and reputation has its being. The world at large is the arbiter of a nation's fame ; with its thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, and from their collective testimony is national glory or national disgrace estab- lished. For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little importance whether England does us justice or not; it is, per- 70 THE SKETCH BOOK. haps, of far more importance to herself. She is instilling anger and resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation, to grow with its growth and strengthen with its strength. If in America, as some of her writers are laboring to convince her, she is hereafter to find an invidious rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank those very writers for having provoked rivalship and irritated hostility. Every one knows the all-pervading influence of litera- ture at the present day, and how much the opinions and passions of mankind are under its control. The mere contests of the sword are temporary ; their wounds are but in the flesh, and it is the pride of the generous to forgive and forget them; but the slanders of the pen pierce to the heart ; they rankle longest in the noblest spirits ; they dwell ever present in the mind, and render it morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is but seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities between two nations ; there exists, most commonly, a previous jealousy and ill-will; a predisposition to take offence. Trace these to their cause, and how often will they be found to originate in the mischievous effusions of mercenary writers ; who, secure in their closets, and for ignominious bread, concoct and circulate the venom that is to inflame the generous and the brave. I am not laying too much stress upon this point ; for it applies most emphatically to our particular case. Over no nation does the press hold a more absolute control than over the people of America ; for the universal education of the poorest classes makes every individual a reader. There is nothing published in England on the subject of our country that does not circulate through every part of it. There is not a calumny dropped from English pen^ nor an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an English statesman, that does not go to blight good-will, and add to the ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. mass of latent resentment. Possessing, then, as England does, the fountain-head whence the literature of the language flows, how completely is it in her power, and how truly is it her duty, to make it the medium of amiable and magnanimous feeling — a stream where the two nations might meet together, and drink in peace and kindness. Should she, however, persist in turning it to waters of bitterness, the time may come when she may repent her folly. The present friendship of America may be of but little moment to her; buf the future destinies of that country do not admit of a doubt ; over those of England there lower some shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive ; should those reverses overtake her, from which the proudest empires have not been exempt ; she may look back with regret at her infatuation, in repulsing from her side a nation she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying her only chance for real friendship beyond the boundaries of her own dominions. There is a general impression in England, that the people of the United States are inimical to the parent country. It is one of the errors which have been diligently propagated by designing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberality of the English press ; but, generally speaking, the prepossessions of the people are strongly in favor of England. Indeed, at one time, they amounted, in many parts of the Union, to an absurd degree of bigotry. The bare name of Englishman was a passport to the confidence and hospitality of every family, and too often gave a transient cur- rency to the worthless and the ungrateful. Throughout the coun- try there was something of enthusiasm connected with the idea of England. We looked to it with a hallowed feeling of tenderness and veneration, as the land of our forefathers^the august reposi- 72 THE SKETCH BOOK. tory of the monuments and antiquities of our race^ — the birthplace and mausoleum of the sages and heroes of our paternal history. After our own country, there was none in whose glory we more delighted — none whose good opinion we were more anxious to possess — none toward which our hearts yearned with such throb- bings of warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, when- ever there was the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring forth, it was the delight of the generous spirits of our country to show that, in the midst of hostilities, they still kept alive the sparks of future friendship. Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden band of kindred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken for ever? — ■ — Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an illusion which might have kept us in mental vassalage ; which might have inter- fered occasionally with our true interests, and prevented the growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give up the kindred tie ! and there are feelings dearer than interest — closer to the heart than pride — that will still make us cast back a look of regret, as we wander farther and farther from the paternal roof, and lament the waywardness of the parent that would repel the affections of the child. Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of Eng- land may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination on our part would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt and spirited vindication of our country, nor the keenest castigation of her slanderers — ^but I allude to a disposition to retaliate in kind ; to retort sarcasm, and inspire prejudice ; which seems to be spread- ing widely among our writers. Let us guard particularly against sQch a temper, for it would double the evil instead of redressing tlie wrong. Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. and sarcasm; but it is a paltry and an unpix)fitable contest. It is llie alternative of a morbid mind, fretted into i)etnlan('e, ratlier than warmed into indignation. If England is willing to pei-mit the mean jealousies of trade, or tlie rancorous animosities of poli- tics, to deprave the integrity of her press, and poison the fountain of public opinion, let us beware of her example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse error, and engender antipathy, for the purpose of checking emigration ; we have no purpose of the kind to serve. Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to gratify, for as yet, in all our rivalships with England, we are the rising and the gaining party. There can be no end to answer, therefore, but the gratification of resentment^ — a mere spirit of retaliation; and even that is impotent. Our retorts a.re never republished in England ; they fall short, therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a querulous and peevish temper among our writers ; they sour the sv/eet How of our early literature, and sow thorns and brambles among its blossoms. What is still worse, they cir- culate through our own country, and, as far as they have effect, excite virulent national prejudices. This last is the evil most especially to be deprecated. Governed, as we are, entirely by public opinion, the utmost care should be taken to preserve the purity of the publi-c mind. Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledge; Avhoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a preju- dice, willfully saps the foundation of his country's strength. The members of a republic, above all other men, should be candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions of the sovereign mind and sovereign will, and should be enabled to come to all questions of national concern with calm and unbiased judg- ments. Fix3m the peculiar nature of our relations with England, we must have more frequent questions of a difficult and delicate 4 74 THE SKETCH BOOK, character with her than with any other nation ; questions that affect the most acute and excitable feelings ; and as, in the adjust- ing of these, our national measures must ultimately be detei-mined by popular sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive te purify it from all latent passion or prepossession. Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every portion of the earth, we should receive all with impartiality. It should be our pride to exhibit an example of one nation, at least, destitute of national antipathies, and exercising not merely the overt acts of hospitality, but those more rare and noble courlesies which spring from liberality of opinion. What have we to do with national prejudices ? They f^re the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and igno- rant ages, when nations knew but little of each other, and looked beyond their own boundaries with distrust and hostility. "We, on the contrary, have sprung into national existence in an enlight- ened and philosophic age, when the different parts of the habita- ble world, and the various branches of the human family, have been indefatigably studied and made known to each other ; and we forego the advantages of our birth, if we do not shake off the national prejudices, as we would the local superstitions of the old world. But above all let us not be influenced by any angry feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is really excel- lent and amiable in the English character. We ai-e a young people, necessarily an imitative one, and must take our examples and models, in a great degree, from the existing nations of Europe. There is no country more worthy of our study than England. The spirit of her constitution is most analogous to ours. The manners of her people — their intellectual activity — their freedom ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 75 of opinion — their habits of thinking on those subjects which con- cern the dearest interests and most sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to the American character ; and, in fact, are all intrinsically excellent ; for it is in the moral feeling of the people that the deep foundations of British prosperity are laid ; and how- ever the superstructure may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, there must be something solid in the basis, admirable in the mate- rials, and stable in the structure of an edifice, that so long has towered unshaken amidst the tempests of the world. Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the ilHberaKty of British authors, to speak of the English nation without prejudice, and with determined candor. While they rebuke the indiscrimi- nating bigotry with which some of our countrymen admire and imitate every thing English, merely because it is English, let them frankly point out what is really worthy of approbation. We may thus place England before us as a perpetual volume of refer- ence, wherein are recorded sound deductions from ages of expe- rience ; and while we avoid the errors and absurdities which may have crept into the page, we may draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, wherewith to strengthen and to embellish our national character. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND, Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! COWPER. The stranger wlio would form a correct opinion of the English character must not confine his observations to the metropolis. He must go forth into the country ; he must sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cottages ; he must wander through parks and gardens ; along hedges and green lanes ; he must loiter about country churches ; attend wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals; and cope with the people in all their conditions, and all their habits and humors. In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and fash- ion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering-place, or general rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of carni- val, return again to the apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The various orders of society are therefore diffused over •28 THE SKETCH BOOK. the whole surface of the kingdom, and the most retired neighbor- hoods afford specimens of the different ranks. The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the country. This passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occupation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower-garden, and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his business, and the success of a commercial enterprise. Even those less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to have something that shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy quar- ters of the city, the drawing-room window resembles frequently a bank of flowers ; every spot capable of vegetation has its grass- plot and flower-bed ; and every square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand engagements that dissipate time, thought, and feeling, in this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too commonly a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is on the point of going some- where else ; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wandering to another ; and while paying a friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted in the morning. An immense metropolis, like RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 79 London, is calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient meetings, they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. They present but the cold superficies of charac- ter — its rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed into a flow. It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formali- ties and negative civilities of town ; throws off his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to collect round him all the conveniences and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country-seat abounds with every requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratifica- tion, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint either upon his guests or himself, but in the true spirit of hospitality provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves every one to partake according to his inclination. The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in what is called landscape gardening, is unrivaled. They have studied nature intently, and discover an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms, which in other countries she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled round the haunts of domestic life. They seem to have caught her coy and furtive graces, and spread them, like witch- ery, about their rural abodes. Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage : the solemn pomp of groves and wood- land glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them ; 80 THE SKETCH BOOK. the liare, bounding away to the covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing : the brook, taught to wind in natural meanderings, or expand into a glassy lake : the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters ; while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown green and dank with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; but what most delights me, is the creative talent with which the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees ; the cau- tious pruning of others ; the nice distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage ; the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water : all these are managed with a delicate tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a favorite picture. The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy, that descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grassplot before the door, the little flower-bed bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 81 lattice, the pot of flowers in the window, the holly, providently planted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside : all these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant. The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the English has had a great and salutary effect upon the national character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which char- acterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country. These hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipations of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different orders of society seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favorably upon each other. The distinctions between them do not appear to be so marked and impassable as in the cities. The manner in which property has been distributed into small estates and farms has established a regular gradation from the nobleman, through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial farmers, down to the laboring peasantry ; and while it has thus banded the extremes of society together, has infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it was 82 THE SKETCH BOOK. formerly; the larger estates having, in late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the country, almost annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system I have mentioned. In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an inter- course with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to wave the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed the very amusements of the country bring men more and more together ; and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior or- ders in England than they are in any other country ; and why the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and extremi- ties, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incompara- ble descriptions of nature that abound in the British poets, that have continued down from "the Flower and the Leaf" of Chau- cer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fra- grance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 83 countries appear as if thej had paid nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets have lived and reveled ^vith her — thej have wooed her in her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter in th-e stream — a fragrance could not exhale from, the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. ^ The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupa- tions has been wonderful on the face of tli(i country. A great part of llie island is rather level, a. id would be monotonous, were it not tor ihe cliarms oi* ciilfure : bur it is studded and gemmed, as it weie, wilii castles and palaces, and embi'oidered with [)arks and gardens. It docs not abound in grand and s,ublime prospects, but ralhei- in liuie lionie scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Exery antique farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a picture: and as the roads are continually winding, and the view is shut in by gro\'es and hedges, the eye is delighted by a con- tinual succession of small landscapes of captivating loveliness. The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-established princi- ples, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Every thing seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The old church of remote architecture, with its low massive portal ; its gothic tower ; its windows rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preservation ; its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the 81 THE SKETCH BOOK, soil ; its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeo manry, whose progeny still plough the same fields, and kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants — the stile and footpath leading from the church- yard, across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge-rows, according to an immemorial right of way — the neighboring village, with its venerable cottages, its public green sheltered by trees, under which the forefathers of the present race have sported — the an- tique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the surrounding scene : all these common features of English landscape evince a calm and settled security, and hereditary transmission of homebred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the nation. It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces and modest cheer- fulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellishments which their own hands have spread around them. It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments ; and I cannot close these desultory remarks better, than by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who has depicted it with remarkable felicity : Through each gradation, frorn the castled hall. The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 85 But chief from modest mansions numberless. In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof d shed ; This western isle hath long been famed for scenes Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place ; Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, (Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,) Can centre in a little quiet nest All that desire would fly for through the earth ; That can, the world eluding, be itself A world enjoy'd ; that wants no witnesses But its own sharers, and approving heaven ; That, hke a flower deep hid in rocky cleft. Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.* ' * From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Revereud Rann Kennedy, A. M. THE BROKEN HEART. T never heard Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt Witli care, that, Hke the caterpillar, eats The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. MiDDLETON. It is a common practice with those who have outlived the suscep- tibility of earlj feeling, or have been brought up in the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of novelists and poets. My observations on human nature have induced me to think otherwise. They have convinced me, that however the surface of the character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and arc sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I am a true be- liever in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it ? — I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love. I do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave. Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love 88 THE SKETCH BOOK. is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a history of the afifections. The heart is her world : it is there her ambition strives for empire ; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure ; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some bit- ter pangs : it wounds some feelings of .tenderness — it blasts some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being — ^he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of disappointment be too full of painful associations, he can .shift his abode at will, and taking as it were the wings of the morning, can " fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest." But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and medi- tative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation ? Her lot is to be wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when fortu- THE BROKEN HEART. 89 nate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — " dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury. Look for her, after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, should so speedily be brought down to " darkness and the worm." You Avill be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition, that laid her low ; — but no one knows of the mental malady which previously sapped her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove ; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest ; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay. I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death through the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached 90 THE SKETCH BOOK. the first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known in the country where they happened, and I shall but give them in the manner in which they were related. Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E , the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, condemned, and exe- cuted, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young — so intelligent — so gene- rous — so brave — so every thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country — the eloquent vindication of his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation — all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossi- ble to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disin- terested fervor of a woman's first and early love. When every w^orldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in for- tune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufierings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her, Avhose whole soul was occupied by his image ! Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth — who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out THE BROKEN HEART. 91 in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed. But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so dis- honored ! there was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender though melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent Hke the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had in- curred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympa- thy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She Avas led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. T?here are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul — which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depfhs of soli- tude ; walking about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and " heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely." The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas- querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness 92 THE SKETCH BOOK. more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and wobegone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow, After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plain- tive air. She had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears. The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her for- mer lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her convic- tion of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and depend- ent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance, that her heart was unalterably another's. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy THE BROKEN HEART. 93 that had entered into her verj soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, com- posed the following lines : She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps. And lovers around her are sighing : But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking — Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains. How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! He had lived for his love — for his country he died. They were all that to life had entwined him — Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him ! Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest. When they promise a glorious morrow ; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west. From her own loved island of sorrow ! THE ART OF BOOE-MAKING. " If that severe doom of Synesius be true — ' It is a greater offence to steal dead men' labor, than their clothes,' what shall become of most writers'?" Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, should teem with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out some very simple cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, and at once put an end to my astonishment. I was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons of the British Museum, with that listlessness with which one is apt to saunter about a museum in warm weather; sometimes lolling over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, Avith nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant door, at the end of a suit of apartments. It was closed, but every now and then it would 96 THE SKGfCH BOOK. open, and some strange-favored being, generally clothed in black, would steal forth, and glide through the rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding objects. There was an air of mystery about this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown regions beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with that facility with which the portals of enchanted castles yield to the adventur- ous knight-errant. I foUnd myself in a spacious chamber, sur- rounded with great cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged a great number of black -looking portraits of ancient authors. About the room were placed long tables, with stands for reading and writing, at which sat many pale, studious personages, poring intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned through this mysterious apartment, excepting that you might hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occasidnallyj the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his position to turn over the [»age of an old folio ; doubtless arising from that hol- lowness and flatulency incident to learned research. Now and then one of these personages would write something on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar would appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of the room, and return shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon which the other would fall tooth and nail with famished voracity. I had no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a body of ma«>-i, deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher shut up in an enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, which opened only once a year ; where he made the spirits of the place bring THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 97 him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at the end of the year, when the magic portal once more swung open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be able to soar above the heads of the multitude, and to control the pow- ers of nature. My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged an interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose. I found that these mysterious person- ages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally authors, and in the very act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room of the great British Library— an immense col- lection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of which are now foi-gotten, and most of which are seldom read : one of these sequestered pools of obsolete literature, to which modern authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, or " pure English, undefiled," wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of thought. Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner, and watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed one lean, bilious^ooking wight, who sought none but the most w^orm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently constructing some work of profound erudition, that would be purchased by every man who wished to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open upon his table ; but never read. I observed him, now and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustion of the stomach produced by much pondering over dry works, I leave to harder students than myself to determine. There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored 5 98 THE SKETCH BOOK. clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of countenance, who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with his book- seller. After considering him attentively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-np of miscellaneous works, which bustled off well with the trade. I was curious to see how he manufactured his wares. He made more stir and show of business than any of the others ; dipping into various books, fluttering over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, "line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little." The contents of his book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' caldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a thumb, toe of frog and blind-worm's sting, with his own gossip poured in like "baboon's blood," to make the medley " slab and good." After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be im- planted in authors for wise purposes ; may it not be the way in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in spite of the inevitable decay of the works in which they were first produced ? .We see that nature has wisely, though whimsically, provided for the conveyance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of cer- tain birds ; so that animals which, in themselves, are little better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers of the orchard and the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are caught up by th(;se flights of predatory writers, and cast forth again to flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of time. Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring up under new forms. What was formerly a ponderous history ret THE ART OP BOOK-MAKING. 99 vives in the shape of a romance — an old legend changes into a modern play— and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clearing of our American woodlands ; where we burn down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in their place : and we never see the prostrate trunk of a tree mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe of fungi. Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit to the great law of nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, but which decrees, also, that their elements shall never perish. Generation after generation, both in animal and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital prin- ciple is transmitted to posterity, and the species continue to flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget aiuthors, and having pro- duced a numerous progeny, in a good old age they sleep with their fathers, that is to say, with the authors who preceded them — and from whom they had stolen. Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I had leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether it was owing to the soporific emanations from these works ; or to the profound quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude arising from much wander- ing ; or to an unlucky habit of napping at improper times and places, with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, however, my imagination continued busy, and indeed the same scene remained before my mind's eye, only a little changed in some of the details. I dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with the portraits of ancient authors, but that the number was increased. The long tables had disappeared, and, in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare 100 THE SKETCH BOOK. throng, such as may be seen plying about the great repositoiy of cast-off clothes, Monmouth-street. Whenever they seized upon a book, by one of those incongi'uities common to dreams, me- thought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique fashion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, how- ever, that no one pretended to clothe himself from any particular suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, while some of his original rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the old fathers, and, having purloined the gray beard of another, en- deavored to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking common- place of his countenance set at naught all the trappings of wis- dom. One sickly-looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of several old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from " The Paradise of Daintie Devices," and having put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar ele- gance. A third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front ; but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived that he had patched his small-clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin author. There were some, well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 101 contemplate the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; but I grieve to say, that too many were apt to array themselves from top to toe, in the patchwork manner I have mentioned. I shall not omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and an Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural wanderings had been confined to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of the Regent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and ribands from all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one side, went about with a fantastical lack-a-daisical air, "babbling about green fields." But the personage that most struck my attention was a pragmati- cal old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably large and square, ])ut bald head. He entered the room wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid hands, upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and swept majestically away in a for- midable frizzled wig. In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly resounded from every side, of " Thieves ! thieves !" I looked, and lo ! the portraits about the wall became animated ! The old authors thrust out, first a head, then a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously, for an instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all description. The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to escape with plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern professor ; on another, there was sad devastation carried into the ranks of modern dramatic wri- ters. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field 103 THE SKETCH BOOK. like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jon son enacted more wonders than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned some time since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants about him, as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many men, to whom I had been accustomed to look up with awe and reverence, fain to steal oflf with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just then my eye was caught by the pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore affright with half a score of authors in full cry after him ! They were close upon his haunches : in a twinkling off went his wig ; at every turn some strip of raiment was peeled away ; until in a few moments, from his domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, " chopped bald shot," and made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his back There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and the scuffle were at an end. The chamber resumed its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk back into their picture-frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage of book- worms gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound never before heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity. The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him^ THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 103 but I soon found that the library was a kind of literary " pre- serve," subject to game-laws, and that no one must presume to hunt there without special license and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of being an arrant poaclier, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of author^ let loose upon, njft- A ROYAL POET. Though your body be confined, And soft love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind Neither check nor chain hath found. Look out nobly, then, and dare Even the fetters that you wear. Fletcher. On a soft sunny morning, in the genial month of Maj, I made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied and poetical associations. The very external aspect of the proud old pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its irregular walls and massive towers, like a mural crown, round the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal banner in the clouds, and looks down, with a lordly air, upon the surrounding world. On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous vernal kind, which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's tempera- ment, filling his mind with music, and disposing him to quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through the magni- ficent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle, T passed with indifference by whole rows of portraits of warriors and statesmen, but lingered in the chamber, where hang the likenesses of the beauties which graced the gay court of Charles the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, depicted with amorous, half-disheveled 5* 106 THE SKETCH BOOK. tresses, and tlie sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, whicli had thus enabled me to bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In traversing also the " large green courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, and glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surry, and his account of his loiterings about them in his stripling days, when enamored of the Lady Geraldine — " With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower. With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the ancient Keep of the Castle, where James the First of Scotland, the pride and theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for many years of his youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large gray tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good pre- servation. It stands on a mound, which elevates it above the other parts of the castle, and a great flight of steps leads to the interior. In the armory, a gothic hall, furnished with weapons of various kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging against the wall, which had once belonged to James. Hence I was conducted up a staircase to a suit of apartments of faded magnificence, hung with storied tapestry, which formed his prison, and the scene of that passionate and fanciful amour, which has woven into the web of his story the magical hues of poetry and fiction. The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince is highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent from home by his father, Robert III., and destined for the French court, to be reai'ed under the eye of the French monarch, secure A ROYAL POET. 107 from the treachery and danger that surrounded the royal house of Scotland. It was his mishap in the course of. his voyage to fall into the hands of the English, and he was detained prisoner by Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce existed between the two countries. The intelligence of his capture, coming in tl».e train of many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy father. " The news," we are told, " was brought to him while at supper, and did so overwhelm him with grief, that he was almost ready to give up the ghost into the hands of the servant tliat attended him. But being carried to his bed-chamber, he abstained from all food, and in three days died of hunger and grief, at Rothesay."* James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; but though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all the branches of useful knowledge cultivated at that period, and to give him those mental and personal accomplishments deemed proper for a prince. Perhaps, in this respect, his imprisonment was an advantage, as it enabled him to apply himself the more exclusively to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish those elegant tastes, which have given such a lustre to his memory. The picture drawn of him in early life, by the Scottish historians, is highly captivating, and seems rather the description of a hero of romance, than of a character in real history. He was well learnt, we are told, " to fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, to wrestle, to sing and dance ; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty in playing both * Buchanan. 108 THE SKETCH BOOK. of lute and harp, and sundry other instruments of music, and was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry."* With this combination of manly and delicate accomplishments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and calculated to give him an intense relish for joyous existence, it must have been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, to pass the spring-time of his years in monotonous captivity. It was the good fortune of James, however, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and to be visited in his prison by the choicest inspi- ration^ of the muse. Some minds corrode and grow inactive, under the loss of personal liberty ; others gi'ow morbid and irrita- ble ; but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and ima- ginative in the loneliness of confinement. He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody. Have you not seen the nightingale, A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, How doth she chant her wonted tale, In that her lonely hermitage ! Even there her charming melody doth prove That all her bonghs are trees, her cage a grove.t Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is shut out, it can create a world for itself, and with a necromantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, to make solitude populous, and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. * Ballenden's Translation of Hector Boyce. t Roger L'Estrange. A ROYAL POET. 109 Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider the " King's Quair," composed by James, during his captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings-forth of the soul from the T'estraint and gloom of the prison house. The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane Beau- fort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of the blood royal of England, of whom he became enamored in the course of his captivity. What gives it a peculiar value, is that it may be considered a transcript of the royal bard's true feelings, and the story of his real loves and fortunes. It is not often that sove- reigns write poetry, or that poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to the pride of a common man, to find a monarch thus suing, as it were, for admission into his closet, and seeking to win his favor by administering to his pleasures. It is a proof of the honest equahty of intellectual competition, which strips off all the trap- pings of factitious dignity, brings the candidate down to a level with his fellow men, and obliges him to depend on his own native powers for distinction. It is curious, too, to get at the history of a monarch's heart, and to find the simple affections of human nature throbbing under the ermine. But James had learnt to be a poet before he was a king : he was schooled in adversity, and reared in the company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their hearts, or to meditate their minds into poetry ; and had James been brought up amidst the adula- tion and gayety of a court, we should never, in all probability, have had such a poem as the Quair. I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation, or 110 THE SKETCH BOOK. which are connected with the apartment in the tower. They have thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such circum- stantial truth, as to make the reader present with the captive in his prison, and the companion of his meditations. Such^ is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit, and of the incident which first suggested the idea of writing the poem. It was the still midwatch of a clear moonlight night; the stars, he says, were twinkling as fire in the high vault of heaven ; and " Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius." He lay in bed wakeful and restless, and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. The book he chose was Boetius' Consolations of Philoso- phy, a work popular among the writers of that day, and which had been translated by his great prototype Chaucer. From the high eulogium in which he indulges, it is evident this was one of his favorite volumes while in prison : and indeed it is an admira- ble text-book for meditation under adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and the trains of eloquent but simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear up against the various ills of life. It is a talisman, which the unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, or, like the good King James, lay upon his nightly pillow. After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that had overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to matins ; but its sound, chiming in with liis melan- choly fancies, seems to him like a voice exhorting him to write hig story. In the spirit of poetic errantry he determines to com- A ROYAL POET. HI ply with this intimation : he therefore takes pen in hand, makes with it a sign of the cross to implore a benediction, and sallies forth into the fairy land of poetry. There is something extremely fanciful in all this, and it is interesting as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the simple manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to the mind. In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the peculiar hardness of his fate ; thus doomed to lonely and inactive life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world, in which the meanest animal indulges unrestrained. There is a sweetness, however, in his very complaints ; they are the lamenta- tions of an amiable and social spirit at being denied the indul- gence of its kind and generous propensities ; there is nothing in them harsh nor exaggerated ; they flow w4th a natural and touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered more touching by their simple brevity. They contrast finely with those elaborate and iterated repinings, which we sometimes meet with in poetry ; — the effusions of morbid minds sickening under miseries of their own creating, and venting their bitterness upon an unoffending world. James speaks of his privations with acute sensibility, but having mentioned them passes on, as if his manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. When such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, however brief, we are aware how great must be the suffering that extorts the murmur. We sympathize with James, a romantic, active, and accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and vigorous delights of life ; as we do with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes forth brief, but deep-toned lamentations over his perpetual bhndness. 112 THE SKETCH BOOK. Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we might almost have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy reflection were meant as preparative to the brightest scene of his story ; and to contrast with that refulgence of light and loveliness, that exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song, and foliage and flower, and all the revel of the year, with which he ushers in the lady of his heart. It is this scene, in particular, which throws all the magic of romance about the old castle keep. He had risen, he says, at daybreak, according to custom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow. " Bewailing in hid chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy and remedy, " forfcired of thought and wobegone," he had wandered to the window, to indulge the captive's miserable solace of gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is excluded. The window looked forth upon a small garden which lay at the foot of the tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned with arbors and green alleys, and protected from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges. Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall, A garden faire, and in the corners set An arbour green with wandis long and small Railed about, and so with leaves beset Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye That might within scarce any wight espye. So thick the branches and the leves ,grene, Beshaded all the alleys that there were. And midst of every arbour might be sene * Lyf, person. A ROYAL POET. 113 The sharpe, grene, swete juniper. Growing so fair, with branches here and there. That as it seemed to a lyf without, The boughs did spread the arbour all about. And on the small grene twistis* set The lytel swete nightingales, and sung So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate , , Of lovis use, now soft, now load among. That all the garden and the wallis rung Right of their song It was the month of May, when every thing was in bloom; and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the language of his enamored feeling : Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May, For of your bliss the kalends are begun. And sing with us, away, winter, away. Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the birds, he gradually relapses into one of those tender and unde- finable reveries,, which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious season. He wonders what this love may be, of which he has so often read, and which thus seems breathed forth in the quickening breath of May, and melting all nature into ecstasy and song. If it really be so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone cut off from its enjoyments ? * Twistis, small boughs or twigs. Note. — The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 114 THE SKETCH BOOK. Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be, That love is of such noble myght and kynde ? Loving his folke, and such prosperitee Is it of him, as we in books do find : May he oure hertes setten* and unbynd : Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye 1 Or is all this but feynit fantasye 2 For giff he be of so grete excellence. That he of every wight hath care and charge, What have I giltt to him, or done offense. That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large 1 In the midst of his musing, as he easts his eye downward, he beholds " the fairest and the freshest young floure " that ever he had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden to enjoy the beauty of that " fresh May morrowe." Breaking thus suddenly upon his sight, in the moment of loneliness and excited susceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the romantic pnnce, and becomes the object of his wandering wishes, the sovereign of his ideal world. There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance to the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale ; where Palamon and ^rcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual fact to the incident which he had read in Chaucer may have induced James to dwell on it in his poem. His description of the Lady Jane is given in the picturesque and minute manner of his mas- ter ; and being doubtless taken from the life, is a perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He dwells, with the fondness of a lover, on every article of her apparel, from the net of pearl, splen- * Setten, inchne. t Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. A ROYAL POET. 115 dent with emeralds and sapphires, that confined her golden hair, even to the " goodly chaine of small orfeverye " * about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire burning upon her white bosom. Her dres9 of white tissue was looped up to enable her to walk with more freedom. She was accompanied by two female attendants, and about her sported a little hound decorated with bells ; proba- bly the small Italian hound of exquisite S}inmetry, which was a parlor favorite and pet among the fashionable dames of ancient times. James closes his description by a burst of general eu- logium : In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature ; God better knows than my pen can report, Wisdom, largesse,t estate ,t and cunning § sure. In every point so guided her measure, In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance. That nature might no more her child advance. The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amorous illusion that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold more intolerable by this passing beam of unattainable beauty. Through the long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when evening approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully expresses it, had " bade farewell to every leaf and flower," he still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon the cold * Wrought gold. t Largesse, bounty. X Estate, dignity. § Cunning, discretion. 116 THE SKETCH BOOK. stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until, gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of the twihght hour, he lapses, " half sleeping, half swoon," into a vision, which occupies the remainder of the poem, and in which is allegorically shadowed out the history of his passion. When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his stony pillow, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflections, ques- tions his spirit whither it has been wandering ; whether, indeed, all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has been conjured up by preceding circumstances ; or whether it is a vision, intended to comfort and assure him in his despondency. If the latter, he prays that some token may be sent to confirm the promise of happier days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, a turtle dove, of the purest whiteness, comes flying in at the window, and alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch of red gilli- flower, on the leaves of which is written, in letters of gold, the following sentence : Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring The newis glad that blissful is, and sure Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing. For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread ; reads it with rapture : and this, he says, was the first token of his suc- ceeding happiness. Whefther this is a mere poetic fiction, or whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of her favor in this romantic way, remains to be determined according to the faith or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem, by intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision and by the A ROYAL POET. 117 flower is fulfilled, by his being restored to liberty, and made happy in the possession of the sovereign of his heart. Such is the poetical account given by James of his love adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to con- jecture : let us not, however, reject every romantic incident as incompatible with real life ; but let us sometimes take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely those parts of the poem imme- diately connected with the tower, and have passed over a large part, written in the allegorical vein, so much cultivated at that day. The language, of course, is quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely be per- ceived at the present day ; but it is impossible not to be charmed with the genuine sentiment, the delightful artlessness and urbanity, which prevail throughout it. The descriptions of nature too, with which it is embellished, are given with a truth, a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most cultivated periods of the art. As an amatory poem, it is edifying in these days of coarser thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite delicacy which pervade it ; banishing every gross thought or immodest expression, and presenting female loveliness, clothed in all its chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace. James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his mas- ters ; and, in some parts of his poem, we find traces of similarity to their productions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There are always, however, general features of resemblance in the works of contemporary authors, which are not so much borrowed from each other as from the times. Writers, like bees, toll their sweets 18 THE SKETCH BOOK. in the wide world ; tliey incorporate with their own conceptioni the anecdotes and thoughts current in society ; and thus each generation has some features in common, characteristic of the age in which it hved. ' James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our literary history, and establishes the claims of his country to a participa- tion in its primitive honors. Whilst a small cluster of English writers are constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name of their great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in silence ; but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little constel- lation of remote but never-failing luminaries, who shine in the highest firmament of literature, and who, like morning stars, sang together at the bright dawning of British poesy. Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish his- tory (though the manner in which it has of late been woven with captivating fiction has made it a universal study) may be curious to learn something of the subsequent history of James, and the fortunes of his love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it was the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release, it being imagined by the court that a connexion with the blood royal of England would attach him to its own interests. He was ultimately restored to his liberty and crown, having previously espoused the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and made him a most tender and devoted wife. He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities of a long interregnum to strengthen themselves in their possessions. and place themselves above the power of the laws. James sought to found the basis of his power in the affections of his people. He attached the lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, A ROYAL POET. 119 the temperate and equable administration of justice, the encour- agement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of every thing that could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent enjoyment through the humblest ranks of society. He minged occasionally among the common people in disguise ; visited their firesides ; entered into their cares, their pursuits, and their amusements ; informed himself of the mechanical arts, and how they could best be patronized and improved; and was thus an all-pervading, spirit, watching with a benevolent eye over the meanest of his sub- jects. Having in this generous manner made himself strong in the hearts of the common people, he turned himself to curb the power of the factious nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous immunities which they had usurped ; to punish such as had been guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring the whole into proper obedience to the crown. For some time they bore this with out- ward submission, but with secret impatience and brooding resent- ment. A conspiracy was at length formed against his life, at the head of which was his own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too old himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, instigated his grandson Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham, and others of less note, to commit the deed. They broke into his bedchamber at the Dominican Convent near Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to throw her tender body between him and the sword, was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to shield him from the assassin ; and it was not until she had been forcibly torn from his person, that the mur- der was accomplished. It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, and of the golden little poem which had its birthplace in thia 120 THE SKETCH BOOK. tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than common interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the image of the gallant and romantic prince vividly befo*'e my imagination, I paced the deserted chambers where he had composed his poem ; I leaned upon the window, and endeavored to persuade myself it was the very one where he had been visited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot where he had first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joyous month ; the birds were again vying with each other in strains of liquid melody ; every thing was bursting into vegetation, and budding forth the tender promise of the year. Time, which delights to obliterate the sterner memorials of human pride, seems to have passed lightly over this little scene of poetry and love, and to have withheld his desolating hand. Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot of the tower. It occupies what was once the moat of the keep ; and though some parts have been separated by dividing walls, yet others have still their arbors and shaded walks, as in the days of James, and the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. There is a charm about a spot that has been printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations of the poet, which is heightened, rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry to hallow every place in which it moves ; to breathe around na- ture an odor more exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical than the blush of morning. Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a war- rior and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him merely as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet flowers of A ROYAL POET. 12! poetry and song in the paths of common life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which has since become so prolific of the most wholesome and highly- flavored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner regions of the north all the fertilizing arts of southern refinem'eht. He did every thing in his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts, which soften and refine the character of a people, and wreathe a grace round the loftiness of a proud and ■ warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, which, unfortunately for the fullness of his fame, are now lost to the world ; one, which is still preserved, called " Christ's Kirk of the Green," shows how diligently he had made himself acquainted with the rustic sports and pastimes, which constitute such a source of kind and social feeling among the Scottish peasantry ; and with what simple and happy humor he could enter into their enjoyments. He contri- buted greatly to improve the national music ; and traces of his tender sentiment, and elegant taste, are said to exist in those witching airs, still piped among the wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotlnnd. He has thus connected his image with what- ever is most gracious and endearing in the national character ; he has embalmed his memory in song, and floated his name to after ages in the rich streams of Scottish melody. The recollection of these things was kindling at my heart as I paced the silent scene of his imprisonment I have visited Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto ; but I have never felt more poetical devotion than when contemplating the old tower and the little garden at Windsor, and musing over the romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Eoyal Poet of Scotland. 6 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. A gentleman ! What, o' the woolpack ? or the sugar-chest ? Or Hsts of velvet ? which is't, pound, or yard, You vend your gentry by ? Beggar's Bush. There are few places more favorable to the study of character than an English country church. I was once passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, the appearance of which particularly struck my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity which give such a peculiar charm to English landscape. It stood in the midst of a country filled with ancient families, and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. The interior walls were incrusted with monuments of every age and style. The light streamed through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts of the church were tombs of knights, and high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their effigies in colored marble. On every side the eye was struck with some instance of aspiring mortality ; some haughty memorial which human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this temple of the most humble of all religions. 124 THE SKETCH BOOK. The congi'egation was composed of the neighboring people of rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and cushioned, fur- nished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with ;their arms upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a small gallery beside the organ ; and of the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. The service was performed by a snuffling well-fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had been the keenest fox-hunter in the country ; until age and good living had disabled him from doing any thing more than ride to see the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner. Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossible to get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place : so, having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another person's threshold, I occupied myself by making observations on my neighbors. I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that there was the least pretension where there was the most acknowledged title to respect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman of high rank, consisting of several sons and daughters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than their appearance. They generally came to church in the plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble cot- tagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, with THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 125 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 sim- ply ; with strict neatness and propriety, but without any manner- ism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with that lofty grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak free- born souls that have never been checked in their growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness about real dignity, that never dreads contact and communion with others, however humble. It is only spurious pride that is morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see the manner in which they would converse with the peasantry about those rural concerns and field-sports, in which the gentle- men of this country so much delight. In these conversations there was neither haughtiness on the one part, nor servility on the other ; and you were only reminded of the difference of rank by the habitual respect of the peasant. In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, who had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having purchased the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighborhood, was endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. The family always came to church en prince. They were rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen, in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with peculiar 136 THE SKETCH BOOK. stateliness of motion. The very horses champed their bitej 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 spleKdid pageant was brought up to the gate of the church-yard. There was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall ; — a great smacking of the whip, straining and scrambling of horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vainglory to the coachman. The horses were urged and checked until they were fretted into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers sauntering quietly to church, opened precipitately to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that produced an imme- diate stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to alight, pull down the steps, and prepare every thing for the descent on earth of this august family. The old citizen lirst emerged his round red face from out the door, looking about him with the pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, com- fortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little pride in her composition. She was the picture of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with her ; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, every thing was fine about her : it was nothing but driving about, and visiting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one long Lord Mayor's day. THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 127 Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They cer- tainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air, that chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. They were ultra-fashionable in dress; and, though no one could deny the richness of their decorations, yet their appropriateness might be questioned amidst the simplicity of a country church. They descended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over the burly faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the nobleman's family, when their countenances immediately bright- ened into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed they were but slight acquaintances. I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of dress which marks the man of questionable pretensions to style. They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing every one askance that came near them, as if measuring his claims to respectability ; yet they were without conversation, except the exchange of an occa- sional cant phrase. They even moved artificially; for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, had been disci- plined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had done every thing to accomplish them as men of fashion, but nature had denied them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the common purposes of life, and had that air of superciHous assumption which is never seen in the true gentleman. I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these J28 THE SKETCH BOOK. two families, because I considered them specimens of what is often to be met with in this conntrj — the unpretending great, and the arrogant little. I have no respect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true nobility of soul ; but I have remarked in air countries where artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. Those who are well assured of their own standing are least apt to trespass on that of others : whereas nothing is so offensive as the aspi- rings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by 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 be- trayed 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 him- self, standing bolt upright, and uttering the responses with a loud voice that might be heard all over the church. It was evident that he was one of those thorough church and king men, who con- nect 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, ne was not above being religious ; as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of charity THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 129 soup, smacking his lips at every moutliiul, and pronouncing it " excellent food for the poor." When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sis- ters, 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 equi- pages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the glittering of harness. The horses started off almost at a bound ; the villagers again hurried to right and left ; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust j and the aspiring family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. THE WIDOW AND HER SON. Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires Honoar and reverence evermore have rain'd. Marrlowe's Tamburlaink. Those who are in the habit of remarking such matters must have noticed the passive quiet of an English landscape on Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the flail, the din of the blacksmith's hammer, the 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 disturbed by passing travelers. At such times I have almost fancied the winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny land- scape, with its fresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm. Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky. Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, has its moral influence ; every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel the natural rehgion of the soul gently springing up within us. For my part, there are feelings that visit me, in a country 132 THE SKETCH BOOK. cliurcli, amid tlie beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience no where else ; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the seven. During my recent residence in the country I used frequently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles ; its moul- dering monuments ; its dark oaken paneling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation ; but being in a wealthy aristocratic neighbor- hood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into the sanctuary; and I felt myself continually 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 infir- mities^r She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scru- pulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among 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 forai in prayer; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart ; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 133 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 church-yard ; where, from the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of pov- erty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe ; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased — the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the 134 THE SKETCH BOOK. survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching 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 — " Geoige Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, but I could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart. Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earfli. There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feel- ings of grief and aifection ; 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 v/retched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like consolation—" Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental ob- struction, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 135 the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church-yard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. When I saw the mother slowly and painfuUy quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ! they have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young! Their growing minds soon close above the wound — their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green and ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe — the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years ; these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the im- potency of consolation. It was some time before I left the church-yard. On my way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter : she was just returning from accompanying the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small garden, 136 THE SKETCH BOOK. 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-tempered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents ! It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his best, so taU, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to church — for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm, than on her goodman's ; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was not in the country round." ^ Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been long in this employ when he was entrapped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a kind feeling toward her throughout the village, and a certain respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one 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 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 137 seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore 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 ^dth a vacant and wandering eye—" Oh my dear, dear mother ! don't you know your son ? your poor boy George ?" It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged 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 any thing had been wanting to finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage would have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had re- turned, crowded to see him, oflfering 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 feel- ings of infancy. Whio 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 foreign land; but has thought 138 THE SKETCH BOOK. 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 trans- cends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worth- lessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every com- fort to his convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prospe- rity : — and, if misfortune overtake him, he 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 tranquillity of a child. In this way he died. My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on inqui- ry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do every thing that the case admitted : and as the poor know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 139 She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for her son ; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a black riband or so — a faded black handkerchief, and one or two more such humble attempts to express by outward signs that grief which passes show. When I looked round upon the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow, at the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted them- selves to render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left the neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never parted. A SUNDAY IN LONDON.* In a preceding paper I have spoken of an Englisk Sunday in the_ country, and its tranquilizing effect upon the landscape ; but where is its sacred influence more strikingly apparent than in the very heart of that great Babel, London ? On this sacred day, the gigantic monster is charmed into repose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week are at an end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges and manufactories are extinguished ; and the sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober, yellow radiance into the quiet streets. The few pedes- trians we meet, instead of hurrying forward with anxious counte- nances, move leisurely along ; their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles of business and care ; they have put on their Sunday looks, and Sunday manners, with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as well as in person. And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his mansion the family of the decent tradesman, the small children in the advance ; then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed by the grown-up daughters, with small morocco-bound prayer- books laid in the folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The house- maid looks after them from the window, admiring the finery of * Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions. 143 THE SKETCH BOOK. tlie 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, perad venture an alderman or a sheriff; and now the patter of many feet announces a procession of charity scholars, in uniforms of antique cut, and each with a prayer-book under his arm. The ringing of bells is at an end ; the rumbling of the car- riage has ceased ; the pattering of feet is heard no more ; the flocks are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and corners of the crowded city, where the vigilant beadle keeps watch, like the shepherd's dog, round the threshold of the sanc- tuary. For a time every thing is hushed ; but soon is heard the deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and vibrating through the -empty lanes and courts ; and the sweet chanting of the choir making them 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 congregations feturning 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 oc- cupations of the week. A school-boy may be permitted on that day to come to the paternal home ; an old friend of the family takes his accustomed Sunday seat at the board, tells over his well- known stories, and rejoices young and old with his well-known jokes. A SUNDAY IN LONDON. 143 On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural envi- rons. Satirists may say what they please about the rural enjoy- ments of a London citizen on Sunday, but to me there is something delightful in beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty city enabled thus to come forth once a week and throw himself upon the green bosom of nature. He is like a child restored to the mother's breast ; and they who first spread out these noble parks and magnificent pleasure-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, EASTCHEAP, A SHAKSPEARIAN KESEARCH. ^' A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, tlie staple of good fellovvs. I have heard my ^Teat-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 ths w^ine.' " Mother Bohbie. 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. On€, perhaps, is left to moulder in the dark- ness of his httle chapel ; another may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy ; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beatified father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax ; the eager zealot his seven-branched candlestick, and even the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased, unless he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the eagerness to en- lighten, they are often apt to obscure ; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of his followers. In like manner lias it fared with the immortal Shakspeare. 7 146 THE SKETCH BOOK. Every writer considers it his bounden duty to liglit up some poF« tion of liis 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 at the bottom of each page ; ard 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 quil^ 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 per- plexed beyond the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine passages, they had all been amply praised by previous admirers ; nay, so completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with panegyric by a great German critic, that it was difficult now to find even a fault that had not been 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 enlivened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of po- etry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP, 147 me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years since : and, if I may be exensed such an insensibility to the common ties of human nature, T 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 inchnation to follow. But, old .Jack Falstaff ! — kind 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 pilgrimage to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, " and see if the old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. "Who kiiows 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 execution. I forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I encountered in my travels ; of the haunted regions of Cock Lane ; of the faded glories of Little Britain, and the parts adjacent; what perils I ran in Cateaton-street and old Jewry ; of the re- nowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the pride and won- der of the city, and the terror of all unlucky urchins ; and how I visited London Stons, and struck my staff upon it, in imitation of that arch rebel. Jack Cade. 148 THE SKETCH BOOK, Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry East- cheap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane 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 roar- ings days of Falstaff and old Stowe ! The madcap royster has given place to the plodding tradesman ; the clattering of pots and the sound of " harpe and 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 Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The only relic of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in stone, which formerly served as the sign, but at present is built into the parting line of two houses, which stand on the site of the renowned old taverp. 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 com- prised, in all probability, her prospects in life, and the little world in which she had lived, and moved, and had her being, for the better part of a century. THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 149 To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, from London Stone even unto the Monument, was, doubtless, 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 anti- quity. 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^ toward the supporting of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there ; but it ATas observed that the old Boar never held up his head under church government. He gradually declined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years since. The tavern was then turned into shops ; but she informed me that a pictur6 of it was still preserved in St. Michael's Church, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my determination ; so, having informed myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her opinon of her legendary lore, and furnished an important incident in the history of her life. It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore 150 THE SKETCH BOOK. Crooked Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, and dark pas* sages, 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, surrounded by lofty houses, where the in- habitants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven, as a commu- nity of frogs at the bottom of a well. The sexton was a meek, ac- quiescing little man, of a bowing, lowly habit : yet he had a pleas- ant twinkling in his eye, and, if encouraged, would now and then hazard a small pleasantry ; such as a man of his low estate might venture to make in the company of high churchwardens, and other mighty men of the earth. I found him in company with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels, discours- ing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and settling the aifairs 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 gra- cious permission to accompany them. The church of St. IMichael's, Crooked Lane, standing a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many fishmongers of renown ; and as every profession has its galaxy of glory, and its constellation of great men, I presume the monu- ment of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with as much reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the monument 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 nho THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 151 the ashes of that doughty champion, William Walworth, knight, who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield; a hero worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of arms: — the sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned as the most pacific of all potentates.* Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under the back window of what was once the Boar's Head, stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It * The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this wor- thy ; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration. Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, William Walworth callyd by name ; Fishmonger he was in lyiftime here. And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere ; Who, with courage stout and manly myght, Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. For which act done, and trew entent. The Kyng made him knyght incontinent ; And gave him armes, as here you see. To declare his fact and chivaldrie. He left this lyfF the yere of our God Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd. An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the venerable Stowe. " Whereas," s-aith 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. 152 THE SKETCH BOOK. is now nearly a century since this trusty drawer of good liquo? 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 mysteri- ous air, and informed me in a low voice, that once upon a time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling, and whistling, hanging about doors and windows, and twirling weather- cocks, so that the living were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the church-yard, was attracted by the well-known call of "waiter" from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was singing a stave from the " mirre garland of Captain Death ;" to the dis- comfiture of sundry train-band captains, and the conversion of an infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and was never known to twist the truth afterwards, except in the way of business. I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for the authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is well kno^rn that the church-yards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very much infested with perturbed spirits ; and every one must have heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower, which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of their wits. Be 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 THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 153 venture to impeacli, 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.* The worthy dignitaries of the church, however, did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of the tapster ; the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made 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 disap- pointed me in the great object of my quest, the picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the church of St. Michael. " Marry and amen !" said I, " here end- eth my research !" So I was giving the matter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be curious in every thing relative to the old tavern, ofi'ered to * 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 every one beside. O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined. Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots. Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. You that on Bacchus have the like dependance. Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 7* 154 THE SKETCH BOOK. show me the choice vessels of the vestrj, 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 club-room, which had been transferred, on the decline of the ancient estab- lishment, to a tavern in the neighborhood. A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the " bully-rock " of the establish- ment. It is one of those little taverns which .abound in the heart of the city, and form the centre of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. 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, be- fore which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the mantle-piece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one corner. There was some- thing primitive in this medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall, that carried me back to earHer times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, but every thing had that look of order and neatness, which bespeaks the superintendence of a notable Eng- lish housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher preten- sions, I was ushered into a little misshapen back-room, having at least nine corners. It was lighted by a sky-light, furnished with THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 155 antiquated leathern chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently appi-opriated to particular customers, and I found a shabby gentleman, in a I'ed 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 hei' my errand. Dame Ho- neyball was a likely, plump, bustling little Avoman, and no bad sub- stitute for that paragon of hostesses. Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity to oblige ; and liurrying up stairs to the archives of her house, where the precious vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and courtesying, v.nth them in her hands. The first she presented me was a ja})nnned iron tobacco-box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vevStry had smoked at their stated meetings, since time immemorial; and which was never sutfered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or used on com- mon 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 that* wonderful fidelity and force, with which the portraits of renowned generals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly oblit- »- "ated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was " repaired and beautified by his successor, Mr. 156 THE SKETCH BOOK. John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful description of this au- gust and venerable relic ; and I question whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his 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 excited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which also belonged to the vestry, and was descended from the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of having been the gift of Francis Wythers, knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being considered very " antyke." This last opinion was strengthened by the shabby gentleman in the red nose and oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused from his meditation on the pot of porter, and, casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, " Ay, ay ! the head don't ache now that made that there article !" The great importance attached to this memento of ancient revelry by modern churchwardens at first puzzled me ; but there is nothing sharpens the apprehension so much as antiquarian re- search ; for I immediately perceived that this could be no other than the identical " parcel-gilt goblet " on which Falstaff made his loving, but faithless vovr to Dame Quickly ; and which would, of course, be treasured up with care among the regalia of her do- mains, as a testimony of that solemn contract.* * Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting 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 hkening 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 IV. Part 2. THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 157 Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet had been handed down from generation to generation. She also entertained me with many particulars concerning the worthy ves- trymen who have seated themselves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roysters of Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honor of Shakspeare. These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should not be as curious in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived and reveled there. Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes concerning* him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, which they give as transmitted down from their forefathers ; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, Avhose 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 meditation. His head had decUned a little on one side ; a deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach ; and, though I could not see a tear trembhng in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye thi'ough the door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on the savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness before the fire. I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my recondite investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, and, putting in his hand a smar. token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed, with a hearty benediction on him. Dame Honeyball, and the Parish Club of 158 THE SKETCH BOOK. Crooked Lane ; — not forgetting my shabby, but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account of this inter- esting research, for w^hich, 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 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 ; private anecdotes of Dame Honeyball, and her pretty daughter, whom I have not even mentioned ; to say nothing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb, (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass, with a neat foot and ankle ;) — the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of London. All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future com- mentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, and the " parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus brought to light, the sub- jects of future engravings, and almost as fruitful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the shield of Achilles, or the far- fjimed Portland vase. THE MUTABILITY OF LITEMTUJIE. A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. I know that all beneath the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought, fn 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. Drummond of Hawthgrnden. There are certain half-drearaing 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 cas- tles undisturbed. In such a mood I was loitermg about the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection ; when suddenly an interruption of madcap boys from Westminster School, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. I sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the soli- tudes of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers for admission to the library. He conducted me through a portal rich with the 160 THE SKETCH BOOK. crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage leading to the chapter-house and the chamber in 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. I found myself in a lofty antique hall, -the roof supported by massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly Hghted by a row of gothic windows at a considerable height from the floor, and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallery were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polemical writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In the centre of the library was a solitary table with two or three books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It was buried deep among the massive 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 merriment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away ; the bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through the dusky hall. I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated nayself at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, however, I was be- guiled by the solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place, THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 161 into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves, and appa- rently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but consider the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like mum- mies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion. How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, 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 ; and devoted themselves to painful research and intense reflection ! And all for what ? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf — to have the title of their works read now and then in a future age, by some drowsy churchman or casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere tempo- rary" rumor, a local sound ; like the tone of that bell which has just tolled amoug these towers, filling the ear for a moment — lin- gering transiently in echo — and then passing away like a thing that was not ! While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these unprofita- ble speculations with my head resting on my hand, I was thrum- ming with 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 awaking 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 162 THE SKETCH BOOK. damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly jluent conversable little tome. Its language, 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 blindman's-buff. Master Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occa- sions to fulfill the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord of ]\iisrule,* was blinded in the midst of the hall. The little beings were as busy about him as the mock fairies about Falstaff ; pinch- ing him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her faxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock * 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. THE CHRISTMAS JDINNER. 293 half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was the chief tormentor ; and, from the slyness with which Master Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over 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 company seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was deeply en- sconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had been brought from the library for his particular accommodation. From this venerable piece of furni- ture, with which his shadowy figure and dark weazen face so ad- mirably accorded, he was dealing out strange accounts of the popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, with which he had become acquainted in the course of his anti- quarian researches. I am half inclined to think 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 marvelous and supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, concerning the effigy of the crusader, which lay on the tomb by the church altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in that part of the country, it had always been regarded with feel- ings of superstition by the good wives of the village. It was said to get up from the tomb and v/alk the rounds of the church- yard in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered ; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered on the church-yard, had seen it through the windows of the church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief that 294 THE SKETCH BOOK. 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 st-^ry current of a sexton in old times who endeavored to break his way to the coffin at night, but, just as he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble hand of the e^gj, which stretched him senseless on the pavement. These tales, 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 church-yard. From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, 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 occa- sion the church door most civilly swung open of itself; not that he needed it ; for he rode through closed gates and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the dairy maids to pass between two bars of the great park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. All these superstitions I found had been very much counte- THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 295 nanced by the squire, who, though not superstitious himself, was very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin tale of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, and held the por- ter's wife in high favor on account of her talent for the marvel- ous. He was himself a great reader of old legends and romances, aud often lamented that he could not believe in them ; for a super- stitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairy land. Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds from the hall, in which were mingled something like the clang of rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of many small voices and girlish laughter. The door suddenly flew open, and a train came troop- ing into the room, that might almost have been mistaken for the breaking up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit, Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas mummery or mask- ing ; and having called in to his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, who were equally ripe for any thing that should occasion romping and merriment, they had carried it into instant effect. The old housekeeper had been consulted; the antique clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged and made to yield up the relics of finery that had not seen the light for several genera- tions ; the younger part of the company had been privately con- vened from the parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out, into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask.* Master Simon led the van, as " Ancient Christmas," quaintly * Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas in old times; and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under contribu- tion to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's Masque of Christmas. 296 THE SKETCH BOOK. appareled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very mucli 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 Covenanters. From under this his nose curved boldly forth, flushed 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 Minee 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 MarianJ' The rest of the train had been metamorphosed in various ways ; the girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles of the Bracebridge line, and the striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bot- tomed wigs, to represent the character of Roast Beef, Plum Pud- ding, and other worthies celebrated in ancient maskings. The whole was under the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Misrule ; and I observed that he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller personages of the pageant. The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, accord- ing to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar and mer- riment. Master Simon covered liimself with glory by the stateli- ness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless, though giggling, Dame IVIince Pie. It was followed THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 297 by a dance of all the characters, which, from its medley of cos- tumes, seemed as though the' old family portraits had skipped down from their frames to join in the sport. Different centuries were figuring at cross hands and right and left ; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons ; and the days of Queen Bess jiggling merrily down the middle, through a line of succeed- ing generations. The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding that the latter was discoursing most authentically on the ancient and stately dance at the Paon, or peacock, from which he conceived the minuet to be derived.* For my part I was in a continual excitement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and catch- ing once more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the scene, from the consideration that these fleeting customs were posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only family in England in which the whole of them was stiU punctiliously observed. There was a quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest : it was suited to * Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pave, a peacock, says, " It is a grave and majestic dance ; the method of dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock." — History of Music. 13* 398 THE SKETCH BOOK. the time and place ; and as the old manor-house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed . echoing back the joviality of long departed years.* But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time for me to pause in this garrulit}^ Methinks I hear the questions asked by my graver readers, " To what purpose is all this — ^how is the world to be made wiser by this talk ?" Alas ! is there not wis- dom enough extant for the instruction of the world ? And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improve- ment! — It is so much pleasanter to please than to instruct — to play the companion rather than the preceptor. What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my sagest deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others ? But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evU is in my own disap- pointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, iri these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain. * At the time of the first pubhcation of this paper, the picture of an old- fashioned Christmas in the country was pronounced by some as out of date. The author had afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost all the customs above described, existing in unexpected vigor in the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will find Bome notice of them in the author's account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey. LONDON ANTIQUES. — ^^— I do walk Methinks like Gnido Vanx, with my dark lanthorn, Stealing to set the town o' fire ; 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 ex- ploring London in quest of the relics of old times. These are principally to be found in the depths of the city, swallowed up and almost lost in a wilderness of brick and mortar ; but deriving poetical and romantic interest from the commonplace prosaic world around them. I was struck with an instance of the kind in the course of a recent summer ramble into the city ; for the city is only to be explored to advantage in summer time, when 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 dis- cordant sound. The flesh was weary, the spirit faint, and I was getting out of humor with the bustling busy throng through which I had to struggle, when in a fit of desperation I tore my way through the crowd, plunged into a by lane, and after passing through several obscure nooks and angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet court with a grassplot in the centre, overhung by elms. 300 THE SKETCH BOOK. and kept perpetually fresh and green by a fountain with its spark ling jet of water. A student 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 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, strange- ly 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 sud- denly to turn aside from the highway of busy money-seeking life, and sit down among these shadowy sepulchres, where all is twi- light, dust, and forgetfulness. In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered another of these relics of a " foregone world " locked up in the heart of the city. I had been wandering for some time through dull monotonous streets, destitute of any thing to strike the eye or excite the imagination, when I beheld before me a gothic gate- way of mouldering antiquity. It opened into a spacious quadran- gle forming the court-yard of a stately gothic pile, the portal of which stood invitingly open. LONDON ANTiaUES. 301 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 uall 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 ruif, and a venerable gray beard. The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet and seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm, was, that I had not met with a human being since I had passed the threshold. Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a recess of a large bow window, which admitted a broad flood of yellow sun- shine, checkered here and there by tints from panes of colored glass ; while an open casement let in the soft summer air. Here, leaning my head on my hand, and my arm on an old oaken table, I indulged in a sort of reverie about what might have been the ancient uses of this edifice. It had evidently been of monastic origin ; perhaps one of those collegiate establishments built of yore for the promotion of learning, where the patient monk, in the ample solitude of the cloister, added page to page and volume to volume, emulating in the productions of his brain the magni- tude of the pile he inhabited. As I was seated in this musing mood, a small panneled door in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, and a number of gray -headed old men, clad in long black cloaks, came forth one by one; proceeding in that manner through the hall, without uttering a word, each turning a pale face on me as he passed, and disappearing through a door at the lower end. 302 _ THE SKETCH BOOK. I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their black cloaks and antic[uated 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 be- longed to the establishment, were at their sports ; but every where I observed those mysterious old gray men in black mantles, some- timers sauntering alone, sometimes conversing in groups : they ap- peared to be the pervading genii of the place. I now called to mind what I had read of certain colleges in old times, where judicial astrology, geomancy, necromancy, and other forbidden and magical sciences were taught. Was this an establishment of the kind, and were these black-cloaked old men really pro- fessors of the black art ? These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye glanced into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of strange and uncouth objects ; implements of savage warfare ; strange idols and stuffed alligators; bottled serpents and monsters decorated the mantelpiece ; while on the high tester of an old-fashioned bedstead grinned a human skull, flanked on each side by a dried cat. I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic chamber, which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer, when I was LONDON ANTIQUES. 303 stai'tled at beholding a human countenance staring at me from a duskj corner. It was that of a small, shriveled old man, -with thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray wiry projecting eyebrows. I at first doubted whether it were not a mummy curiously pre- served, but it moved, and I saw that it was alive. It was another of these black-cloaked old men, and, as I regarded his quaint physiognomy, his obsolete garb, and the hideous and sinister ob- jects by which he was surrounded, I began to persuade myself that I had come upon the arch mago, who ruled over this magical fraternity. Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited me to enter. I obeyed, with singular ^ hardihood, for how did I know whether a wave of his wand might not metamorphose me into some strange monster, or conjure me into one of the bottles on his mantelpiece ? He proved, however, to be any thing but a conjurer, and his simple garrulity soon dispelled all the magic and mystery with which I had enveloped 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 decayed house- holders, with which was connected a school for a limited number of boys. It was founded upwards of two centuries since on an old monastic establishment, and retained somewhat of the con- ventual air and character. The shadowy line of old men in black mantles who had passed before me in the hall, and whom I had elevated into magi, turned out to be the pensioners returning from morning service in the chapel. John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities whom I had made the arch magician, had been for six years a resident of the place, and had decorated this final nestling place of his old age with 304 THE SKETCH BOOK. relics and rarities picked up in the course of his life. According to his own account, he had been somewhat of a traveler ; having been once in France, and very near making a visit to Holland. He regretted not having visited the latter country, " as then he might have said he had been there." — He was evidently a trav- eler of the simple kind. He 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 fortune of forty thousand pounds left him by his father, and ten thousand pounds, the mar- riage portion of his w^ife. Little Hallum semed 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 w^hat 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 pro- vided, in their old age, with food, clothing, fuel, and a yearly allowance for private expenses. They dine together as did the monks of old, in the hall which had been the refectory of the original convent. Attached to the establishment is a school for forty-four boys. Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speaking LONDON ANTIQUES. 305 of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says, " They are not to intermeddle with any business touching the affairs of the hospital, but to attend only to the service of God, and take thankfully what is provided for them, without muttering, mur- muring, or grudging. None to wear weapon, long hair, colored boots, spurs or colored shoes, feathers in their hats, or any ruffian- like or unseemly apparel, but such as becomes hospital men to wear." "And in truth," adds Stow, '< happy are they that are so taken from the cares and sorrows of the world, and fixed in so good a place as these old men are ; having nothing to care for, but the good of their souls, to serve God and to live in brotherly love." For the amusement of such as have been interested by the preceding sketch, taken down from my own observation, and who may wish to know a little more about the mysteries of London, I subjoin a modioim of local history, put into my hands by an odd- looking old gentleman in a small brown wig and a snuff-colored coat, with whom I became acquainted shortly after my visit to the Charter House. I confess I was a little dubious at first, whether it was not one of those apocryphal tales often passed off upon inquiring travelers like myself; and which have brought our general character for veracity into such unmerited reproach. On making proper inquiries, however, I have received the most satisfactory assurances of the author's probity ; and, indeed, have been told that he is actually engaged in a full and particular account of the very interesting region in which he resides ; of which the following may be considered merely as a foretaste. LITTLE BRITAIN. What I write is most true * * * * I have a whole booke of cases lying by me, which if J 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 neighbor- hood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of Little Britain. Christ Church School and St. Bartholomew's Hospital bound it on the west ; Smithfield and Long Lane on the north ; Aldersgate Street, like an arm of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city ; whilst the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Lane, and the regions of Newgate. Over this little territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave- Maria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly protection. This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As Lon- don increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and trade creeping on at their heels, took possession of their deserted abodes. For some time Little Britain became the great mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolific raca 308 THE SKETCH BOOK. of booksellers : these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating beyond the great strait of Newgate Street, settled down in Pater- noster Row and St. Paul's Church- Yard, where they continue to increase and multiply even at the present day. But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears traces of its former splendor. There are several houses ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes ; and fruits and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains of what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but which have in latter days been subdivided into several tenements. Here may often be found the family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing among the relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling time-stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. The lanes and courts also contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale, but, like your small ancient gentry, sturdily main- taining their claims to equal antiquity. These have their gable ends to the street ; great bow windows, with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and low arched door- ways.* In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the second floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices. My sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small panels, and set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular respect for three or four high-backed claw-footed chairs, covered with tar- * It i.s evident that the author of this interesting communication has in- cluded, in his general title of Little Britain, many jf those little lanes and courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair. LITTLE BRITAIN. 309 nished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen better days, and have doubtless 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 ple- ~beian society with which they were reduced to associate. The whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bo^ window ; on the panes of which are recorded the names of previous occu- pants for many generations, mingled with scraps of very indiffer- ent gentleman-like poetry, written in characters which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an idle personage, with no apparent occu- pation, and pay my bill regularly every week, I am looked upon as the only independent gentleman of the neighborhood ; and, being curious to learn the internal state of a community so appa- rently shut up within itself, I have managed to work my way into all the concerns and secrets of the place. Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the city; the strong-hold of true John BuUism. It is a fragment of London as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great preservation many of the holiday games and customs of yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pan- cakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas ; they send love-letters on Valentine's Day, burn the pope on the fifth of November, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. 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. 310 THE SKETCH BOOK. 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 Monu- ment ; the lions in the Tower ; and the wooden giants in Guild- hall. They still believe in dreams and fortune-telling, and an old woman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable sub- sistence by detecting stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses ; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There are even many ghost stories current, particularly concerning the old man- sion-houses ; in several of which it is said strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full-bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up and down the great waste chambers, on moonlight nights ; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses. Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of the most important of the former is a tall, dry old gentleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities, and projections ; with a brown circle 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 stuflfed alhgators hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much given to pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earth- quakes, and volcanic eruptions ; which last phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He has always some dismal tale of the LITTLE BRITAIN. 31 kind to deal out to Ms customers, with their doses ; and thus at the same time puts both soul and body into an uproar. He is a great believer in omens and predictions; and has the prophecies of E-obert 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 cus- tomers and disciples until they were nearly frightened out of their wits. He has lately got hold of popular legend or prophecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying current among the ancient sibyls, who treasure up these things, that when the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place. This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church ; and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his work- shop. " Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, " may go star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrologers." Since these portentous weather-cocks have thus laid their heads together, wonderful events had already occurred. The good old king, notwithstanding that he had lived eighty-two years, had all at once given up the ghost ; another king had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had died suddenly — another, in France, had been murdered ; there had been radical meetings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes at Manchester ; the great plot in Cato Street ; — and, above all, the queen had returned to England ! All 312 THE SKETCH BOOK. these sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skrjme with a myste- rious look, and a dismal shake of the head ; and being taken with his drugs, and associated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, bottled serpents, and his own visage^ which is a title- page of tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the minds of the people of Little Britain. They shake their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they never expected any good to come of taking down that steeple, which in old times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history of Whitting- ton and his Cat bears witness. The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheesemon- ger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed he is a man of no little standing and importance ; and his renown extends through Hug- gin Lane, and Lad Lane, and even unto Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much taken in affairs of state, having read the Sunday papers for the last half century, together with the Gen- tleman's Magazine, 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 any thing can shake her : and he has much to say on the subject of the national debt ; which, somehow or other, he proves to be a great national bulwark and blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having become rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure and see the world. He has therefore made several excursions to Hamp- stead, Highgate, and other neighboring towns, where he has ^ LITTLE BRITAIN. 313 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 considered quite a patron at the coach-office of the Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Church-yard. His family have been very urgent for him to make an expedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed thinks himself too ad- vanced in life to undertake sea-voyages. Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and party spirit ran very high at one time in consequence of two rival " Burial Societies " being set up in the place. One held its meet- ing at the Swan and Horse Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger ; the other at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary : it is needless to say that the latter was the most flourishing. I have passed an evening or two at each, and have acquired much valuable information, as to the best mode of being buried, the comparative merits of church- yards, together with divers hints on the subject of patent-iron coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its bearings as to the legality of prohibiting the latter on account of their dura- bility. The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily died of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing themes of con- troversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely solicitous of funereal honors and of lying comfortably in their graves. Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite a different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good-humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half-moon, with 14 314 THE SKETCH BOOK. a most seductive buncli of grapes. The whole edifice is covered with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer ; such as "Truman, Hanbury, 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 cavalie^os of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the wits of Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff principally prides himself upon is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his noc- turnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his famous walking-staff. This however is considered as rather a dubious and vainglorious boast of the landlord. The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes by the name of " the Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They abound in old catches, glees, and choice stories, that are traditional in the place, and not to be met with in any other part of the metropolis. There is a mad-cap undertaker who is inimitable at a merry song ; but the life of the club, and indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors were all wags before him, and he has inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from generation to generation as heir- looms. He is a dapper little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red face, with a moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind At the opening of every club night he is called in to sing his " Confession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl from Gammer Gurton's Needle. He sings it, to be sure, with many variatioi^ as he received it from his father's lips ; for it has been a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of LITTLE BRITAIN. 315 Grapes ever since it was written : nay, he affirms that his prede- cessors have often had the honor of singing it before the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Little Britain was in all its glory.* * As mine host of the Half- Moon's Confession of Faith may not be familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current songs of Lit- tle Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would observe, that the whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and clattering of pewter pots. I cannot eate but lytle meate, My stomacke is not good. But sure I thinke that I can drinke With him That weares a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I nothing am a colde, I stuff my skyn so full within. Of joly good ale and olde. Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, Booth foote and hand go colde, But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe. Whether it be new or olde. I have no rost, but a nut brawne teste, And a crab laid in the fyre ; A little breade shall do me steade, Much breade I not desyre. No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe. Can hurte mee, if I wolde, I am so wrapt and throwly lapt Of joly good ale and olde. Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 316 THE SKETCH BOOK. It would do one's heart good to 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 IL*?- teners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into a confec- tioner's window, or snuffing up the steams of a cook-shop. There are two annual events which produce great stir and sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholomew's 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. The late quiet streets of Chorus. And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, Loveth well good ale to seeke. Full oft diynkes shee, tyll ye may see, The teares run downe her cheeke. Then doth shee trowle to me the bowie. Even as a mault-worme sholde. And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte Of this joly good ale and olde. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. Chorus Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and wlnke. 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. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. LITTLE BRITAIN. 311 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 moyth, and tankard in hand,^ fondling, and prosing, and singing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum of private families, which I must say is rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors, is no proof against this Saturnalia. There is no such thing as keeping maid-servants within doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding wdth Punch and the Puppet Show ; the Flying Horses ; Signior Polito ; the Fire-Eater ; the cele- brated Mr. Paap ; and the Irish Giant. The children too lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny- whistles. But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach wdth 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 permission 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 every body that offends against the dignity of the city ; and then there is the little man with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at, the window of the state coach, and holds the city sword, as long 318 THE SKETCH BOOK. as a pike-sttilF — Odd'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 effejctual barrier against all interior foes ; and as to foreign inva- sion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into the Tower, call in the train bands, and put the standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid defiance to the world ! Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its own opinions. Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart to this great fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy John Bullism were 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 opinion between the adherents of the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial societies, yet these were but transient clouds, and soon passed away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted with a shake of the hand, and never abused each other except behind their backs. I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at whi^h I have been present ; where we played at All-Fours, Pope-Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games ; and where we sometimes had a good old English country dance to the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. Once a year also the neighbors would gather together and go on a gipsy party to Epping Forest. It would have done any man's heart good to see the merriment that took place here as we banqueted on the LITTLE BRITAIN. 319 grass under the trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry under- taker ! After dinner, too, the young folks would play at blind- man's-buff and hide-and-seek ; and it was amusing to see 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 country. They would now and then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument ; but their disputes were always adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella maker in a double chin, who, never exactly comprehending the subject, 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 innovation creep in ; factions arise ; and families now and then spring up, whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into confu- sion. Thus in latter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners threatened with total subversion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. The family of the Lambs had long been among the most thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs were the belles of Little Britain, and every body was pleased when Old Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop, and put his name on a brass plate on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of being a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore three towerino; ostrich feathers on her head. The 330 THE SKETCH BOOK. family never got over it ; they were immediately smitten with a passion for Iiigh 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 blindman's-buff ; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain ; and they took to reading Tiovels> talking bad French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother too, who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts ; and he con- founded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Review. / Wliat was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which, they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ; but they had a great deal of genteel company from Theobald's 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 daughters. This was not to be forgatten or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar with the smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the rattling and jingling of hack- ney coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping their night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by ; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that kept a look-out from a house just opposite the retired butch- er's, and scanned and criticised every one that knocked at the door. This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engage- LITTLE BRITAIN. 321 mentfi with her quality acquaintance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some of her old cronies, " quite," as she would say, " in a friendly way ;" and it is equally true that her invita- tions were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the contrary. 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 Plun- ket's family, of Portsoken-ward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved their consciences, and averted the reproaches of their confederates, by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation every thing that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout all to pieces. The only one of the family that could not be made fashiona- ble was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe-brush, and a broad face mottled like his own beef. It was in vain that the daughters always spoke of him as " the old gentleman," addressed him as " papa," in tones of infinite softness, and endeavored to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there wjis no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature would break through all their glozings. He had a hearty vulgar good humor that was irrepressible. His very jokes made his sensitive daughters shudder ; and he persisted in wearing 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 14* 322 THE SKETCH BOOK. throwing out a fling at " some people," and a hint about " quality binding." This both iiettled and perplexed the honest butcher ; and his wife and daughters, With the consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advantage of the circunistance, 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 laugh- ing so loud that it distressed the nerves of every good lady within hearing. They even went so far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced a French dancing-master to set up in the neigh- borhood ; but the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such precipitation, that he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely the over- flowing of their zeal for good old English manners, and their hor- ror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent contempt they were so vociferous in expressing, for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection had taken hold ; and that my neighbors, after condemn- ing, were beginning to follow their example. I overheard my landlady importuning her husband to let their daughters have one quarter at French and music, and that they might take a few les- sons in quadrille. I even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than five French bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little Britain. LITTLE BRITAIN. 333 I still had my hopes that . all this folly would gradually die away; that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood; might die, or might run away with attorneys' apprentices ; and that quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the commu- nity. But unluckily a rival power arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a widow with a large jointure and a family of buxom daugliters. The young ladies had long been repining in secret at the parsimony 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 ^peak a little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances ; but the Trotters were not to be distanced. Wlien 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 fashiona- ble factions, under the banners of these two families. The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tiekle-me are entirely dis- carded ; there is no such thing as getting up an honest country dance ; and on my attempting to kiss a young lady under the mis- tletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed ; the Miss Lambs having pronounced it " shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the most fashionable part of little Britain ; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity cf St. Bartholomew's. 3Sii THE SKETCH BOOK. Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal dis- sensions, like the great empire whose name it bears ; and what will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, with all his talent at prognostics, to determine ; though I apprehend that it will terminate in the total downfall of genuine John Bullism. The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. Be- ing a single man, and, as I observed before, ratKer an idle good- for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore in high favor vn.th both parties, and have to hear all their cabinet counsels and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have committed myself most horribly wath both parties, by abusing their opponents. I might manage to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly accommodating one, but I cannot to my apprehension — if the Lambs and Trot- ters ever come to a reconciliation, and compare notes, I am ruined ! I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and am actually looking out for some other nest in this great city, where old English manners are still kept up ; where French is neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken ; and where there are no fashionable families of retired tradesmen. This found, I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old house about my ears ; bid a long, though a son owful 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-AYON. Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream ; The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. Garrick. To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of some- thing like independence and territorial consequence, 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 moments 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. 326 THE SKETCH BOOK. The words of sweet Shakspeare 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 I had rung. I understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as a pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspeare, the jubilee, and David Garrick. The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was about the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way ; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; and a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst forth into fra- grance and beauty. I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first visit was to the house where Shakspeare was born, and where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft of wool-combing. It is a small mean-looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions in every lan- guage, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peasant ; and present a simple, but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind 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 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 327 artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly- dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very matchlock with which Shak- speare shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box ; which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter 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 w^s an ample supply also of Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, which seems to have as extraor- dinary powers of self-multiplication 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 Shak- 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 revolv- ing spit with all the longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth church -yard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the custom of every one that visits the house to sit : whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say, I merely mention the fact ; and mine hostess privately assured me, that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be new bottomed at least once in three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the history of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter ; for though sold some few years since to a 328 THE SKETCH BOOK. 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, w^here the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anec- dotes of goblins and great men ; and would advise all travelers who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to us, whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can per- suade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all th« charm of the reality ? There is nothing like resolute good-humored credulity in these matters ; and on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, unluckily for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own composition, which set all belief in her consanguinity at defiance. From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly orna- mented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and retired : the river runs murmur- ing at the foot of the church-yard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown with grass ; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have built their nests STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 329 among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a con- tinual 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 ^J Cmy;oii.T!ei 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. 330 THE SICETCH BOOK. On an old oaken table, ^vell rubbed and polished, 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 jambs. In one corner sat the old man's grand-daughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, w^hom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his companion from childhood. They had played together in infancy ; they had worked together in man- hood ; they M^ere now tottering about and gossiping away the evening of life ; and in a short time they will probably be buried together in the neighboring church-yard. It is not often that we see two streams of existence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom scenes " of life that they are to be met with. I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing new to impart. The long interval during which Shakspeare's writings lay in comparative neglect has spread its shadow over his his- tory ; and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely any thing remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures. The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpen- ters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who, according to the sex- ton, was " a short punch man, very lively and bustling." John STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 331 Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakspeare's mulberry tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary conception. I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspeare house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her valuable and inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly her remains of the mulberry tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to Shakspeare having been born in her house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb ; the latter having comparatively but few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, and mere peb- bles make the stream of truth diverge into 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 carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture and embellishments superior to those of most country churches. There are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners drop- ping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakspeare 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 distance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by him- self, and which have in them something extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thouorhtful minds. 332 THE SKETCH BOOK. Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare To dig the dust enclosed here. Blessed be he that spares these stones. And curst be he that moves my bones. Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Sliak- speare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resem- blance. 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 charac- terized among his contemporaries 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 vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favor. The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, through which one might have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with his remains so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, should be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished and the aperture closed again. He told me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones ; nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakspeare. STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 333 Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his faroilj. On a tomb close by, also, is a full-length e^gj of his old friend John Combe, of usurious memory ; on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on any thing that is not connected with Shakspeare. His idea pervades the place ; the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here in- dulge in 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 Shakspeare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place ; and as I passed through the churchyard, I plucked a branch from one of the yew trees, the only relic that I have brought from Stratford. I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, but 1 had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys, at Charle- cot, and to ramble through the park where Shakspeare, in com- pany with some of the roysters of Stratford, committed his youth- ful offence of deer-stealing. In this hare-brained exploit we are told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in doleful captivity. When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have been galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the park gate at Charlecot.* * 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, 334 THE SKETCH BOOK. This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so in- censed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer-stalker. Shakspeare did not wait to brave the united puissance of a knight of the shire and a country attorney. He forthwith abandoned tlie 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, however, for a long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of the Lard of Charlecot, and revenged himself in his writings ; but in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original of Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by the justice's armorial bearings, which, like those of the knight, had white luces* in the quarterings. Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften and explain away this early transgression of the poet ; but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his situa- tion and turn of mind. Shakspeare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic temperament has naturally some- If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. He thinks himself great ; Yet an asse in his state. We allow by his ears but with asses to mate. If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it. Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. * The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot. STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 335 thing in it of the vagabond. When left to itself it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in every thing eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, whe- ther a natural genius shall turn out a great rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shakspeare's mind 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 to be found in the company of all kinds of odd anomalous characters ; that he associated with all the madcaps of the place, and was one of those unlucky urchins, at mention of whom old men shake their heads, and predict that they will one day come to the gal- lows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and, as yet untamed, imagination, as something delightfully ad- venturous.* * A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in his youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his " Picturesque Views on the Avon." About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of Bed- ford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. Aiiiong others, the people of Stratford were called out to prove the strength of their heads ; and in the number of the champions was Shakspeare, who, in spite of the pi-overb, 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 h'e .i36 THE SKETCH BOOK. The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly interesting, from being connected with this whimsical but event- ful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house stood at little more than three miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from which Shakspeare must have derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of the weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing over the senses ; to see the moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the green spout and the tender blade : and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of re- down under a crab-tree, where they passed the night. It is still standing, and goes by the name of Shakspeare's tree. In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and psoposed returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drank with Piping Peb worth. Dancing Marston, Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, Beggarly Broom, and Dmnken 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 Hilborougb ; and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." STRATPORD-ON-AVON 337 turning foliage and flower. The cold snow-drop, that little bor- derer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in th-e small gardens before the cottages. The bleat- ing 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, pour- ing forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind Shakspeare's exquisite little song in Cjmbeline : Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings. And Phcebus 'gins arise. His steeds to water at those springs. On chalice d flowers that lies. And winking raary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes ; With every thing that pretty bin. My lady sweet arise ! Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground : every thing is associated with the idea of Shakspeare. Every old cot- tage that I saw, I fancied into some rescrt of his boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and man- ners, and heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popular amusement in winter evenings " to 15 338 THE SKETCH BOOK. sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fai- ries, goblins, and friars."* My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and windings through a wide and fertile valley ; sometimes glittering from among willows, which fringed its borders ; sometimes disappear- ing among groves, or beneath green banks ; and sometimes ram- bling out into full view, and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow-land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Yale 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 of the park ; there was a stile, how- ever, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; there being a public right of way through the grounds. I delight in these hospitable estates, in which every one has a kind of property — at least as far as the footpath is concerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus * Scot, in his " Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these fire- side fancies. "And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes,. imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, change- lings, incubus, Robin -good fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the fier drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe. hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our o\vn shadowes." STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 339 to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recrea- tion. He breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as the lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of paying for it, and keeping it in order. I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant statue ; and a vagrant deer stalking 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 independ- ence 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 sud- denly building up an avenue of oaks." It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Full- broke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shakspeare's commentators have supposed he derived his noble forest meditations of Jaques, and the enchanting woodland pic- tures in " As you like it." It is in lonely wanderings through such scenes, that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of 340 THE SKETCH BOOK. inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into reverie 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 voluptuary : Under the green wood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry throat Unto the sweet bird's note. Come hither, come hither, come nither. Here shall he see No enemy. But winter and rough weather. I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the gothic style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy coun- try gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from the park into a kind of court-yard in front of the house, ornamented with a grassplot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbacan ; being a kind of out-post, and flanked by towers ; though evidently for mere ornament, instead of defence. The front of the house is completely in the old style ; with stone-shafted casements, a great bow-window of STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 341 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 mansion in the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of stillness and soli- tude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court-yard was locked ; there was no show of servants bustling about the place ; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life that I met with was a white cat, stealing with wary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefa- rious expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial 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 M^as the every-day entrance to the 342 THE SKETCH BOOK. mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old house- keeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness of her order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater part has undergone alterations, and been adapted to 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 Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty ; and at one end is a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a country gen- tleman, have made way for family portraits. There is a wide hospitable fireplace, calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the rally in g-place of winter festivity. On the opposite side of the hall is the huge gothic bow-window, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the court-yard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to observe in the quarterings the three white luces, by which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having " beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken into his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offences of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas. " Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not : I will make a Star-Chamber mat- ter of it ; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 343 Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, master parson ; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, 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 ances- tors 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 tlius emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me that this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of the family estate, among which was that part of the park where Shakspeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands thus lost had not been entirely regained by the family even at the present day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm. The picture which most attracted my attention was a great painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall in the latter part of Shakspeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vindic- tive knight himself but the housekeeper assured me that it was 344 THE SKETCH BOOK. his son ; the only likeness extant of the former being an effigy upon his tomb in the church of the neighboring hamlet of Charle- cot.* The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and man- ners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet; white shoes with roses in them ; and has a peaked yellow^ or, as Master Slender would say, " a cane-colored beard." His lady is- seated on the opposite side of the picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children have a most venerable stifihess 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 * 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 courty of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye c( unty of Worcester Esquire who departed out o-f 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 ciyme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband most faythful and true. Li friendship most constant ; to what in tnjst was committed unto her most secret. In wis- dom excelling. In governing of her house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did converse with her moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospitality. Greatly esteemed of her betters ; misliked of none unless of the envyous. When all is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled by any. As shee lived most virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowe what hath byn written to be true. Thomas Lucye. STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 345 skill in hunting, hawking, and archery — so indispensable to an accomplished gentleman in those days.* I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country squire of former days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural domains ; and in which it might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat en- throned in awful state when the recreant Shakspeare was brought before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own entertain- ment, I pleased myself with the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the morning after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural poten- tate, surrounded by his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue- coated serving-men Avith their badges ; while the luckless culprit was brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody of game- keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of 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, eyeing the * Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes, " his housekeeping is seen much in the different famiUes of dogs, and serving-men attendant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceed- ingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, "he kept all sorts of hounds that ran buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger ; and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His great 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 terrier^ hounds, and spaniels. 15* S46 THE SKETCH BOOK. youthful prisoner with that pity " that dwells in womanhood." — "Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority of a country squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the delight of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, the dictator to the human mind, and was to confer immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon I I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and harbor where the justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a last year's pippin of his own grafting, with a dish of caraways ;" but I had already spent so much of the day in my rambUngs that I was obliged to give up any further investigations. When about to take my leave I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the house- keeper and butler, that I would take some refreshment : an instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to say, we castle- hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the present representative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shakspeare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as witness his press- ing instances to Falstaff. " By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night * * * I will not ex- cuse you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses shall not be admitted ; there is no excuse shall serve ; you shall not be excused * * *. Some pigeons, Davy ; a couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook." I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually living among them. Every thing brought them as it were before my STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 347 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 en- chanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shak- speare I had been walking all day in a complete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been sur- rounded with fancied beings ; with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power ; yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jaques soliloquize beneath liis oak : had beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring through the woodlands ; and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with inno- cent illusions ; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures in my chequered path ; and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life ! As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried. 348 THE SKETCH BOOK. and could not but exult in the malediction, which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. "What honor could his name have derived from being mingled in dusty com- panionship with, the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogi- ums 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 offspring of an over-wrought sensibility ; but human nature is made up of foibles and prejudices ; and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with these factitious feelings. He who has sought re- nown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his na- tive place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honor among his kindred and his early friends. And when the weary 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 re- nown ; that his name should become 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 landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! TMITS 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, wonder- fully striking and sublime. He is formed for the wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, simple, and enduring ; fitted to grapple with diflSLCulties, and to support pri- vations. There seems but little soil in his heart for the sup- port of the kindly virtues ; and yet, if we would but take the trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity, which lock up his character from casual observation, we should find him linked to his fellow-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 t-easts of the forest : 350 THE SKETCH BOOK. and the author has endeavored to justify him in his outrages. The former found it easier to exterminate than to civilize; the latter to vilify than to discriminate. The appellations of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to sanction the hostilities of both ; and thus the poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted and defamed, not because they were guilty, but because they were ignorant. The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appre- ciated or respected by the white man. In peace he has too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he has been regarded as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was a question of mere precaution and convenience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own safety is endangered, and he is sheltered by impu- nity ; and little mercy is to be expected from him, when he feels the sting of the reptile and is conscious of the power to destroy. The same prejudices, which were indulged thus 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 j the American government, too, has wisely and humanely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them, and to protect them from fraud and injus- tice.* The current opinion of the Indian character, however, is * The American government has been indefatigable in its exertions to ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them the arts of civilization, and civil and religious knowledge. To protect them from the frauds of the white traders, no purchase of land from them by individuals is permitted ; nor is any person allowed to receive lands from them as a present, without the express sanction of government. These precautions are strictly enforced. TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 351 too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes which infest the frontiers, and hang on the skirts Of the settlements. These are too commonly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, without being benefited by its civilization. That proud independence, which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed and daunted by the superior knowledge 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 low vices of artificial life. It has given them a thousand superfluous wants, whilst it has diminished their means of mere existence. It has driven before it the animals of the chase, who fly from the sound of the axe and the smoke of the settlement, and seek refuge in the depths of remoter forests and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find the Indians on our frontiers to be the mere wrecks and remnants of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, and sunk into precarious and vagabond existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in savage life, corrodes their spirits, and blights every free and noble quality of their natures. They become drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like vagrants about the settlements, among spacious dwellings replete with elaborate comforts, which only render them sensible of the comparative wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury spreads its ample board before their eyes ; but they are excluded from the banquet 352 THE SKETCH BOOK. Plenty revels over the fields ; but they are starving in the midst of its abundance: the whole wilderness has blossomed into a garden ; but they feel as reptiles that infest it. How different was their state while yet the undisputed lords of the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means of gratification within their reach. They saw every one round them sharing the same Ipt, enduring the same hardships, feeding on the same ali- ments, arrayed in the same rude garments. No roof then rose, but was open to the homeless stranger ; no smoke curled among the trees, but he was welcome to sit down by its fire and join the hunter in his repast. " For," says an old historian of New Eng- land, "their life is so void of care, and they are so loving also, that they make use of those things they enjoy as common goods, and are therein so compassionate, that rather than one should starve through want, they would starve all ; thus they pass their time merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content with their own, which some men esteem so meanly of." Such were the Indians whilst in the pride and energy of their primitive natures : they resembled those wild plants, which thrive best in the shades of the forest, but shrink from the hand of cultivation, and perish beneath the influence of the sun. In discussing the savage character, writers have been too prone to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggeration, instead of the candid temper of true philosophy. They have not sufiicjently considered the peculiar circumstances in which the Indians have been placed, and the peculiar principles under which they have been educated. No being acts more rigidly from rule than the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated according to some general maxims early implanted in his mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, but few ; but then he con- TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 353 forms 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 wantonness with which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to hos- tilities. The intercourse of the white men with the Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, and insult- ing. They seldom treat them with that confidence and frankness which are indispensable to real friendship ; nor is sufficient cau- tion observed not to offend against those feelings of pride or su- perstition, which often prompt the Indian to hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest. The solitary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are not diff'used over so wide a sur- face as those of the white man; but they run in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his aff*ections, 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 instantane- ously diffused. One council fire is sufficient for the discussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the fighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator awakens their martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a kind of religious des- peration, by the visions of the prophet and the dreamer. An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in an old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The plan- 354 THE SKETCH BOOK. ters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the Sachem's mother of some skins Avith which it had been decorated. The Indians are remarkable for the reverence which they entertain for the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when by chance they have been traveling in the vicinity, have been known to turn aside from the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accu- rate tradition, have crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, where the bones of their tribe were anciently deposited ; and there have passed hours in silent medi- tation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been violated, gathered his men together, and addressed them in the following beautifully simple and pa- thetic harangue ; a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial piety in a savage. " When last the glorious light of all the sky was underneath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled ; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, 'Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take revenge of those wild people who have defaced my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and honorable customs ? See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the common people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and implores thy aid against this thievish people, who have newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 355 vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to get some strength, and recollect my spirits that were fled, and de- termined to demand your counsel and assistance." I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to show liov>' these sudden acts of hostility, which have been attribu- ted to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and gener- ous motives, which our inattention to Indian character and customs prevents our properly appreciating. Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes called nations, were never so formidable in their numbers, but that the loss of several Avarriors 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 fighting men. There was a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor to be merciless ; not so much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for future security. The Indians' had also the superstitious belief, frequent among barbarous nations, and preva- lent also among the ancients, that the manes of their friends who had fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, who are not thus sacrificed, are adopted into their families in the place of the slain, and are treated witli the confidence and affection of relatives and friends ; nay, so hos- pitable 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. 35G THE SKETCH BOOK. The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was for- merly a compliance with policy and superstition, has been exas- perated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the gradual destroy- ers of their race. They go forth to battle, smarting with injuries and indignities which they have individually suffered, and they are driven to madness and despair by the wide-spreading desola- tion, and the overwhelming 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 subsistence : and yet they wonder that savages do not show mod- eration and magnanimity towards those who have left them nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacherous, because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to open force ; but in this they are fully justified by their rude code of honor. They are early taught that stratagem is praiseworthy ; the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take every advantage of his foe : he triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which he has been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone to subtilty than open valor, owing to his physical weakness in comparison with other animals. They are endowed with natural weapons of defence : with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; but man has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his encounters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; and when he per- versely turns his hostility against his fellow-man, he at first conti- nues the same subtle mode of warfare. TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 357 The natural prinqiple of war is to do the most harm tc our enemy with the least harm to ourselves ; and this of course is to be effected by stratagem. That chivah-ous courage which induces us to despise the suggestions of prudence, and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the offspring of society, and produced by education. It is honorable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those yearnings after personal ease and security, which society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame ; and thus the dread of real evil is overcome by the superior iread 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 splen- dors of fiction ; and even the historian has forgotten the sober gravity of narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhap- sody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been its reward : monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and opulence its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation's gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially excited, courage has risen to an extraordinary and factitious degree of heroism : and, arrayed in all the glorious "pomp and circumstance of war," this turbulent quality has even been able to eclipse many of those quiet, but invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble the human character, and swell the tide of human happiness. But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibition of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and adventure are congenial to his nature ; or rather seem necessary to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to his existence, 358 THE SKETCH BOOK. Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of warfare is by am* bush and surprisal, he is always prepared for fight, and lives with his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in fearful single- ness 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 wilder- ness. His expeditions may vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade of the knight-errant. He traverses vast forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely sick- ness, of lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no obstacles to his wanderings : in his light canoe of bark he sports, like a feather, on their waves, and darts, with the swiftness of an arrow, down the roaring rapids of the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers of the chase : he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps among the thunders of the cataract. No hero of ancient or modem days can surpass the Indian in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which he sus- tains its crudest affliction. Indeed we here behold him rismg superior to the white man, in consequence of his peculiar educa- tion. The latter rushes to glorious death at the cannon's mouth ; the former calmly contemplates its approach, and triumphantly endures it, amidst the varied torments of surrounding foes and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in taunting his persecutors, and provoking their ingenuity of torture ; and as the devouring flames prey on his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his last song of triumph, breathing the TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 359 defiance of an unconquered heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathervS to witness that he dies without a groan. Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early historians have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through, w^hich throw a degree of melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are occa- sionally to be met with in the rude annals of the eastern provinces, which, though recorded with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for themselves ; and will be dwelt on with applause and sympathy, when prejudice shall have passed away. In one. of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In one place we read of the surprisal of an Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams were wrapped in flames, and the miserable inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting to escape, " all being dispatched and ended in the course of an hour." After a series of similar transactions, "our soldiers," as the historian piously observes, " being resolved by God's assistance to make a final destruction of them," the unhappy savages being hunted from their homes and fortresses, and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty, but gal- lant band, the sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, with their wives and children, took refuge in a swamp. Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair; with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death to submission. As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dismal •^60 THE SKETCH BOOK. retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, their enemy " plied them with shot all the time,, by which means many 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 bul- lets at a time, putting the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs^ within a few yards of them ; so as, besides those that were found dead, many more 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 admir- ing the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of human nature ? When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, they found the senators clothed in their robes, and seated with stern tranquilli in their curule chairs ; in this manner they suffered death wi resistance or even supplication. Such conduct was, in the 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 different is virtue, clothed in purple and enthroned in state, from virtue, naked and destitute, and perishing obscurely in a wilderness ! But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The east- TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 361 em 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 mingle 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 Mississippi, will share the fate of those tribes that once spread over Massachusetts and Connec- ticut, and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the Susque- hanna; and of those various nations that flourished about the Potomac and the Eappahannock, and that peopled the forests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish hke a vapor from the face of the earth ; their very history will be lost in for- getfulness ; and " the places that now know them will know them no more for ever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of them should survive, it may be in the 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 doAvn with vio- lence and butchery to the grave, posterity will either turn with horror and incredulity from the tale, or blush with indignation at the inhumanity of their forefathers. — " We are driven back," said 16 S63 THE SKETCH BOOK. 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 I^' PHILIP OE 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 diseoverj and settlement of America, have not given us more particular and candid accounts of the remarkable characters that flourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have reached us are full of peculiarity and interest ; they furnish us with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in a comparatively primitive state, and what he owes to civilization. There is something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon these wild and unexplored tracts of human nature ; in witnessing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment, and perceiving those generous and romantic qualities which have been artifi- cially cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude magnificence. In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost the 364 THE SKETCH BOOK. existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his fel- low-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and peculiar traits of native character are refined away, or soft- ened down by the leveling influence of what is termed good-" breeding ; and he practises so many petty deceptions, and affects so many generous sentiments, for the purposes of popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from his ai'tificial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints and refine- ments of polished life, and, in a great degree, a solitary and inde- pendent being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment ; and thus the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, who would study nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. These reflections arose on casually looking through a volume of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great bitter- ness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the settlers of New England. It is painful to perceive, even from these par- tial narratives, how the footsteps of civilization may be traced in the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the colonists were moved to hostility by the lust of conquest ; how merciless and extermi- nating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, how many intellectual beings were hunted from the earth, how many brave and noble hearts, of nature's sterling coinage, were broken down and trampled in the dust ! Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 365 and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a number of contemporary Sachems Avho 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 capable ; 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 shadows, in the dim twilight of tradition.* When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation was to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in nu'm- ber, and that number rapidly perishing 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 sink- ing into despondency but the strong excitement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by Mas- sasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of taking advan- tage of the scanty number of the strangers, and expelling them from his territories, into which they had intruded, he seemed at * While correcting the proof sheets of this article, the author is informed that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished an heroic poem on the Btory of Philip of Pokanoket. 366 THE SKETCH BOO|C. 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. Whatever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. He continued a firm and magnanimous friend of the white men ; suffering them to extend their possessions, and to strengthen themselves in 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 missionaries ; and stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw off his people from their ancient faith ; but, finding the English obsti- nately opposed to any such condition, he mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip, (as they had been named by the English), to the residence of a principal settler, recommending mutual kindness and confidence ; and entreating that the same love and amity which had existed between the white men and himself might be continued afterwards with his children. The good old Sachem died in peace, and was happily gathered to his fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe ; his children remained behind to experience the ingratitude of white men. His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his heredi- PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 367 tary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial con- duct 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 Narragansets to rise against the English and drive them from the land. It is impossible to say whether this accusation was warranted by facts, or was grounded on mere sus- picions. It is evident, however, by the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel conscious of the rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treatment of the natives. They dis- patched an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring 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 re-ap- pearance ; but the blow he had received was fatal, and before he reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit. The successor of Alexander was Metamooet, or King Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him an object of great jealousy and apprehension, and he was accused of having always cherished a secret and implacable hostility towards the whites. Such may very probably, and very naturally, have been the case. He con- sidered them as originally but mere intruders into the country, 368 THE SKETCH BOOK. who had presumed upon indulgence, and were extending an influ- ence 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 purchases, in the early periods of coloniza- tion? The Europeans always made thrifty bargains through their superior adroitness in traffic ; and they gained vast acces- sions of territory by easily provoked hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements of law, by which an injury may be gradually and legally inflicted. Leading facts are all by which he judges ; and it was enough for PhiHp to know that before the intrusion of the Europeans his country- men were lords of the soil, and that now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. But whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, he suppressed them for the present, renewed the contract with the settlers, and resided peaceably for many many years at Poka- noket, or, as it was called by the English, Mount Hope,* the ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at first but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and substance ; and he was at lecgth charged with attempting to insti- gate the various Eastern tribes to rise at once, and, by a simul- taneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to assign the proper credit due to these early accusations against the Indians. There was a prone- ness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence, on the part * Now Bristol, Rhode Island. PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 369 of the whites, that gave weight and importance to every idle tale. Informers abounded where talebearing met with countenance and reward ; and the sword was readily unsheathed when its suc- cess was certain, and it carved out empire. The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose natural cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he had received among the settlers. He changed his faith and his allegiance two or three times, with a facility that evinced the looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as Philip's confidential secretary and counselor, and had enjoyed his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the clouds of adversity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his ser- vice and went over to the whites ; and, in order to gain their favor, charged his former benefactor with plotting against theu* 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 dan- gerous neighbor ; they had publicly evinced their distrust ; and had done enough to insure his hostihty ; 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 counselor of Philip, were appre- bended and tried, and, on the testimony of one very questionable witness, were condemned and executed as murderers. This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious punishment of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of 16* 370 THE SKETCH BOOK. Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet .awa- kened him to the gathering storm, and he determined to trust himself no longer in the power of the white men. The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled in his mind; and he had a further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the Narragansets, who, after manfully facing his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, had been perfidiously dispatched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered his fighting men about him ; persuaded all strangers that he could, to join his cause ; sent the women and children to the Narragansets for safety ; and wherever he ap- peared, was continually surrounded by armed warriors. When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and irri- tation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous, and committed various petty depredations. In one of their maraud- ings a warrior 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 forests and savage tribes, had dis- posed the colonists to superstitious fancies, and had filled their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spec- trology. They were much given also to a belief in omens. The troubles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great and PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 371 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, Northamp- ton, and other towns in their neighborhood, "was heard the re- port of a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking of the earth and a considerable echo."* Others were alarmed on a still sun- shiny morning by the discharge of guns and muskets ; bullets seemed to 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 cer- tain monstrous births, which took place about the time, filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to natural phe- nomena : to the northern lights which occur vividly in those lati- tudes ; the meteors which explode in the air ; the casual rushing of a blast through the top branches of the forest ; the crash of fallen trees or disrupted rocks ; and to those other uncouth sounds and echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These may have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have been ex- aggerated by the love for the marvelous, and listened to with that avidity with which we devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. The universal currency of these superstitious fancies, and the grave record made of them by one of the learned men of the day, are strongly characteristic of the times. The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often distinguishes the warfare betwsen civilized men and savages. On the part of the whites it was conducted with superior skill and * The Rev. Increase Mathei-'s History. 37S THE SKETCH BOOK. success ; but with a wastefulness of tlie blood, and a disregard of the natural rights of their antagonists : on the part of the Indians it was waged with the desperation of men fearless of death, and who had nothing to expect from peace, but humihation, depend- ence, and decay. The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy clergyman of the time ; who dwells with horror and indignation on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, whilst he mentions with applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a traitor ; without considering that he was a true born prince, gallantly fighting at the head of his subjects to avenge the wrongs of his family ; to retrieve the tottering power of his line ; and to dehver his native land from the oppression of usurping strangers. The project of a w^ide 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 actually broke out was but a war of detail, a mere succession of casual exploits and uncon- nected enterprises. Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prowess of Philip ; and wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations that have been given of it, we can arrive at simple farts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind, a fertility of expedients, a contempt of suffering and hardship, and an uncon- querable resolution, that command our sympathy and applause. Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw himself into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that skirted the settlements, and w^ere almost impervious to any thing but a wild beast, or an Indian. Here he gathered together his forces, like the storm accumulating its stores of mischief in the PHILIP OF POKANOKET. STJ bosom of the thunder cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There were now and then indications of these impend- ing ravages, that filled the minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension. The report of a distant gun would perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland, where there was known to be no 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 forests, and sud- denly disappearing; as the lightning will sometimes be seen playing silently about the edge of the cloud that is brewing up the tempest. Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by the set- tlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would be lost to all search or inquiry, until he again emerged at some far distant quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his strong-holds, were the great swamps or morasses, which extend in some parts of New England ; composed of loose bogs of deep black mud ; perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed- by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds, rendered them almost impracticable to the white man, though the Indian could thrid their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven with a band of his followers. The English did not dare to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark and fright- ful recesses, where they might perish in fens and miry pits, or be shot down by lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance to the Neck, and began to build a fort, with the thought of starv- 374 THE SKETCH BOOK. ing out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of night, leaving the women and children behind; and escaped away to the westward, kindhng the flames of war among the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country, and threatening the colony of Connec- ticut. In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehension. The mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in darkness ; whose coming none could foresee, and against which none knew when to be oil the alert. The whole country abounded wdth 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 notions also were circulated concerning him. He w^as said to deal in ne- cromancy, and to be attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, whom he consulted, and who assisted him by her charms and incan- tations. This indeed was frequently the case with Indian chiefs ; either through their own credulity, or to act upon that of 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 eflected his escape from Pocasset, his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had been thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the whole of his resources. In this time of adversity he found a faithful friend in Canonchet, chief Sachem of all the Narragansets. He was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great Sachem, who, as already mentioned, after an honorable acquittal of the charge of conspiracy, had been privately put to death at the perfidious insti- PHILIP OF POKANOKET. »75 gations of the settlers. " He was the heir," says the old chroni- cler, " of all his father's pride and insolence, as well as of his malice towards the English ;" — he certainly was the heir of his insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his murder. Though he had forborne to 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 countenance and support. This at once drew upon him the hostility of the English ; and it was determined to strike a signal blow that should involve both the Sachems in one common ruin. A great force was, therefore, gathered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecti- cut, and was sent into the Narraganset country in the depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, could be tra- versed 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 impregnable, was situated upon a rising mound or kind of island, of five or six acres, in the midst of a swamp ; it was constructed with a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed in Indian fortifi- cation, and indicative of the martial genius of these two chief- tains. Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, through December snows, to this strong-hold, and came upon the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. The assail- ants were repulsed in their first attack, and several of their brav- est ofiicers were shot down in the act of storming the fortress 376 THE SKETCH BOOK. sword in hand. The assault was renewed with greater success. A lodgment M^as effected. The Indians were driven from one post to another. They disputed their ground inch by inch, fight- ing with the fury of despair. Most of their veterans were cut to pieces ; and after a long and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, with 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 war- riors, 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 yelKng of the warriors, exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, so that it greatly moved some of the soldiers." The same writer cautiously adds, " they were in much doubt then, and afterwards seriously inquired, whether burning their enemies alive could be consistent with hu- manity, and the benevolent principles of the Gospel."* The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of particular mention: the last scene of his life is one of the noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. Broken down in his power and resources by this signal defeat, yet faithful to his ally, and to the hapless cause which he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on condition of betraying Philip and his followers, and declared that "he - _» MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 377 would fight it out to the last man, rather than become a servant to the English." His home being destroyed ; his country har- assed and laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors ; he was obliged to wander away to the banks of the Connecticut ; where he formed a rallying point to the whole body of western Indians, and laid waste several of the English settlements. Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedition, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the 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 wigwams near Pau- tucket river, when an alarm was given of an approaching enemy. — Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet dis- patched two of them to the top of a neighboring 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 a,nd 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 378 THE SKETCH BOOK. a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This accident so struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards confessed, " 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 anec- dotes given by his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of ele- vated and prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of the English who first came up with him, and who had not attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon his youthful countenance, replied, " You are a child — you cannot understand matters of war — let your brother or your chief come — him will I answer." Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on con- dition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any proposals of the kind to the great body of his subjects ; saying, that he knew none of them would comply. Being reproached with his breach of faith towards the whites ; his boast that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag noT the paring of a Wampanoag's nail; and his threat that he would burn the English aUve 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 PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 379 whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no com- passion — he was condemned to die. The last words of hiii that are recorded, are worthy the greatness of his soul. When sen- tence of death was passed upon him, he observed "that he Hked it well, for he should die before his heart was soft, or he had spoken any thing unworthy of himself." His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for he was shot at Stoningham, by three young Sachems of his own rank. The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death of 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 possessed of the native talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the superior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution of the neighboring tribes. The unfortunate chieftain saw himself daily stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly thinning around him. Some were suborned by the whites ; others fell victims to hunger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which they were harassed. His stores were all captured; his chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes ; his uncle was shot down by his side ; his sister was carried into captivity ; and in one of his narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his beloved wife and only son to the mercy cf the enemy. "His ruin," says the historian, "being thus gradually carried on, his misery was not prevented, but aug- mented thereby ; being himself made acquainted with the sense and experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family rela- tions, and being stripped of all outward comforts, before his own life should be taken away.'' 380 THE SKETCH BOOK. To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they might purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery a number of his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian prin- cess 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 attempted to make her escape by crossing a neighboring river : either exhausted by swimming, or starved with cold and hunger, she was found dead and naked near the water side. But persecution ceased not at the grave. Even death, the refuge of the wretched, where the wicked com- monly cease from troubling, was no protection to this outcast female, whose great crime was affectionate fidelity to her kins- man and her friend. Her corpse was the object of unmanly and dastardly vengeance ; the head was severed from the body and set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton, to the view of her captive subjects. They immediately recognized the features of their unfortunate queen, and were so aff'ected at this barbarous spectacle, that we are told they broke forth into the " most horrid and diabolical lamentations." However Philip had borne up against the complicated mise- ries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despon- dency. It is said that " he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had success in any of his designs." The spring of hope was broken — the ardor of enterprise was extinguished — he looked around, and all was danger and darkness ; there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of follow- ers, who still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 381 dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked about, like a spectre, among the scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family and friend. There needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous situation, than that furnished by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. " Philip," he says, " like a savage wild beast, having been hunted by the English forces through the woods, above a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon Mount HopCi where he retired, with a few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death came by divine permission to execute ven- geance upon him." Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to our- selves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking place. Defeated, but not dismayed — crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Lit- tle minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune ; but great minds rise above it. The very idea of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers, who pro- posed an expedient of peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were immediately dispatched to the swamp where Philip lay 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 fol- 382 THE SKETCH BOOK. lowers 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 dishonored when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty character sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate, and respect for his memory. We find that, amidst all the harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal ten- derness, and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity of his " beloved wife and only son " are mentioned with exulta- tion as causing him poignant misery : the death of any near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities ; but the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to have desolated his 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 in- dignant of their wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adver- sity, 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 submission, and live dependent and despised in the ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic quahties and bold achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior, and have rendered him the theme of the poet mid the PHILIP OF POKAKOKET. 383 historian ; lie 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. .in jld s«',flg, made by an aged old poce, Ca' an old worshipful gentleman who had a. gret-c estale. 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 fiU'd fuU of learned old books With an old reverend chaplain, you might kncv hir.. by ^jslooltti, 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. Ql-d Song. There is no species of humor in which the English more excel, than that which consists in caricaturing and giving ludicrous ap- pellations, or nicknames. In this way they have whimsically designated, not merely individuals, but nations ; and, in their fond- ness for pushing a joke, they have not spared even themselves. One would think that, in personifying itself, a nation would be apt to picture something grand, heroic, and imposing ; but it is cha- racteristic of the peculiar humor of the English, and of their love for what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they have embodied their national oddities in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fel- low, with a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most private foibles in a laughable point of view ; and have been so successful in their delineations, that there 17 s^ 386 THE SKETCH BOOK. is scarcely a being in actual existence more absolutely present to the public mind than that eccentric personage, John Bull. Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the nation ; and thus to give reality to what at first may have been painted in a great measure from the imagination. Men are apt to acquire peculiari- ties that are continually ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal which they have formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or grossness ; and this I have especially noticed among those truly homebred and genuine sons of the soil w^ho 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 mahce. If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insensi- bility to foreign refinements, he thanks heaven for his ignorance — he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and nick- nacks. His very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under the plea of muni- ficence — for John is always more generous than wise. Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict himself 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 JOHN BULL. 387 rather tliey have adapted themselves to each other ; and a stran- ger who wishes to study English peculiarities, may gather much valuable information from the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the v/indows of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one of those fertile humorists, that are continually throwing out new porti'aits, and presenting different aspects from differents points of view ; and, often as he has been described, I cannot resist the temptation to give a slight sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter-of- fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich prose. There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor more than in wit ; is jolly rather than gay ; melancholy rather than morose ; can easily be moved to a sudden tear, or surprised into a broad laugh ; but he loathes sentiment, and has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you allow him to have his humor, and to talk about himself; and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life and purse, however soundly he may be cudgeled. In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a 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 services to settle his neighbor's affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter of consequence without asking his advice ; though he seldom en- gages in any friendly office of the kind without finishing by get- ting 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 388 THE SKETCH BOOK. use of his limbs and his weapons, and become a perfect master at boxing and cudgel-plaj, he has had a troublesome life of it ever since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant of his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to fumble with the head of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor does not require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed he has extended his relations of pride and policy so completely over the whole country, that no event can take place, without infringing some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in his little domain, with these filaments stretching forth in every direction, he is like some choleric, bottle-belHed 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 wrathfuUy from his den. Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of conten- tion. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he only relishes the beginning of an affray ; he always goes into a fight with alac- rity, but comes out of it grumbling even when victorious ; and though no one fights with more obstinacy to carry a contested point, yet, when the battle is over, and he comes to the reconciU- ation, he is so much taken up with the mere shaking of hands, that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all that they have been quarrehng about. It is not, therefore, fighting that he ought so much to be on his guard against, as making friends. It is 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 puUing JOHN BULL. 389 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 immediately after one of these fits of extravagance, he will be taken with violent qualms of economy ; stop short at the most trivial expenditure ; talk despe- rately of being ruined and brought upon the parish ; and, in such moods, will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill, without violent altercation. He is in fact the most punctual a^d 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 pro- vider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a whim- sical kind, its chief object being to devise how he may afford to be extravagant ; for he will begrudge himself a beef-steak and pint of port one day, that he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors on the next. His domestic establishment is enormously expensive : not so much from any great outward parade, as from the great consump- tion of solid beef and pudding ; the vast number of followers he feeds and clothes ; and his singular disposition to pay hugely for small services. He is a most kind and indulgent master, and, provided his servants humor his peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little now and then, and do not peculate grossly on him before his face, they may manage him to perfection. Every thing that lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat. His house-servants are well paid, and pampered, and have little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and prance slowly before his state carriage ; and his house-dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will hardly bark at a house-breaker. 390 THE SKETCH BOOK. His homily mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray with age, and of a most venerable, though weather-beaten ap- pearance. It has been built upon no regular plan, but is a vast accumulation of parts, erected in various tastes and ages. The centre bears evident traces of Saxon architecture, and is as solid as ponderous stone and old English oak can make it. Like all the relics of that style, it is full of obscure passages, intricate mazes, and dusky chambers ; and though these have been par- tially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many places where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have been made to the original edifice from time to time, and great alterations have taken place ; towers and battlements have been erected during wars and tumults : wings built in time of peace ; and out- houses, lodges, and offices, run up according to the Avhim or con- venience 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 reverend pile, that must have been exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of having been altered and simplified at various periods, has still a look of solemn religious pomp. Its walls within are storied with the monuments of John's ancestors ; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions and well-Hned 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 stanch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the circum- stance that many dissenting chapels have been erected in his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with whom he has had quarrels, are strong papists. To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large ex- JOHN BULL. 391 pense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most learned and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in his opinions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the children when refractory, and is of great use in exhorting the tenants to read their Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all, to pay their rents punctually, and without grumbling. The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, some- what heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn magnificence of former times ; fitted up with rich, though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of massy gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting halls, all speak of the roaring hospi- tality 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 household. John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice thoroughly overhauled ; and to have some of the useless parts pulled down, and the others strengthened with their materials ; but the old gentleman always grows testy on this subject. He swears the house is an excellent house — that it is tight and weather proof, and not to be shaken by tempests — that it has stood for several hundred years, and, therefore, is not likely to tumble down now — that as to its being inconvenient, his family is accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be comfortable without them — that as to its unwieldy size and irregular con- structicn, these result from its being the growth of centuries, and being improved by the wisdom of every generation — that an old 392 THE SKETCH BOOK. family, like his, requires a large house to dwell in ; new, upstart families may live in modern cottages and snug boxes ; but an old English family should inhabit an old English manor-house. If you point out any part of the building as superfluous, he insists that it is material to the strength or decoration of the rest, and the harmony of the whole ; and swears that the parts are so built into each other, that if you pull down one, you run the risk of having the whole about your ears. The secret of the matter is, that John has a great disposition to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to the dig- nity of an ancient and honorable family, to be bounteous in its appointments, and to be eaten up by dependents ; and so, partly from pride, and partly from kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter and maintenance to his superannuated servants. The consequence is, that, like many other venerable family establishments, his manor is incumbered by old retainers whom he cannot turn off, and an old style Avhich 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 comer 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 JOHN BULL, 393 gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, who has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes the most grievous outcry at their pulling down the roof from over the head of a worn-out servant of the family. This is an appeal that John's honest heart never can withstand ; so that a man, who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding all his life, is 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 remiainder of their existence — a worthy example of grate- ful recollection, which if some of his neighbors were to imitate, would not be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleasures to point out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good qualities, extol their past services, and boast, with some little 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 gipsies ; 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 undaunt- 17* 394 - THE SKETCH BOOK. edly in broad dayliglit. In short, John has such a reverence for every thing 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 habiis have concurred wofuUy to drain the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself on punctu- ality in money matters, and wishes to maintain his credit in the neighborhood, they have caused him great perplexity in meeting his engagements. This, too, has been increased by the alter- cations and heart-burnings which are continually taking place in his family. His children have been brought up to different call- ings, and are of different ways of thinking ; and as they have always been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do not fail to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the present posture of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the race, and are clear that the old establishment should be kept up in all its state, whatever may be the cost ; others, who are more prudent and considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench his expenses, and to put his whole system of housekeeping on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their wholesome advice has been completely defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of his sons. This is a noisy rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects his business to frequent ale-houses — is the orator of village clubs, and a complete oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants. No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention reform or retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes the words out of their mouths, and roars out for an overturn. When his tongue is once going nothing can stop it. He rants about the room; hectors the old man about his spendthrift practices ; ridicules his tastes JOHN BULL. 395 and pursuits ; insists that he shall turn the old servants out of doors ; give the broken-down horses to the hounds ; send the fat chaplain packing, and take a field-preacher in his place — nay, that the whole family mansion shall be leveled with the ground, and a plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He rails at every social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives up to the door. Though constantly complaining of the emptiness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket-money in these tavern convocations, and even runs up 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 ir ritable, from repeated crossings, that the mere mention of retrench- ment or reform is a signal for a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter is too sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run so high, that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer who has served abroad, but is at present living at home, oc half-pay. This last is sure to stand by the old gentle- man, right or wrong; likes nothing so much as a racketing, roystering life ; and is ready at a -wink or nod, to out sabre, and flourish it over the orator's head, if he dares to array himself against paternal authority. These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and are rare food for scandal in .John's neighborhood. People begin to look wise, and shake their heads, whenever his affairs are men- tioned. 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 •396 THE SKETCH BOOK. extravagance, things must be badly managed. They understand lie is mortgaged over head and ears, and is continually dabbling with money lenders. He is certainly an open-handed old. gentle- man, but they fear he has lived too fast ; indeed, they never kncAV any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, reveling and prize-fighting. In short, Mr-'Bull's estate is a very fine one, and has been in the family a long while ; but, for all that, they have known many finer estates come to the hammer." What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary em- barrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor man him- self. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and smug rosy face, which he used to present, he has of late become as shriveled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days when he sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about him like a main- sail in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, and apparently have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy legs. Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-cornered hat on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and bringing it down every moment with a hearty thump upon the ground ; looking every one sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave of a catch or a di-inking song ; he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to him- self, with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches pockets, which are evidently empty. Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet for all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathy or concern, he takes fire in an instant ; swears that he is the richest and stoutest fellow JOHN BULL. 3, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, 438 THE SKETCH BOOK. whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with hoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks ; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang !" The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good will ; and when any madcap prank, or rustic brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and war- ranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the bloom- ing Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours ; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Yan Tassel's paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other quarters. Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack — yielding, but tough : though he bent, he never broke ; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away — jerk ! he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 439 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. Icliabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently -insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse ; not that he had any thing to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul ; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in every thing. His nota- ble Uttle wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeep- ing and manage her poultry ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching tlie achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the meantime, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence. I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admi- ration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access ; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be cap- tured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gam the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for a man must battle for his 440 THE SKETCH BOOK. fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thonsancl eommon hearts is therefore entitled to some renown ; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and frora the momcBt Ichabod Crane made Ins advances^ the interests of the former evidently declined ; his horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open w^arfare, 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 school- master up, and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house ;" and lie was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was some- thing extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical perse- cution to Bones, and his gang of rough riders. They harric^i his hitherto peaceful domains ; smoked out his singing school, by stopping up the chimney ; broke into the school-house at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned every thing topsy-turvy : so that the poor schoolmas- ter began to think all the witches in the country held their meet- ings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning Mm into ridicule in presence of his mis- THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 441 tress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most hidicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in psalmody. In this Avay matters went on for some time, without producing any material effect on the relative situation of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of jus- tice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers ; while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins ; such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and wdiole legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of . justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master ; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round- crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a 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, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the impor- tance and hurry of his mission. 19* 442 THE SKETCH BOOK. 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 impu- nity, 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, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their 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 mistress 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 Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight- errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had outlived almost every thing but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral ; but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from 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 J THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 443 probably, some of liis own spirit into the animal ; for, old and broken down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young lilly in the country. Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called ; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Eipper, and it was alto- gether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air ; the bark of the squir- rel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neigh- boring stubble-field. The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very pro- fusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock- robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud 444 THE SKETCH BOOK. querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little monteiro cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in liis gay light-blue coat and white under clothes ; screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with evjery songster of the grove. As Ichabod Jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples ; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees ; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market ; others heaperl 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 prospects 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 shipjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and " su- gared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of 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. Tlie wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle un- dulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 445 mouutain. 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 uselessly against the mast ; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed 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 leath- ern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk with- ered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted shortgowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as anti- quated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine riband, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innova- tion. The sons, in short square-skirted coats with rows of stu- pendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed, throughout the country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of metal 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 ridei 446 THE SKETCH BOOK. 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 Avorld of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white ; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experi- enced Dut-ch housewives ! There was the doughty dough-nut, the tenderer oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller ; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies ; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces ; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together 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 — Heaven bless the mark I I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. 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, THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 447 he thon ;ht, how soon he'd tarn his back upon the old school- house ; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Yan Ripper, and every ether niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade ! Old Baltus Yan 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 expres- sive, 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 them- selves." And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray- headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neigh- borhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head ; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought Saint Yitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes ; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and win- dow, gazing with delight at the scene, rolHng their white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous ? 448 THE SKETCH BOOK. the lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and .smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Broir 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 Yan Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawing out long stories about the war. This neighborhood, at the time of 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 Jborder chi- valry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the in- distinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit. There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly men- tioned, who, in the battle of Whiteplains, being an excellent mas- ter of defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, inso- much that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance 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. THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 449 But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appari- tions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions 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. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have traveled away from the neighborhood ; so that when they turn o'^t at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom heai of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities. The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super- natural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region ; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wail- ings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Eaven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country ; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the church-yard. 450 THE SKETCH BOOK. The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity, beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallea trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from tlie 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. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman ; and the place where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him ; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge ; when the horseman sud- denly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. This story Avas immediately matched by a thrice marvelous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping Hes- sian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing-Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that he had offered to race THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 451 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 ^vhich 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 ex- tracts from his invaluable author. Cotton Mather, and added many marvelous events that had taken place in his native state of Con- necticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their 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 lin- gered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, how- ever, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chop-fallen — Oh these w^oraen ! these women ! Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks ? — Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival ? — Heaven only knows, not I ! — Let it 452 THE SKETCH BOOK. suffice to say, Icliabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. With- out looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of com 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 homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of Avaters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farmhouse away among the hills — but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker ; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, ap- THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 453 preaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enor- mous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, w^ho had been taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally knowm 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 w^as but a blast sweep- ing sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree — ^he paused and ceased whistling ; but on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Sud- denly he heard a groan — his teeth chattered and his knees smote against the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him. ■ About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of "Wiley's swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road w^here the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chest- nuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom 454 THE SKETCH BOOK. over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark. As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump ; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge ; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old ani- mal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot : it was all in vain ; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld some- thing huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler. The hair of the aifrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly was now too late ; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he de- THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 455 manded in stammering accents — " Who are jou ?" He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgeled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horse- man of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of pow- erful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness. Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight compan- ion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Bi*om Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, think- ing to lag behind — the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him ; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dog- ged silence of this pertinacious companion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was headless ! — but his horror was still more increased, on observing that tho head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried 456 THE SKETCH BOOK. before him on the pommel of the saddle : his terror rose to despe- ration ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip — but the spectre started full jump with him. Away then they dashed, through thick and thin ; stones flying, and sparks 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 unskillful rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and en- deavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind — for it w^as his Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for petty fears ; the goblin was hard on his haunches ; and (unskillful rider that he was !) he had much ado to maintain his seat ; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's back bone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder. THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 457 An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones' ghostly competitor had disappeared, " If I can but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, " I am &afe." Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him ; he even fan- cied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge ; he thundered over the resounding planks ; he gained the opposite side ; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash — he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind. The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at break- fast — dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the school-house, and strolled idly about the 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 speed, 20 458 THE SKETCH BOOK. were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the baiik of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck ; a pair or two of worsted stockings ; an old pair of corduroy small- clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of psalm tunes, full of dog's ears ; and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling ; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Eipper ; who from that time forward determined to send his children no more to school ; observing, that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disappearance. The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were col- lected in the church-yard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of ot/iers, 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. THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 459 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 pe- dagogue 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 the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that he had left the neighbor- hood, partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country ; had kept school and studied law at the same time ; had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice 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 euspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge be^- came more than ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The school-house being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported THE SKETCH BOOK. to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and the plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. , POSTSCRIPT, FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OP MK. 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, par- ticularly 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 lest of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the other a-kimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove ? 463 THE SKETCH BOOK. The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed, that the story was intended most logically to prove : — " That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 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'ENYOY/ 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 ie any part er all. Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Mercie^ In concluding a second volume of tiie Sketch Book, the Author cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with which his first has been received, and of the liberal disposition that has been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by others, he has found to be a singularly gentle and good-natured race ; it is true that each has in turn objected to some one or two articles, and that these individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would amount almost to a total condemnation of his work ; but then he has been consoled by observing, that what one has particularly censured, another has as particularly praised ; and thus, the encomiums being set off against the objections, he finds his work, upon the whole, commended far beyond its deserts. He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this kind favor by not following the counsel that has been liberally * Closing the second volume of the London edition. 464 THE SKETCH BOOK. bestowed upon him ; for where abnndance of valuable advice is given gratis, it may seem a man's mvn fault if he should go astray. He only can say, in his vindication, that he faithfully detennotined, 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 iindly ad- vised him to avoid the ludicrous ; another to shun the pathetic ; a third a-ssured him that he was tolerable at description, but cau- tioned him to leave narrative alone ; while a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knack at turning a story, and was really entertaining Avhen in a pensive mood, but was grievously mis- taken if he imagined himself to possess a spirit of humor. Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in turn closed some particular path, but left him all the world beside to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels would, in fact, be to stand still. He rejnained for a time sadly embarrassed ; when, all at once, the thought struck him to ramble on as he had begun ; that his work being miscellaneous, and written for differ- ent humors, it could not be expected that any one 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 eL ];ant horror of a roasted pig ; another holds a curry or a devil in utter abomination ; a third cannot tolerate the ancient flavor of venison and wild-fowl ; and a fourth, of truly masculine stomach, loolvs with sovereign contempt on those knick-knacks, here and there dished up for the ladies. Thus each article is condemned in its turn ; and yet, amidst this variety of appetites, seldom does a dish go away from the table without being tasted and relished by some one or other of the guests. L'ENYOY. 465 With these considerations he ventures to serve up this second volume in the same heterogeneous way with his first ; simply requesting the reader, if he should find here and there something to please him, to rest assured that it was written expressly for intelligent readers like himself , but entreating him, should he find any thing to disHke, to tolerate it, as one of those articles which the author has been obhged to write for readers of a less refined taste. To be serious. — The author is conscious of the numerous faults and imperfections of his work ; and well aware how little he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of authorship. His deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence arising from his peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in a strange land, and appearing before a public Avhich he has been accustomed, from childhood, to regard with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. He is full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet finds that very solicitude continually embarrassing his powers, and depriving him of that ease and confidence which are neces- sary to successful exertion. Still the kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier footing ; and thus he proceeds, half venturing, half shrinking, surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering at his own temerity. THE END. G. P. PUTNAMS NEW PUBLICATIONS. feit-36nnte for (CnlkgBS nui ligji Irlinnls, CONTINUED. A MytJiological TexUBooh : With original illustrations. Adapted to the use of Universities and High SchooiM, and for popular reading. BY M. A. DWIGHT. With an Introduction by Tayler Lewis, Professor of Greek in the University of New- York. 12mo, half bound $1 50. 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The author justly remarks, that " the whole is so sim- plified as to enable any teacher, without previous study, to instruct his pupils with advantage." % I. %. Bliliturtt 'tot-33nnk. An Elementary Treatise on Artillefi^y and Infantry^ Adapted for the Service of the United States. Designed for the use of Cadets of the U. S. Military Academy, and for the Officers of the Independent Companies and Volunteers. l2mo. BY C. P. KINGSBURY, LIEUT. U. S. A. "," This volume is used as a text-book in the United States Military Academy, and will bo intro- duced in the other military schools. It is the most useful and comprehensive treatise in either FrMich or English ; and is equally adapted for use in the militia service and in the army. 33 G. P. putna]m's new publications. Singh- laiDn. Anglo-Saxon Cowse of Study, A Compendious Anglo- Saooon and English Dictionary. By the Rev. Joseph Boswokth, D.D., F.R.S., &c., &c. 1 vol., 8vo, cloth, $3. A Ghximmar of the Anglo-Saxon Language. By Louis F. 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" This volume is most justly to be called a feast of nectared sweets where no crude surfeit reigns. ** London Examiner. Hunt. — Stories from the Italian Poets : Being a Summary in Prose of the Poems of Dante, Pulci, Boiardo, Ariosto, and Tasso ; with Comments throughout, occasional passages Versified, and Critical Notices of the Lives and Genius of the Authors. By Leigh Hunt. 12mo, cloth, $1 25 The same, fancy gilt, $1 75. "Mr. Hunt's book has been aptly styled, a series of exquisite engravings of the magnificent piCi turos painted by these great Italian masters." — Tournal of Commerce. 36 G. P. PUTNAilS HEW PUBLICATIONS. CONTINUED. The History of New- York, From the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Djmasty, l2mo, cloth, $1 25. The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. l2mo, cloth, %\ 25. Bracdyridge Hall ; or, The Humorists : A Medley. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. Tales of a Traveller. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. The Conquest of Granada. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. The Alhamhra. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. The Crayon Miscellany. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. Oliver Goldsmith : a Biography. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. Miscellanies. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. .* See "History," "Travels," «&c N. B. Any of the above may be had in extra bindings : half calf, 75 ct& extra ; half morocco. 81 extra ; full calf, p^: volume, §1 25 extra. Keats. — Poetical Works. The Poetical Works of John Keats. 1 vol., 12mo, cloth, $1. The same, gilt extra, $1 25. " They are flushed all over with the rich lights of fancy ; and so colored and bestrewn with the flowers of poetry, that, even while perplexed and bewiWered in their labyrinths, it is impossible to resist the intoxication of their sweetness, or to shut our hearts to the enchantment they so lavishly present. — Francis Jeffrey. Keats. — Life, Letters., &g. The Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats. Edited by Richard Moncton Milnes. Portrait and fac-simile. 1 vol., 12mo, cloth, $1 25. The same, gilt extra, ^1 50. " A volume which wil' take its place among the imperishable ones of the age." ' * * " It fa feplete with interest." 37 G. P.. Putnam's new publications. 3JBlk3 Xtttxn. CONTINUED. Lowell. — A Fable for Critics Or A Glance at a Few of Our Literary Progenies. By a Wonderful Quiz. 1 vol., 12mo, boards, 50 cents ; cloth, 63 cts. " Beneath its unpretending drab cover lies hid a world of polished satire, kepn subtle humor, rnd manly vigorous seoliment, interspersed with touches of genuine pathos.^' — Knickerbocker Magazine. " Showing the power of a master in verse, the heart of a true man, the learning of a scholar, the nind of a philosopher, and the wit of a satirist, without the gall which too often accompanies it." — flolden's Mag. " Nothing abler has ever come from the American press in the form of satire." — Prov. Jour. Lamb. — Essays of JElia, By Charles Lamb. 1 vol., 12mo, cloth, ^1. The same, gilt extra, $1 25. " Shakspeare himself might have read them, and Hamlet have quoted them ; for tnriy 'waa our excellent mend of the genuine line of Yorick."— iez^A HunVs London JournaL La/mh. — Specimens of the ISnglisTi Dramatic Poets, By Charles Lamb. 1 vol., 12rao, green cloth, ^1 25. — The same, gilt extra, %\ 50. " Nowhere are the resources of the English tongue, m power, in sweetness, terror, pathos, in cU- icription and dialogue, so well displayed."— Sroadiray journal. lAjnch. — Poems., &g. ^ By Anne C. Lynch. 1 vol. Elegantly ilkstrated from designs by Durand, " Huntington, Darley, Rossiter, Brown, Dugan, &c. 8vo, cloth, $1 50 ; gilt extra, $2. "The many beautiful and sublime thoughts that are scattered through this volume will amply repay a -pexMsaX.— Albany Eve. Jour Montagues Selections from Old English Writers. Selections from the Works of Taylor, Latimer, Hall, Milton, Barrow, Lowth, Brown, Fuller, and Bacon. By Basil Montagu. 1 vol., 12mo, green cloth, 50 cents ; cloth gilt, $1. "This volume contains choice extracts from some of the noblest of the old English writers."— Cincinnati Atlas. « A book of delight. It is for the head, the heart, the imagiaation, and the taste, all at once.»» 38 G. P. PUTNAIVIS NEW PUBLICATIONS. CONTINUED. jPeacoch — Headlong Hall and Nightmare Abbey, 1 vol., l2mo, green cloth, 50 cts. " Works of singular merit, but of a character so peculiar that we cannot give any descriptive account of them in the space at our command. Wide sweeping, vigorous satire is their charac- teristic ; satire not so much of men as of opinions. * * ' The production of a mind contem- plative in Us turn, but keenly alive to the absurdity of human pretension. There is scarcely a topic which is not here embodied or glanced at ; and modem philosophy is pretty severely hit, as may be inferred from the motto of Headlong Hall : ' All philosophers, who find Some favorite system to their mind, In every point to make it fit. Will force all nature to submit.' " Cincinnati Atlas. Tasso, — Godfrey of BuUoigne ; Or, the Recovery of Jerusalem : done into English Historical Verse, from the Italian of Tasso, by Edward Fairfax. Introductory Essay, by Leigh Hunt ; and the Lives of Tasso and Fairfax, by Charles Knight. 1 vol., 12mo, ^1 25. " The completest translation, and nearest like its original of any we have seen." — Leigh Hunt. " The Jerusalem Delivered is full, to the last stanza, of the most delightful inventions, of th« most charming pictures, of chivalric and heroic sentiment, of portraits of brave men and beautiful women — in fine, a prodigal mine of the choicest resources and effects of poetry. So it has been always known to the world, so Fairfax brings it to us."— ilf error. TOAJI or. — Poems and Ballads, The Poems and Ballads of J. Bayard Taylor. With Portrait painted by T. Buchanan Read, Esq. 12mo, cloth, 75 cents ; cloth gilt extra, $1 25. " A epiriJ of boldness and vigor pervades the volume." " ' The Picturesque Ballads of California ' have a dash of boldness and advanture in them, which contrasts pleasantly with the more purely sentimental poems." Walton, — The Lives of Donne^ Walton^ Hooher^ Herbert, and Sanderson. By Izaak Walton. New edition. I vol., l2mo, green cloth, ^1. " Tte Lives are the most delightful kind of reading. Walton possesses an inimitable simplicity and vivacity of style.— ilirs. Kirkland. BibUotheca America/na, A Catalogue of American Pubhcations, including Reprints and Original Works, ^om 1820 to 1848, inclusive. Compiled by 0. A. Roorbach. Royal 8yo, pp. 359, $4. »• A very tweful book to all librarians and bookseUers. 39 O. p. PUTI^AJl's l^^EAV PUBLICATIONS. The Nursery Book for Young Mothers, BY MRS. L. C. TUTHrLL. l8mo, 50 cents. *,' This voiume will be a welcome present to young mothers. It comprises familiar letter? OD sll topics connected with the medical and educational departments of the Nursery, and is just such a book as eveiy mother will find practically useful ; and all the more so as it is written by a competent and experienced person of their own sex. "There is much excellent counsel in this volume, with occasional toucnes of nature, which shows that the author is observant, and has accnstomed herself to note the errors of physical and domestic education. Indeed there are some happy hits at the mistakes of this sort which are as common as children, and graver admonitions that ' young mothers,' and some assuming to have more experience, might greatly profit by."— A^. Y. Com. Adv. "The title of this neat little volume would not at first seem to indicate any thing new or pecu- liarly interesting, but at the vei-y first page the attention is arrested, and from thence to the very last note in the Appendix the interest does not flag. It is no dry disquisition upon diet and medi- cines, but has for its topic nursery education in every branch. The instruction on these various points is communicated in sprightly letters from an aunt to her niece, who, desponding like all young mothers when fii'st left to the care of their infants, applies to her for assistance. The niece, Mrs. Hasten, is extremely well drawn. From the moment that she first attempts the child's bath,' and sits 'shivering and trembling, afraid to touch the droll little object,' to her anxious inquiries with regard to the mental and moral training of her children, she is a true womark, and a true mo- ther. The circumstances which call forth the various points of instruction from her aunt are most naturally developed, and, on the whole, we regard it as the best book of the kind ever pub- lished. Its peculiar excellence is the sprightly and agreeable style which we have before alluded to, and which would arrest the attention of many a giddy ' girl-mother,' who would throw aside a dry treatise in despair. Mrs. Tuthill quotes the most unexceptionable authorities for her imrsery rules for health."— PAt/a. Sat. Gazette. ^m %mh fer ^ntiiig ^inmn ml Irtinril litoam MRS. L, C. TUTH I LL. Success in Life : The Merchant : A Biography ; with Anecdotes and Practical Application for New Beginnexn 12mo. half bound, 62 cts. ; gilt, extra, ^I. " We fare on earth as other men have fared ; Were they successfull Let us not despair!" Success in Life ; The Lawyer : A Biographical Example. l8mo. [To be followed by " The Artist,*^^^' The Mechanic," &c.] *,* The aim of this Series is to develop the tale.it and energy of boys just merging into man- hood, and to assist them in choosing their pursuits for life. "Success! How the heart bounds at the exulting word 1 Success! Man's aim from the mo Boent he places his tiny foot upon the floor till he lays his weary gray head in the grave. Suc- cess, the exciting motive to all endeavor and its crowning glory." — Extract from Preface. Evenings with the Old Story Tellers. One volume, 12mo, green cloth, 50 cents. ' "A quiet humor, a quaintness and tersenes.s of style will strongly recommend iYiexn." —Engliah Churchman. 40 G. P. Putnam's new publications. DISTRICT, SUNDAY SCHOOL, AND FAMILY LIBRARIES. PUTNAM'S ORIENTAL SERIES: Comprising CHEAP EDITIONS of Valuable and Standard Works. I. Layard^s Nineveh and its Remains. 2 vols. 12mo. half bound, without the larger Illustrations, $1 75, II. Hawks'' s Egypt and its Monuments ; Or, Egypt a Witness for the Bible. Second edition, revised, with additions. 12mo, half bound, without the Dlustrations, $1 25. III. tSpencer^s The East ; Or, Sketches of Travel in Egypt and the Holy Land. I2mo, half bound, without the Elustrations, $1 25. IV. 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Square 16mo, half bound, 50 cts. The Gam^e of Anna : An Instructive Game, consisting of Quotations from the Poets, in a series of 84 Cards. 50 cts. Young Americanos Primer. Attractively Illustrated. 12mo, paper, 25 ctJ. 41 G. P. PUTNA3I^S l^EW PUBLIOATIONS. (CjinirB %uh. CONTINUED. Olim/pses of the Wonderful, An entertaining account of Curiosities of Nature and Art. First, Second, and Third Series, with numerous Fine Illustrations, engraved in London Square 16mo tloth, each, 75 cents. MISS SEDGEWICK. TTie Morals of Mcmners; Or, Hints for our Young People. New Edition. Square 16mo, with cuts, cloth, 25 cents. Facts and Fancies^ For School-Day Reading; a Sequel to " Morals of Maimers." Square l6mo, with cuts, 50 cents. ",* These excellent little books, prepared with reference to the important but too much neglected matter of the good and bad manners of young people, are worthy of a place in every School Li- brary in the land— and should be put in the hands of every child old enough to understand that good manners are, and should be, quite as essential as progress in book-learning. The School Committee of New-York, have ordered them for all the City School libraries. A cheaper edition of the Morals of Manners can be supplied for $12 50 per 100. TTie Home Treasv/ry ; Comprising new versions of Cinderella< Beauty and the Beast, Grumble and Cheery, The Eagle's Verdict, The Sleeping Beauty. Revised and Illuji- trated. Small 4to, 50 cents. Yowng Natu/ralisfs Rambles through Ma/ny Lands ; With an Account of the Principal Animals and Birds of the Old and New Continents. With Woodcuts. Cloth, 50 cents. The Game of Natm/ral History, A Series of Cards, Carefully Drawn and Colored, representing the most Important and Interesting of the Animal Creation. With Questions. Arranged so as to form a Pleasant and Interesting Entertainment for a Juvenile Party, while it also gives Desirable Information. Price 75 cents, in a Case. — plain, 50 cts. SEP 28 1945 '^ Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 016 117 661 8