font . A i 
 
 THE NIESSEN COLLECTION 
 
 (HISTORY OF THE THEATER) 
 
COLLECTION 
 
 OP 
 
 ANCIENT AND MODERN 
 
 BRITISH AUTHORS. 
 
 VOL. XCIX. 
 
 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
Of the same Booksellers may be had, 
 WASH. IRVING'S COMPLETE WORKS; 
 
 Consisting of Salmagundi ; History of New- York; the Sketch- 
 Book ; Bracebridge Hall; Tales of a Traveller; Life and 
 Voyages of Christopher Columbus ; Voyages and Discove- 
 ries of the Companions of Columbus ; Chronicle of the Con- 
 quest of Granada ; Alhambra, or the New Sketch-Book. 
 19 vols, comprised in one vol. imperial 8vo, with a beautiful 
 portrait, 30 fr. 
 
 The following works may be had separately, viz. 
 
 Bracebridge Hall, with the Life 
 
 of the Author, 2 vols, large 
 
 18mo. 5 fr. 
 Tales of a Traveller, with the 
 
 Life of the Author, 2 vols. 
 
 large 18mo. 5 fr. 
 Life and Voyages of Christopher 
 
 Columbus, 4 thick volumes, 
 
 14 fr 
 The same, abridged, 1 vol. 3fr 
 Voyages and Discoveries of the 
 
 Companions of Columbus, 
 
 1831,1 vol.3fr. 
 
 Chronicle of the Conquest of 
 Granada, 2 vols. 7 fr. 
 
 Alhambra, or the new Sketch- 
 Book, 2 vols. 12mo. 5 fr. 
 
 The same , in 1 vol. large 
 18mo. 3 fr. 
 
 A Tour on the Prairies, 1 vol. 
 12mo. 3 fr. 
 
 The same, 1 vol. 18mo. 2 fr. 
 
 Legends of the Conquest of 
 Spain, 1 vol. 12mo. 2 fr. 50 c. 
 
 PRINTED BY J. SMITH, 10, RUE MONTMORENCY. 
 
THE 
 
 SKETCH-BOOK 
 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON, ESQ. 
 
 (WASHINGTON IRVING.) 
 
 PARIS, 
 
 BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY, 
 
 RUE DU COQ, NEAR THE LOUVRE. 
 
 SOLD ALSO BY AMYOT, RUE DE LA PAIX ; TRUCHY, BOULEVARD DES ITALIENS ; 
 
 THEOPH1LE BARROIS, JUV., RUE RICHELIEU ; LIBRAIRIE DES ETRANGERS, 
 
 RUE NEUVE-SAINT-AUGUSTItf ; AND IIEIDELOFF AND CAMPE, 
 
 RUE VIVIENNE. 
 
 836. 
 
• ft I 
 
 409401 
 • '31 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 .MEMOIR OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 
 
 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 ROSCOE. 
 
 THE WIFE . 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE . 
 
 ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 
 
 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 
 
 A ROYAL POET. . 
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN. 
 
 THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 
 
 RURAL FUNERALS . 
 
 THE INN KITCHEN. 
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 THE STAGE COACH. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 
 
 LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 
 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 
 
 1 
 
 5 
 
 13 
 
 21 
 3i 
 
 49 
 
 59 
 
 67 
 
 73 
 
 81 
 
 95 
 
 101 
 
 109 
 
 121 
 
 133 
 
 I&5 
 
 149 
 
 165 
 
 177 
 
 183 
 
 191 
 
 203 
 
 217 
 
 233 
 
 249 
 
 267 
 
PHILir OF POKANOKET. 
 
 john bull. 
 
 the pride of the vill^ 
 
 the angler. 
 
 the legend of sleepy 
 
 l'envoy. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 
 279 
 
 
 297 
 
 E. 
 
 310 
 
 
 319 
 
 3LLOW. 
 
 329 
 
 . 
 
 363 
 
TO 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART 
 
 THIS WORK 
 
 IS DEDICATED 
 
 IN TESTIMONY OF THE 
 
 ADMIRATION AND AFFECTION 
 
 THE AUTHOH 
 
•• 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 The following desultory papers are part of a series written in 
 this country, but published in America. The author is aware 
 of the austerity with which the writings of his countrymen have 
 hitherto been treated by British critics : he is conscious, too, 
 that much of the contents of his papers can be interesting only 
 in the eyes of American readers. It was not his intention, there- 
 fore, to have them reprinted in this country. He has, however, 
 observed several of them from time to time inserted in periodical 
 works of merit, and has understood that it was probable they 
 would be republished in a collective form . He has been induced , 
 therefore, to revise and bring them forward himself, that they 
 may at least come correctly before the public. Should they be 
 deemed of sufficient importance to attract the attention of critics, 
 he solicits for them that courtesy and candour which a stranger 
 has some right to claim, who presents himself at the threshold 
 of a hospitable nation. 
 
 February, 1820. 
 

MEMOIR 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 It has long been a fashion for English critics to underrate, or, 
 more properly speaking, to overlook American writers. It was 
 repeatedly asserted that the genius of America was rather di- 
 rected to what is useful and mechanical, than to fine writing. 
 The citizens of the United States would gladly rival the broad- 
 cloths and the cutlery of England, but were content to import 
 her poetry, romance, philosophy, and criticism. They wanted 
 the political circumstances favourable to the development of the 
 literary taste of a nation. In a newly-peopled country the pro- 
 vision of the means of living must, for some time, be the care of 
 all. After these are secured, the pursuit of wealth and the ac- 
 cumulation of property will long continue to be the favourite 
 objects. Thus, in America, agriculture, commerce, industry, 
 politics, — concerns which come home to the business and bosoms 
 of men, — engrossed the attention of all, employing the best hands 
 and the best heads, and it was the fulness of time alone which 
 could bring into existence that distinct class of men who form the 
 literary reputation of a nation. Such was the critical cant of 
 English Reviews about America. 
 
 With Mr. Washington Irving, a painterdX last was born among 
 the lions. " Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona," there were 
 many American authors before Mr. Irving, such as Joel Bar- 
 low, Justice Marshall, andBrockden Brown, etc., etc., but Mr. 
 Irving is the first who, by the evidence of his powers, has been 
 

 xii MEMOIR 
 
 admitted to the full freedom and privileges of the English literary 
 guild. 
 
 His works opened a new era to American literature, and 
 his countrymen owe to him this fulness of time which was 
 hitherto in the shades of futurity. At last, English critics give 
 to the Americans; rather fair play, and deal more justly with 
 those who venture upon the perilous life of authorship. It is 
 now acknowledged among the reviewers of Edinburgh and Lon- 
 don, that a Transatlantic book may be good of its kind, full of 
 imagination, and embellished with a delicacy of feeling, and a 
 refinement of taste, that do not so often belong, perhaps, to the 
 contemporary literature of Britain. 
 
 Mr. Washington Irving is the youngest son of a gentleman of 
 Scottish birth, who married an English lady and settled in the 
 city of New York, where he exercised the profession of a mer- 
 chant, and enjoyed the respect and esteem of his contemporaries 
 for his unblemished integrity and unassuming worth. Being the 
 youngest of a numerous family, and his father being entirely 
 occupied in commerce, the care of his education devolved upon 
 his mother and his elder brothers. Some of the latter had al- 
 ready distinguished themselves for their literary taste and ability 
 as writers, while their younger brother was yet a child. In 
 their society he began, at an early period, the practice of com- 
 position, and may be almost said to have commenced his edu- 
 cation where others are accustomed to finish it. We have been 
 informed , that he manifested in his youth a meditative and almost 
 melancholy disposition ; not, however, without occasional and 
 brilliant flashes of the humour that is the distinctive characler 
 of his most successful compositions. This disposition did not 
 prevent him from entering with spirit into many of the pranks 
 of his comrades, or even from becoming the plotter and ring- 
 leader in many a scheme of merry mischief. 
 
 He was accustomed to read the best English authors at an 
 k-^ early age, and was led, partly by accident, partly by taste, to 
 Xjrfa the perusal of Chaucer and Spenser, and others of the more an- 
 cient writers, both in verse and prose : so that his mind became 
 imbued with similar ideas, and the peculiar style by which he 
 has been distinguished, was unconsciously formed. 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. xiii 
 
 It may be here observed, that his disposition, in youth as in 
 manhood, has always been amiable and affectionate, and his 
 manners so frank, simple, and engaging, as to render his ac- 
 quaintances, friends. His own conduct has always been upright 
 and exemplary, but he has ever been lenient and indulgent to- l^y 
 wards the errors of others. 
 
 The youth of the city of New York were then a happy race. 
 Their place of residence had not yet assumed its metropolitan 
 character, and the freedom and ease of almost rural life, were 
 blended with the growing refinements of an increasing popula- 
 tion. The advantageous position of its port made wealth flow 
 rapidly into its merchants' coffers, and the natives of other parts 
 , of the country had not yet begun to colonise it, and compete for 
 a share oWts growing riches. The elder members of the com- 
 munity, seeing their property increasing almost without know- 
 ing why, had not yet perceived the necessity of drilling their 
 children to habits of early labour and premature prudence. The 
 gambling spirit that characterized one era of the commercial 
 history of New York, had not yet made its appearance ; nor had , 
 that ardent competition, that steels the heart against all but 
 selfish feelings, been awakened. That system of instruction, 
 which confines children for six hours a day in almost listless 
 inactivity in a school-room, and then dismisses them, to pursue 
 their labours unassisted for even a longer time, was not yet in- 
 vented. Schoolmasters yet thought it their duty to instruct ; 
 and when their unruly subjects were emancipated from direct 
 control, they had no other thought but to spend the rest of the 
 day in active sport, and the night in slumbers, undisturbed by the 
 dread of the morrow's task. 
 
 For the enjoyment of these vacant hours, the vicinity of New 
 York then offered the most inviting opportunities. A few mi- 
 nutes' walk brought the youth of the city into open and extensive 
 pastures, diversified by wood and sheets of transparent water ; 
 on either hand flowed noble rivers, whose quiet waters invited 
 even the most timid to acquire "the noblest exercise of 
 /~ v strength ;" when winter made such recreations impracticable, 
 sheets of smooth and glittering ice spread themselves out to 
 lempt the skater, and the youth of the Manhattoes rivalled, if not 
 
 2w 
 
\iv MEMOIR 
 
 excelled, the glories of their Dutch father-land, in the speed and 
 activity with which they glided over the glassy surface. 
 
 It may be the partial recollection of our infancy, but it is not 
 less the firm conviction of our minds, that in all our wander- 
 ings, we have seen no city, with the exception of the " Queen of 
 the North," whose environs possessed natural beauties equal to 
 those of New York. These beauties have now vanished — paved 
 streets and piles of tasteless brick have covered the grassy slopes 
 and verdant meadows ; the lofty hills have been applied to the 
 ignoble purpose of filling up the neighbouring lakes. Nor should 
 we complain of these changes, but consider the prosperity of 
 which they are an evidence, as more than equivalent to the de- 
 struction of wild and rural beauty, in those places where a 
 crowded population has actually found its abode ; b^uf we cannot 
 tolerate that barbarism that makes beauty consist in straight 
 lines and right angles, cuts our whole island into oblong squares, 
 and considers that to convert the fertile surface into a barren and 
 sandy waste is the only fit preparation for an increasing city. 
 /^ The blossomed orchards of Bayard and Delancey have given 
 place to snug brick houses, the sylvan deities have tied the groves 
 of Peters' field and Rose hill, and we can rejoice; but why 
 should the flowery vales of Bloomendahl be cut up by streets and 
 avenues? Nor has the spirit of devastation stopped here, but has 
 invaded the whole neighbourhood, until the antres and cliffs of 
 fJL Hoboken have given place to a rail-road. 
 /f The early fancies of Mr. Irving were deeply impressed with 
 
 the beauty of the natural scenery of the island of Manhattan. 
 These impressions have given birth to many and choice passages 
 in his various works. But, aware that such romantic fancies 
 might come with an ill grace from one hackneyed in the ways of 
 our commercial and prosaic city, he has given being to a personage, 
 in whose mouth they become the utterance of patriotic virtue. 
 New York, at that time, presented the singular spectacle of 
 races distinct in origin, character, and temper, struggling, as it 
 were, for ascendancy ; and although the struggle finally ter- 
 minated happily, in the utter confusion of all such distinctions, 
 and the formation of a single civic character, it was not the less 
 apparent. Wasted, too, as was the anger and anxiety which the 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. xv 
 
 struggle occasioned upon the most petty objects, it presented, to 
 a mind highly sensible to the ludicrous, most amusing matter of 
 contemplation. First and most marked, were to be seen the 
 descendants of the original settlers from Holland, retaining, in 
 their own separate intercourse, the language and habits of their 
 ancestors, indulging the hereditary grudge of a conquered people 
 to its subduers, although moderated and tempered by native 
 kindness and good nature. These were amalgamated with a 
 crowd of French protestants, banished from their country by 
 the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, who tempered Dutch 
 phlegm with the sprightliness of French vivacity. Then came the 
 English gentry and cavaliers, with pride, and state, and punc- 
 tilio, who had emigrated when the Dutch colony was transformed 
 by conquest into an English province, and bestowed by Charles 
 II. upon his brother the Duke of York. Next was to be re- 
 marked, the New Englander, distinguished by his intelligence 
 and activity, and just beginning to enter into that rivalry with 
 the Balavian, that has ended in a disappearance, almost total, of 
 patronymic names of the latter from the streets in which busi- 
 ness is transacted. Before the superior energy and restless en- 
 terprise of this race, the Dutch were beginning to quail, and 
 retaliated for the loss of business, to which they were exposed, 
 by outward expressions of contempt, and inward feelings of 
 dread and apprehension. Last, and least numerous, but at the 
 time most distinguished for wealth and mercantile influence, 
 was to be seen a clan of Scots. These were shrewd, calculating, 
 and enterprising: but mixed with their habits of business 
 and economy much hospitality, and unchecked but harmless 
 conviviality. Accustomed from his infancy to the contemplation 
 of the character of this race in his father and his associates, its pe- 
 culiarities have not struck Mr. Irving as an object for delinea- 
 tion, or filial reverence has forbidden him to attempt it. Its 
 habits and manners have, however, evidently served to bring 
 out in higher relief the peculiarities of the other races. 
 
 Mr. Irving had hardly reached the age of manhood when he 
 appeared to be threatened with a pulmonary affection, as a pre- 
 ventive of which, it was considered expedient that he should 
 visit the south of Europe. He therefore embarked in a vessel 
 
xvi MEMOIR 
 
 for Bourdeaux, whence he proceeded leisurely by Nice, and Ge- 
 noa, and Leghorn, and Florence, to Rome. His health was 
 restored in the course of his trayels, and when he reached Naples 
 he crossed to Sicily, and after a tour through that island, and a 
 short delay at Palermo, returned to Naples, and made a journey 
 through Italy and Switzerland to France. He resided several 
 months in Paris, frequenting its noble libraries and admirable 
 institutions, and then journeyed through Flanders and Holland, 
 making some delay in the principal places, travelling occasionally 
 on the canals in treckschuyts, and regarding, with curious sa- 
 tisfaction, that amphibious country from which the old Dutch 
 burghers of his native city had derived their origin, and drawn 
 their usages and habits. From Holland he crossed over with a 
 Dutch skipper to the mouth of the Thames, and ascended that 
 river to London. 
 
 Here the curtain dropped, the melo-drama was over. French- 
 man, Italian, and Dutchman no longer passed before him in 
 their variety of costume and dialect. He found himself among 
 a busy crowd bearing the same physiognomy, wearing the same 
 attire, and speaking the same language to which he had been 
 accustomed all his life. But it was the land of his fathers, and 
 the country with whose history his most interesting studies and 
 dearest recollections were associated. 
 
 This voyage, undertaken with far different views than those 
 which now usually direct the travels of young Americans, was 
 also wholly different in its course, and in the impressions it was 
 likely to produce. Instead of a gradual preparation for the 
 views of the old world, by a passage through countries con- 
 nected by ties of blood and language, or familiar to him in 
 consequence of an active and frequent commerce, he was 
 transported, as if in a moment, to lands where, in direct contrast 
 to the continual strides his own country is making, every thing 
 is torpid, and even retrograde ; lands in which the objects of in- 
 terest are rather the glories of by-gone ages, than any thing that 
 the present era can exhibit. His views of Sicily exhibited the 
 gigantic ruins of Agrigentum, the remains of a polished, wealthy, 
 and numerous people, buried in a desert waste, and surrounded 
 only by comparative barbarism and poverty. No change of 
 
OF PON IRVING. xvii 
 
 scenemore abrupt can, Well be imagined, and none more likely 
 io excite the mind of youthful genius. For the guide booksand 
 tours of modern travellers, that are' the usual manuals of a 
 tourist, it became necessary to substitute the writings of the an- 
 cients. These would be most favourably studied upon the very 
 spots where they were written, or of which they treat, and even 
 when consulted in a^ mere translation, cannot fail, to improve 
 and reiine the taste. In the fine scenery of Calabria, he recog- 
 nised the studies of Salvator Rosa, and in his progress through 
 Italy, luxuriated in the treasures of ancient and modern art, 
 then almost a sealed book to his countrymen. 
 
 Before his departure for Europe he had made his first literary 
 essays, in a newspaper of which his brother, Dr. P. Irving, was 
 editor. There is little doubt that these were not a few in num- 
 ber, but none can now be identified, except the series of letters 
 under the signature of Jonathan Oldstyle. These were collected, 
 as a matter of bookselling speculation, after the literary repu- 
 tation of their author was established, and published, although 
 without his sanction. There is a touch of the future writer of 
 viie Sketch Book in these juvenile papers : a touch of that happy, 
 sly humour, that grave pleasantry (wherein he resembles Gold- 
 smith so much) ; that quiet, shrewd, good-humoured sense of 
 the ridiculous, which constitutes one of the chief excellencies of 
 Geoffrey Crayon, and sets him apart from every English writer 
 of the Georgian age. 
 
 The visit to Europe occupied about two years, as he paused 
 in every place of importance or interest, and the return of Mr. 
 Irving to America was speedily followed by the appearance of 
 (he first number of " Salmagundi.". Those who recur to this 
 sprightly work at the present day, cannot enter into the feelings 
 with which it was received at the epoch at which it was pub- 
 lished. They will, indeed, see that it is not unworthy of the 
 reputation afterwards attained by those who have admitted 
 themselves to have been its authors. But the exact and skilful 
 adaptation of its delicate and witty allusions to the peculiar cir- 
 cumstances of the times, the rich humour with which prevailing 
 follies were held up to ridicule, and, above all, the exquisite gooo 1 
 nature of the satire, lhat made it almost an honour to have been 
 
xviii MEMOIR 
 
 its object, rendered Salmagundi the most popular work that had 
 ever issued from the American press. Until it made its appear- 
 ance, our literary efforts had been almost wholly confined to 
 serious discussions upon general and local politics; if a few 
 works of fancy had been produced, the age was not ripe for their 
 reception, and, as in the case of Brown, they procured for their 
 authors no more than a posthumous fame. The well-founded 
 belief, that Mr. Irving had been the principal writer in Salma- 
 gundi, placed him, at once, first in the list of the living authors 
 of America. Mr. James K, Paulding, his intimate friend, was 
 his associate in this work, and it has been suggested that the 
 papers of Paulding are more sarcastic and bitter than those of 
 Irving. It is understood, however, that their respective articles 
 were freely submitted to each other for alteration, and the charge 
 of bitterness cannot be fairly attributed to any of them. 
 
 Mr. James K. Paulding was born in the village of Greensburgh, 
 on the banks of the Hudson, where he passed his boyhood 
 chiefly in country sports and occupations, in the midst of beauti- 
 ful forest and river scenery. Much of his time was spent at the 
 farm of a kinsman of eccentric character, whom he has portrayed 
 with mellow tints, as ■ ' My Uncle John , " in No. XI . of Salmagundi . 
 His mind was rich in original ideas, and stored with rural 
 imagery, and his thoughts flowed with grace and beauty and 
 racy humour from his pen. 
 
 Among the characters of Salmagundi, there is one of a fellow 
 whose name is " Tom Straddle," an Englishman, a fair specimen 
 of those English tourists, who, if they ever were really admitted 
 in a New York drawing-room, seem to have foully abused the 
 privilege. Some years ago, a man who was prosecuted in Ja- 
 maica for a libellous publication, produced a volume of Salma- 
 gundi on his trial. This publication, it appeared, had been 
 copied literally, word for word, from the character of Tom 
 Straddle, printed, sold, sent abroad mischievously enough, to be 
 sure, while one of those English travellers whom Irving had so 
 delightfully hit off, was in Jamaica exploring and astonishing the 
 natives. This fact, alone, proves the truth of resemblance. 
 
 The next literary production of Mr. Irving was " The History 
 of New York, by Diedrich Knickerbocker." The idea of this 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. xix 
 
 humorous work appears to have been suggested to him by the 
 establishment of a historical society in New York, and the an- 
 nouncement, that one of its members was about to compile from 
 its collections a history of the early periods of our colonial ex- 
 istence. Identifying himself, in imagination, with a descendant 
 of the original Dutch settlers, he adopted, in his fictitious cha- 
 racter, all the feelings and prejudices that might well be sup- 
 posed to be inherent in that race, with an air of gravity and 
 verisimilitude that is well calculated to mislead a reader not 
 previously aware of the deception. The public was prepared 
 for the reception of the work by advertisements, ingeniously 
 planned and worded, in which the supposed landlord of the 
 imaginary author expressed his anxiety for the safety of his guest, 
 until it might fairly have been believed that the veracious his- 
 torian had actually disappeared from his lodgings. So perfect 
 was the deception, that many commenced the work in full belief 
 of its being serious, and gravely toiled through many of its pages, 
 before the wit, and an interest too intense to be created by so 
 trivial a subject as the annals of a little Dutch borough, unde- 
 ceived them. The author frequently delighted himself, and we 
 are sure must still recur with pleasure, to the anecdote of an aged 
 and most respectable clergyman, who, taking up the work, 
 without referring to its title page or introduction, read many of 
 its chapters in the full belief that it was the production of a cle- 
 rical brother, who had promised a history of the same period, 
 and was only gradually aroused to a suspicion of his mistake, by 
 the continued variation of the style from grave and solemn irony, 
 through lively wit and poignant humour, until it fairly bordered 
 on the ludicrous. Such is the character of this veracious his- 
 tory; the mask is worn at first with the greatest gravity, yet in 
 such a manner as to give effect to the keenest and most poignant 
 satire; while as soon as it becomes impossible for the reader 
 to credit that it is other than a work of fancy, the author gives 
 full play to his imagination, and riots in an excess of delicate wit 
 and playful humour. 
 
 The object of the author was to take a ludicrous view of the 
 society around him, and give a good-humoured satire on the 
 foibles of his native city. The Burgomasters and Schepens were 
 
xx MEMOIR 
 
 the alderman and assistant-aldermen of the present day. The; 
 absurdities held up to ridicule were the follies <sf the present day ; 
 and both were merely arrayed in the antiquated garb that ap- 
 pertained to the era of the Dutch dynasty. It may be regarded 
 as a sportive jeu d'esprit; but it had also a moral tendency to 
 correct and to reform. 
 
 Yet are not these the sole merits of the work : it is occasionally 
 tender, and even pathetic ; often replete with lively pictures, 
 worthy, when of character and costume, of the pencil of a Te- 
 niers; when of scenery, of that of Claude. In addition, the. 
 style is the purest idiomatic English that had been written for 
 many a year, and carries us back to the glories of an Augustan 
 age. It is in marked contrast, not only with the barbarisms of 
 the American writers of his day, but with the corruptions of the 
 pure fount that their English critics are themselves guilty of. 
 This grace and purity of style is also to be remarked in all the 
 subsequent writings of Mr. Irving ; but his Knickerbocker pos- 
 sesses, in addition, more of nerve and force than they in general 
 do. Its language is either that in which his thoughts sponta- 
 neously flowed, or, if elaborated, exhibits that perfection of ar 
 which hides the means by which the effect is produced. Hi: 
 other works do not always conceal the labour by which the polisl 
 has been attained, and the very grace and smoothness of th< 
 periods sometimes seems to call for a relief to the ear, like tha 
 which skilful musicians sometimes apply, in the form of an oc- 
 casional discord. 
 
 Were we, however, to be asked where we are to find the prost 
 language of England in a high degree of perfection, we thinl 
 we might safely point to the works of Mr. Irving : these an 
 composed in a style combining the grace and delicacy of Addison 
 with the humour and pathos of Goldsmith; more idiomatic thai 
 that of the writers of the Scottish school ; and, while it take 
 advantage of the engraftation of words of Latin and Greciai 
 origin upon the Anglo-Saxon, it is far removed from the learne< 
 affectation of Johnson. 
 
 The hours in which the papers of Salmagundi were composed 
 and the History of the New Netherlands compiled, were stolen 
 from the dry study of the law. To this, Mr. Irving seemed for 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. xxi 
 
 a time to be condemned, and in spite of the gravity with which, 
 as in the case of Murray, the heads of judges were shaken at 
 him as a wit, he persevered in it, and obtained his license to 
 practice. It is even said, that he opened an office, and that his 
 name was seen painted on a sign, with the adjunct " Attorney at 
 Law." But it was not predestined that 'Mr. Irving should merge 
 these grave doubts in the honours of the woolsack. A client 
 was indeed found hardy enough to trust his cause to the young 
 barrister, but an oppressive feeling of diffidence caused him to 
 shrink from trying it, and it was gladly abandoned to a brother 
 lawyer of far less talent, but who possessed a more happy degree 
 of confidence in his own forensic abilities. This diffidence lite- 
 rary success has converted into an innate and unaffected modesty, 
 that adds not a little to Mr. Irving's agreeable qualities, and which 
 is rare in a person possessed of so high a reputation as he enjoys. 
 The literary pursuits of Mr. Irving were interrupted for several 
 years after the publication of Knickerbocker. During this in- 
 terval, he was admitted by his brothers into a commercial esta- 
 blishment, that they w r ere then successfully carrying on, and in 
 which, it appeared, he might be more profitably engaged than 
 as an author. The business of this mercantile house being in- 
 terrupted by the war with Great Britain, Mr. Irving was left free 
 to share in the general military spirit that the capture of Wash- 
 ington, and the threatenings of the enemy to attack New York, 
 awakened in all classes of the community. His services were 
 tendered to Governor Tompkins, then commanding the district 
 of New York, and he was received into his staff as an aid-de- 
 camp. In this employment he was long engaged, and per- 
 formed its duties with great zeal, not only in the immediate 
 vicinity of his native city, but in several missions of importance 
 to the interior of the state. The pen of Mr. Irving was applied 
 to, at the same time, for a national undertaking. The war with 
 England w T as popular and glorious. The legitimate pride of the 
 people was up ; when Hull took the Guerriere and broke the charm 
 of the English invincibility on sea, the whole country broke out 
 into acclamation. They loaded him with honours, and the con- 
 sequence was natural. The commanders of the American navy 
 adventured every where with a patriotic ardour, and an irrcsis- 
 
xxii MEMOIR 
 
 tible bravery. Battle after battle was fought, victory after victory 
 followed. Many American heroes wanted now but their Pe- 
 ricles to tell their glory. Mr Irving was the man. The Analy- 
 tical Magazine published a biography of the American naval cap- 
 tains in a series of monthly papers by our author. These papers 
 are eloquent, simple, clear, and beautiful. 
 
 The peace put an end both to the military and literary-duties 
 of Mr. Irving, and he returned to his commercial pursuits, in the 
 furtherance of which he visited England in the spring of 1815, 
 taking up his abode at Birmingham. 
 
 His previous visit to England had been made in winter, and 
 he had made no other excursion but in the mail from London to 
 Bath, at a season when the shortness of the day gave but little 
 opportunity to view the country. The peculiar beauties of 
 English scenery, therefore, broke upon him with unexpected 
 brilliancy. Birmingham, if it have in itself little to interest, 
 except its rich and prosperous manufactures, is situated in a 
 district of no little rural beauty ; and within a few hours ride 
 are to be found some of the sites that recall the most exciting 
 passages of English history, or awaken the most pleasing literary 
 recollections. Kenilworth and Warwick exhibit, the one the 
 most splendid remains of baronial grandeur, the other the only 
 perfect specimen of the feudal castle ; Stratford-on-the-Avon still 
 possesses the house in which Shakspeare drew his first breath, 
 and the picturesque Gothic church, in which his remains repose 
 safely, under the protection of his poetic malediction : the Lucys 
 still inhabit the manor-house, from whose park the deer was 
 stolen that fixed the course of the great dramatist's existence. 
 In every direction, episcopal cities raised high the turrets of their 
 venerable minsters, and spread abroad their shadowy cloisters, 
 while hedge-row, and mead, and cultured field spoke of the 
 successful toils of a rural life, more inviting, perhaps, to the ro- 
 mantic fancy, than agreeable to those who are compelled to pursue 
 them. To one who had already celebrated the restless enter- 
 prise of the swarms of the New England hive, who spread like 
 locusts over the wilderness, destroying every tree, and laying 
 waste every germ of natural beauty, the calm contrast afforded 
 by the farmers of England, generations of whom are born in the 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. xxiii 
 
 same cottage, and entombed beneath the same yews, was a 
 subject of agreeable study. 
 
 The neighbourhood of Birmingham did not long delay him, 
 but served to excite his desire to see more of England. He, 
 therefore, in the summer that followed his arrival, joined a friend 
 in a tour through the valley of the Severn, Gloucestershire, and 
 Wales. The letters addressed by him at this period to his 
 American friends, would, if published, form the most interesting 
 portions of his w r orks, and exhibit, with greater freshness, de- 
 scriptions of scenery and character, like the rich pictures that ho 
 afterwards embodied in the Sketch Book and Bracebridge Hall. 
 
 Mr. Irving's literary career might have now been considered 
 at an end ; his commercial connections appeared to promise him 
 wealth, more than commensurate with his wishes. But the un- 
 happy revolution in the business of New York, that followed the 
 unexampled profits with which the first importations were at- 
 tended, prostrated the mercantile house with which he was con- 
 nected, along with many of the most respectable and even 
 opulent merchants of the United States. This blow, however 
 painful at the time, had the happy effect of restoring him to the 
 world of literature. He prepared his " SketcfrBook," and took 
 measures to have it simultaneously published in London and 
 America. Its success was complete. His own countrymen 
 hailed with joy the renewal of the exertions in which they had 
 before delighted, and the English nation joined to applaud the 
 author, who without abandoning his just national pride, was yet 
 sensible to those feelings in which Englishmen glory, and exhi- 
 bited the honest exultation of a descendant in the honours of the 
 mighty names that have embellished the literary annals of Great 
 Britain. 
 
 The Sketch Book was admired, and its author sought for; the 
 aristocratic circles of the British metropolis received with open 
 arms the Transatlantic writer, and names of no small note in mo- 
 dern literature did not disdain to be ranked on the list of his 
 imitators. He may justly pride himself on having pointed out 
 a new track to a host of aspirants, and to have, himself, sur- 
 passed all who followed him in it. Works upon a similar plan 
 were eagerly asked from him ; their appearance, at no distant 
 
xxiv MEMOIR 
 
 intervals, increased his fame, and soon left him no cause to regret 
 the prostration of his commercial hopes. 
 
 " Bracebridge Hall," which appeared after the Sketch Book, 
 is, perhaps, an amplification of a particular part of it, devoted to 
 the illustration of old English customs and manners as they exist 
 in the more primitive countries, and enlivened by just sufficient 
 of narration to impress it on the recollection as a whole. Mr. 
 Irving has, in the outset, frankly disclaimed all intention of 
 writing a novel. The groundwork which he has adopted is a 
 very simple one, a mere thread, in short, on which to string his 
 scattered pearls. The family of Bracebridge Hall is represented 
 in the discharge of much the same daily occupations as in the 
 Sketch Book ; to break the monotony of which, sundry mar- 
 riages, as well as abortive flirtations, occur among young and 
 old, gentle and simple : the company being reinforced by several 
 personages, who complete the dramatis personce of " Every Man 
 in his Humour." With the exception of these voluminous love- 
 affairs, the incidents are detached and separate, and generally 
 introduced to give scope to a train of reflection, or a piece of 
 humorous painting. The accuracy of the pictures of old English 
 customs and sports, which Mr. Irving represents as flourishing 
 under the influence of the benevolent Squire, has been questioned 
 by some fastidious suburban readers. But in the opinion of an 
 eminent critic of the Quarterly Preview, and according to his ex- 
 perience, there is nothing too highly coloured in them/ We 
 have ourself known, says he, that village palladium, the may- 
 pole, become the object of a serious foray in Berks, and have 
 witnessed Christmas carols and mummery flourishing in all their 
 perfection in the most frequented part of Devon. In many 
 districts of Yorkshire, however, the county in which the scene 
 is judiciously laid, ancient usages exist in more entire preserva- 
 tion ; and all, or nearly all, the customs which are described as 
 fostered by the hero, Mr. Bracebridge, together with others of 
 which no mention is made, were within the last sixteen years 
 voluntarily kept up among the labouring classes as sources of 
 annual enjoyment, and matters ''coming home to their own 
 
 * Vol, xxxi. 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. xxv 
 
 business and bosoms." The poorest peasant would have con- 
 sidered the neglect of the genial ceremony of yulc-cake, yule- 
 candles, and yule-clog, as equivalent to the loss of caste : the 
 paste-egg, or rather paschen-egg, was duly eaten at Easter, as in 
 Russia, and the southern provinces of France and Spain, and 
 when presented to a lady obtained the same privilege as in the 
 former country. The " Merry Night" was, and perhaps still is, 
 duly celebrated in most farmhouses ; and instead of the duo-dance 
 which the Squire considers as a relic of the ancient sword-dance, 
 Ibis Pyrrhic manoeuvre itself was exhibited by the young farmers 
 of Cleveland in a manner requiring much grace, nerve, and 
 dexterity, and as dangerous to an unpractised eye as the Indian 
 w r ar-dance, performed tomahawk in hand. The festival of St. 
 Stephen, also, whom the Yorkshiremen have, by a convenient 
 fiction, erected into as mighty a hunter as Nimrod, is observed 
 with most sportsman-like solemnity by every rank and degreo 
 of dog, horse, man, donkey, and leaping-pole, altogether compos- 
 ing a turbulent highland host, amenable to no rules ever heard 
 of in Leicestershire. We think, therefore, that, far from ex- 
 ceeding the limits of probability in this respect, Mr. Irving has 
 hardly made the full up of northern customs, which was really 
 open to him. Nor can we see«any thing overdrawn in the cha- 
 racters themselves. There are many whims which we dally see 
 practised, much less natural, much less rational, than those of 
 which the indulgence forms the business of the Squire's life ; 
 and, having selected him as the scape-goat, on whom the whole 
 weight of oddity was to be laid, the author has accounted con- 
 sistently for these whims. As to Master Simon, the brisk 
 parrot-nosed bachelor, he only labours in Lis vocation as 
 equerry to his patron's stud of hobby-horses; and Ready- 
 Money Jack Tibbets, the sturdy freeholder, stands on his own 
 basis as a Yorkshire dalesman of the old school. Into these 
 three characters, and into that of General Harbottle, the author 
 has thrown all his strength. 
 
 Like the great novelist of Scotland, Mr Irving enters, with 
 the eye of a Bewick, or a Ward, into all the litilc amusing 
 habits and predilections of (he bruie creation ; wiihout going the 
 lengths of^ailing thea?s, brother, 
 
xxvi MEMOIR 
 
 He has a kind of inclination, or 
 
 Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin, 
 
 Live animals, 
 
 Byron's Don Juan. 
 
 and contrives to awaken that interest in the caprices and enjoy- 
 ments of these humble friends, which laughingly, but effectually, 
 serves the cause of humanity. This feeling, we will venture 
 to affirm, is a more essential one in a well-constructed mind, than 
 the " music in the soul," which a great bard requires under 
 such a heavy poetic ban. The whole chapter on the Rookery is 
 an animal comedy, so happily kept up that we know not which 
 part to select ; and in the taking of Starlight Tom, the dogs on both 
 sides play their parts in a most characteristic, and we can hardly 
 call it unnatural manner, which colours the whole scene. Cow- 
 per extols those who can see charms in the arch meaning of a 
 kitten's face ; Hoffman has written the history of a fantastic rat- 
 catcher ; M. de Chateaubriand is not less a friend to the feline 
 race ; but Mr. Irving, by dint of a few demure traits of feline 
 virtue, has contrived to interest us even in Dame Heyliger's old 
 cat, and has fairly earned the gratitude of the species whom he 
 so justly styles "a slandered people." As a satirical contrast, 
 the varieties of the canine fungus*, called lap-dog, are admirably 
 exact in the comic painting introduced by the author. The same 
 good taste and minute observation characterize that frequent 
 allusion to sylvan life, which in most hands would grow mono- 
 tonous, but which, in Bracebridge Hall, are made to address 
 both the mental and bodily eye. In the chapter on Forest 
 Trees, there is a meditative moral dignity, very much remind- 
 ing us of Southey's early poem to the Holly, and which could 
 hardly have been surpassed, had the mantle of Evelyn himself 
 fallen on the American essayist. 
 
 Geoffrey Crayon was now so great a favourite with the English 
 public, that the English critics, weary of hearing Aristides called 
 the Just, and we find the avowal of it in the Blackwood's Ma- 
 gazine, seemed longing and lying in wait for a new work to cry 
 down the man like over-rated coin. Indeed, without mention- 
 ing the spite of national envy, the "bustling botherbys" of the 
 periodicals seldom patronize an author beyond his firat or second 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. xxv.j 
 
 attempt: with these, Scott's last novel was sure to be vastly in- 
 ferior to his former ones ; and Byron's mind was inevitably losing 
 inspiration as he grew old. They delight in none but a new 
 name — to be puffed for a day, and then abandoned to oblivion, 
 — a cockney dramatist, or a versifying peasant. Mr. W. Irving 
 they would treat after the same fashion, when he published the 
 " Tales of a Traveller." But it was difficult to deny that this new 
 work did possess the spirit of Bracebridge Hall, with more 
 variety, in a larger field of observation. In fact, the Tales are, 
 for the most part, told by the same imaginary narrator, and may 
 be considered under the same head. Thus, the Stout Gentle- 
 man naturally stands at the head of the list of tales recounted by 
 the nervous gentleman, who is again introduced by Mr. Irving 
 in this new work. It is, indeed, a most amusing specimen of that 
 piquant cookery which makes something out of nothing. The 
 bulbous candlewicks, and the bulbous man, his last lingering 
 companion in the traveller's room ; the utter desolation which 
 the dripping stable-yard presents — the miserable drenched cock 
 — the cow standing to be rained on — the vociferous ducks — the 
 dispirited cur — and the forlorn, spectral-eyed horse — are in ad- 
 mirable keeping as features of a minute and rueful caricature. 
 The " Bold Dragoon" is not inferior in its way. But too much 
 praise cannot be bestowed on the tale of " Buckthorne," where, 
 as a novelist, Mr. Irving proves a rival to Goldsmith, whose turn 
 of mind he very much inherits, and of whose style he particu- 
 larly reminds us in the life of Dribble. Like him, too, Mr. Irving 
 possesses the art of setting ludicrous perplexities in the most 
 irresistible point of view, and, we think, equals him in the variety 
 as in the force of his humour. But throughout the whole of the 
 burlesque incidents with which the tale abounds, the American 
 Goldsmith has never once abused the latitude which the subject 
 afforded him, and of which Goethe has made such filthy use in 
 Wilhelm Meister. With a hundred foibles, the hero is not 
 suffered to become vicious, and the strictly moral tendency of the 
 narrative is preserved to the last page. 
 
 In the summer of 1822* Mr. Irving made a tour along the 
 banks of the Rhine, viewing its picturesque scenery, and in- 
 
 * June, 1822. 
 
xvviii MEMOIR 
 
 specting many old fortresses and castles renowned in history 
 and in the annals of the Secret Tribunal. He proceeded into 
 Germany, visiting its principal cities, and exploring the forests 
 and mountains commemorated among the wild legends of that 
 country. He sojourned a time in Prague, the ancient Bohemian 
 capital, and passed the winter of 1823 at Dresden, the capital of 
 Saxony, where he was presented at court and received kind ci- 
 vilities from the old king and queen, and other members of the 
 veteran royal family. His letters from Germany to his relations 
 and friends would form an interesting and entertaining work if 
 presented to the public. 
 
 From Germany Mr. Irving returned to England, and passed 
 the summer of 182A, partly in London, and partly in visits 
 among his friends in different parts of the country. 
 
 The winter of 1825 he passed in Paris, but employed the sum- 
 mer and autumn in an excursion into the beautiful country of 
 Touraine, which he extended to Bourdeaux to witness the festi- 
 vities of the vintage among the celebrated vineyards of Medoc. 
 From Bourdeaux he proceeded early in the next year to make a 
 long-projected journey into Spain, and passed nearly four years 
 in different parts of that country, so interesting from its history 
 and its romantic Moorish wars. 
 
 The fame of Mr. Irving as an essayist and novelist was not 
 limited to the climes, extensive though they be, in which the 
 English tongue is spoken. Translations were made of his 
 Sketch Book and his Tales, into most of the languages of the 
 Continent ; and when he visited France, Germany, Italy, and 
 Spain, he found himself a popular author, like Lord By- 
 ron, Sir Walter Scott, and Mr. Fenimore Cooper. But he 
 did not content himself to have enlarged the circle ol Sterne- 
 travellers by adding another head to the set, the tale-traveller ; 
 he had a higher ambition in his mind. Columbus had already 
 found his poet in the United States, Joel Barlow ;* he has" now 
 his American historian. 
 
 It was in Spain Mr. Irving undertook the task of giving to 
 his country and to Europe the history of the life of that hero, 
 who, in the words of his epitaph, gave a new world to Castile and 
 
 * The Columbiad, 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. xxis 
 
 Leon, but who may be said, with more justice, to have opened 
 to the oppressed of every clime, a secure and safe refuge, a 
 field, in which the principles of freedom might be safely cul- 
 tivated : 
 
 The name of Commonwealth is past and gone 
 O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; 
 
 . . . . One great clime, 
 
 Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean 
 Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
 Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and 
 Bequeath'd — a heritage of heart and hand, 
 And proud distinction from each other land, 
 
 • Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, 
 As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
 
 Full of the magic of exploded science — 
 Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 
 Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, 
 
 ♦ Above the far Atlantic !■ 
 
 Lord Byron, on Venice. 
 
 The enterprise of Mr. Irving was not wanting in boldness, as 
 it placed him in immediate comparison with one of the most ce- 
 lebrated among British historians ; but it was eminently suc- 
 cessful. The abridgment has become an universally-adopted 
 school-book in the United States, and America has got in one 
 and the same name, her own Robertson, Goldsmith, and Addi- 
 son. The History of Columbus is the most important work 
 of Mr. W. Irving, completed now by the ''Voyages and Dis- 
 coveries of the Companions of Columbus," the brave partners of 
 his perilous enterprise, we wish we could add, his imitators in 
 humanity and benevolence, This book unites the marvellous 
 of old romance with the sober charm of truth. Chivalry had 
 left the land and launched upon the deep in the ships of these 
 early Spanish discoverers. Contempt of danger, and fortitude 
 under suffering, a passion for vain-glorious exploits, are the cha- 
 racteristics of these marine knights-errant, the daring Ojeda, the 
 unfortunate Nicuesa, the brave but credulous Ponce de Leon, 
 and the enterprising but ill-fated Vasco Nunez de Balboa. 
 
 In writing the history of Columbus, Mr. Irving derived great 
 assistance from the attention he had bestowed on the acquisi- 
 tion of various languages. He had considered these studies as 
 giving access to mines of intellectual wealth in the literature of 
 
xxx MEMOIR 
 
 different nations, and he was now enabled to trace every point 
 in the life of his hero through the narratives, and often the errors 
 of successive historians, up to its original source, which he did 
 with an industrious and persevering research. 
 
 The idea of his two last publications, the " Conquest of Gra- 
 nada" and the " Alhambra," was suggested to Mr. Irving 
 while in Spain, Occupied upon his History of the Life and Voy- 
 ages of Columbus. The application of the great navigator to 
 the Spanish Sovereigns for patronage to his project of discovery, 
 was made during their crusade against the Moors of Granada, 
 and continued during the residue of that war. Columbus fol- 
 lowed the court in several of its campaigns, mingled occasionally 
 in the contest, and was actually present at the grand catastrophe 
 of the enterprise, the surrender of the metropolis. The re- 
 searches of Mr. Irving, in tracing the movement of his hero, 
 led him to the various chronicles of Ferdinand and Isabella. He 
 became deeply interested in the details of the war, arid was in- 
 duced, while collecting materials for the biography he had in 
 hand, to make preparation. also for the " Chronicle of the Con- 
 quest of Granada." He made subsequently a tour in Andalu- 
 sia, visited the ruins of the. Moorish towns, fortresses, and cas- 
 tles, and the wild mountain passes and defiles which had been 
 the scenes of the most remarkable events of the war ; he passed 
 some time in the ancient palace of the Alhambra, the once fa- 
 vourite abode of the Moorish monarchsin Granada. It was then, 
 while his mind was still excited by the romantic scenery around 
 him, and by the chivalrous and poetical association, which 
 throw a moral interest over every feature of Spanish landscape, 
 that he completed the Chronicle and commenced the Alhambra. 
 
 The Chronicle is an authentic body of facts relative to the 
 war with the Moors, but arranged in such a manner as to be at- 
 tractive to the reader for mere amusement. Mr. Irving brings 
 forth every scene in its strongest light, and portrays the man- 
 ners and customs of the age with a graphic effect, by connecting 
 them with the events and the splendid scenery amidst which they 
 took place. Thus, while he preserves the truth and chronological 
 order of history, he imparts a more impressive and entertaining 
 character to his narrative than regular historians are accustomed 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. xxxi 
 
 to possess. By these means his Chronicle at times wears al- 
 most the air of romance ; yet the story is authenticated by fre- 
 quent references to existing documents, proving that the ficti- 
 tious Spanish monk, Fra Antonio Agapida, has substantial 
 foundation for his most extraordinary incidents. 
 
 As his History of the Conquest of Granada was collected 
 from ancient chronicles, and Mr. Irving could not put impli- 
 cit confidence in the correctness of all the facts,; and as he was 
 not willing to throw aside a picturesque and interesting inci- 
 dent whenever a shade of doubt was thrown over its authenti- 
 city, he employed the intervention of Fra Antonio Agapida, 
 an imaginary monk of the order of St. Hieronymo. This in- 
 termediate personage enabled him also to treat the bigotry and 
 superstition and various grave absurdities of that era with a 
 degree of irony and humour, which, in his opinion, he could 
 not decorously employ in his own character. However vision- 
 ary a person Agapida may have been, the reader is assuredly 
 indebted to him for a great part of the entertainment he receives 
 from the perusal of this Chronicle. 
 
 The Alhambra is a sort of Spanish Sketch Book : here we 
 have our old Geoffrey Crayon again. The fancy of most read- 
 ers takes part with him when he says : l * From earliest boy- 
 hood, when, on the banks of the Hudson, I first pored over the 
 pages of an old Spanish story about the wars of Granada, that 
 city has ever been a subject of my waking dreams, and often have 
 I trod in faucy the romantic halls of the Alhambra." 
 
 The Alhambra is the poetry of architecture, both in its former 
 state, when 
 
 Carved cedar doors, 
 
 Run inward over spangled floors, 
 Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
 Hung up with golden balustrade," 
 
 and now, when the ivy creeps round its lattices, and the bats 
 build in its towers, to the memory of former splendour it adds 
 lingering beauty and actual ruin. Geoffrey Crayon enters those 
 desolate and destroyed, but still lovely, walls, with eyes turned 
 towards the past, and full of that enthusiasm which alone can 
 understand the melancholy and the beautiful. In these delight- 
 
xxxii MEMOIR 
 
 ful volumes, the sketches of Spanish scenery and peasants are 
 full of life and animation ; the description of the Alhambra is 
 " painted in rich words," and the ancient legends told in a style 
 worthy of the days when the story-teller sat on an embroidered 
 carpet, while the music of a falling fountain accompanied his 
 recital. We suspect these legends owe as much to Mr. Irving, 
 as the Arabian Nights to Mr. Galland ; and that his fairy tales 
 are 
 
 " Plus Arabes qu'en Arabie ;" 
 
 but we ought scarcely to complain if he who found the silk has 
 also wrought it into " graceful broderie." This has been the 
 mistake of all the late doers into English of Arabian fiction ; they 
 have only given us the raw material, and then boasted of their 
 accuracy— as if accuracy in a fairy tale could ever be asked by 
 any but an antiquary. Mr. Irving, on the contrary, narrates 
 equally fancifully and playfully, with a vein of quiet humour, 
 admirably suited to this age of disbelief. We know no more 
 exquisite specimen of this kind than the ' ' Rose of the Alhambra," 
 and the " Three beautiful Princesses." When you read these 
 pages you fancy yourself at once in the Hall of Lions. 
 
 While Mr. Irving was an inmate of the Alhambra, in the 
 summer of 1829, he was appointed, by the President of the 
 United States, Secretary to the Legation at the Court of Lon- 
 don. The office was unsolicited and unexpected on his part, 
 and he had always withheld himself from public life. He would 
 not, however, decline such a mark of kindness, and he filled the 
 situation until Mr. Louis M'Lane, the minister, returned home, 
 when he remained Charge d'Affaires at that court until the ap- 
 pointment of another minister. 
 
 During this interval, the University of Oxford conferred on 
 Mr. Irving the degree of L.L.D., in consideration of his literary 
 character, and he received the honours in person in the month 
 of June, 1831, amid the acclamations of the students and gradu 
 ates, and a brilliant assemblage of spectators. 
 
 While Mr. Irving represented his country at the English 
 court, he assisted in his official character at the coronation of 
 his present Majesty, William IV. ; and he received, during the 
 short time of his diplomatic career, repeated marks of attention 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. xxxiii 
 
 from the sovereign and Toyal family, and from many of the most 
 distinguished personages of the country, not merely on account 
 of the office he filled, but also expressly in consideration of the 
 works he had written. 
 
 On the return of Mr. Irving to his native country, in the 
 spring of 1832, he was greeted with a degree of warmth rarely 
 equalled, in a public entertainment at which Chancellor Kent, 
 the father of the New York bar, presided. To many he was 
 endeared by the recollection of intimate and affectionate inter- 
 course, while a new generation that had sprung up in his ab- 
 sence, crowded with zeal to see and honour the pride of the 
 literature of America — the author, who had first and successfully 
 answered the reproachful question, " Who reads an American 
 book ?" Had he felt inclined to have encouraged the public 
 enthusiasm, his tour throughout the United States might have 
 been one continued ovation. But he shrunk from the parade of 
 a public exhibition, and after his reception on his arrival in his 
 native city, declined every invitation of the kind. 
 
 A few weeks after his return to New York, Mr. Irving com- 
 menced a succession of journeys through the different states. 
 His first excursion was into those of the east, in which he visited 
 Boston and other cities, crossed the Green Mountains of Ver- 
 mont, and ascended the most celebrated of the White Mountains 
 of New Hampshire. 
 
 His next journey was through the most interesting parts of his 
 native state to the Falls of Niagara. From thence he proceed- 
 ed by the lakes and the Ohio, visiting the states bordering 
 on that river, and then ascending the Mississipi into the regions 
 of the far West. Here he joined a deputation commissioned to 
 hold treaties with the Indians ; and passing.the frontier military 
 posts, and the boundaries of civilization, penetrated into the 
 wilderness, to the wigwams and villages of the natives. 
 
 In company with a party of mounted backwoodsmen, half 
 Indian in their habits, he made an expedition of a month to the 
 wild hunting ground of the warlike Pawnee tribes, scouring the 
 woods and extensive prairies, and giving chase to buffaloes and 
 wild horses ; sleeping at nights by fires kindled in the open air, 
 and subsisting on the produce of their rifles ; and keeping a vi- 
 
xxxiv MEMOIR OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 gilant guard against any sudden attack by the Indians. After 
 this rude specimen of frontier life, he descended the Mississipi 
 to New Orleans, whence he proceeded through the states bor- 
 dering on the Atlantic, to the city of Washington. Here he 
 passed the first winter of his return in attending the debates of 
 Congress during an interesting session, and made himself ac- 
 quainted with the political differences, and the sectional rival- 
 ries and jealousies of his country, by communication with the 
 intelligent statesmen assembled in the capital from all parts of 
 the Union. But he mingled with them as a mere spectator, un- 
 connected with any of their parties. His absence during about 
 sixteen years in Europe had accustomed him to regard his coun- 
 try with affection from a distance, and with satisfaction when he 
 compared its government and institutions with those of other 
 nations, but had kept him aloof from all its internal dissensions. 
 He found also among the opposing candidates for the presidency, 
 and leaders of parties, gentlemen with whom he had been con- 
 nected in personal friendship previous to his voyage to Europe, 
 and from whom he had received many proofs of consideration 
 and regard. 
 
 Since his return to America Mr. Irving has announced a 
 series of " Miscellanies," to be composed of six parts or separate 
 works. The first three have already appeared : they are 
 entitled " A Tour on the Prairies," " Abbotsford and Newstead 
 Abbey," and " Legends of the Conquest of Spain." After 
 having completed the series, it is to be hoped that he will 
 pursue the career that he has opened to himself in the annals of 
 his native country. The downfal of the empires of the Aztecs 
 and Incas ask for a worthy historian ; the generous advocate of 
 Philip of Pokanoket may yet find an ample field in the early 
 adventures of the British colonists, and in their struggles with 
 that warlike race, which, for a time, bravely withstood their 
 superior civilization and intelligence ; finally, his native Hud- 
 son claims of him, that he, who in his youth first made its 
 banks vocal to the strains of satire, shall, in his mature age, 
 make them renowned, as the habitation of the Historian of the 
 Western Continent. 
 
the 
 
 AUTHORS ACCOUNT 
 
 HIMSELF 
 
 ' f I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her 
 shel was turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a 
 stoole to sit on ; so the traveller that stragleth from his own country is in 
 a short time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is fain to alter 
 his mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he 
 would." 
 
 Lyly's Etrpkues. 
 
 I was always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing strange 
 characters and manners. Even when a mere child I began my 
 travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and 
 unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm of my 
 parents, and the emolument of the town crier. As I grew into 
 boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. My holiday 
 afternoons were spent in rambles about the surrounding country. 
 I made myself familiar with all its places famous in history or 
 fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had been 
 committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighbouring vil- 
 lages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting 
 their habits and customs, and conversing with their sages and 
 great men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the 
 summit of the most distant hill, from whence I stretched my 
 eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to 
 find how vast a globe I inhabited. 
 
 This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books 
 of voyages and travels became my passion, and in devouring their 
 
 l 
 
2 THE AUTHOR'S 
 
 contents, I neglected the regular exercises of the school. How 
 wistfully would 1 wander about the pier heads in fine weather, 
 and watch the parting ships bound to distant climes! with what 
 longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft 
 myself in imagination to the ends of the earth ! 
 
 Farther reading and thinking, though they brought this 
 vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to 
 make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own coun- 
 try : and had I been merely influenced by a love of fine scenery, 
 I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification; 
 for on no country have the charms of nature been more prodi- 
 gally lavished. Her mjghty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver; her 
 mountains, with their bright aerial tints; her valleys, teeming 
 with wild fertility ; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their 
 solitudes; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous ver- 
 dure ; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the 
 ocean ; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its 
 magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of summer 
 clouds and glorious sunshine: — no, never need an American 
 look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of 
 natural scenery. 
 
 But Europe held forth all the charms of storied and poetieai 
 association There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, the 
 refinements of highly cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities 
 of ancient and local custom. My native country was full of 
 youthful promise : Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures 
 of age. Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, and 
 every mouldering stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander 
 over the scenes of renowned achievement— to tread, as it were, 
 in (he footsteps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle — 
 to meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in short, from the 
 common-place realities of the present, and lose myself among 
 the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 
 
 I had, besides all this, an earnest desire to see the great men 
 of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in America • 
 not a city but has an ample share of them. I have mingled 
 among them in my time, and been almost withered by the shade 
 into which they cast me: for there is nothing so baleful to a small 
 
ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 3 
 
 man as the shads of a great one, particularly the great man of 
 a city. But I was anxious to see the great men of Europe : 
 for I had read in the works of various philosophers, that all 
 animals degenerated in America, and man among the number. 
 A great man of Europe, thought I, mu^ therefore be as supe- 
 rior to a great man of America, as a peak of the Alps to a high- 
 land of the Hudson ; and in this idea I was confirmed by ob- 
 serving the comparative importance and swelling magnitude of 
 many English travellers among us, who, I was assured, were 
 very little people in their own country. I will visit this land of 
 wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic race from which I 
 am degenerated. 
 
 It has been either., my good or evil lot to have my roving 
 passion gratified. I have wandered though different countries, 
 and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot -say-* 
 that I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher; but 
 rather with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of 
 the picturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to an- 
 other; caught, sometimes by the delineations of beauty, some- 
 times by the distortions of caricature ; and sometimes by the 
 loveliness of landscape . As it is the fashion for modern tourists to 
 travel pencil in hand, and to bring home their portfolios filled 
 with sketches, lam disposed to get up a few for the entertain- 
 ment of my friends. When, however, I look over the hints 
 and memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, my 
 heart almost fails me at finding how my idle humour has led 
 me aside from the great objects studied by every regular tra- 
 veller who would make a book. I fear I shall give equal 
 disappointment with, an unlucky landscape painter, who had 
 travelled on the Continent, but following the bent of his vagrant 
 inclination, had sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. 
 His sketch-book was accordingly crowded with cottages, and 
 landscapes, and obscure ruins; but he had neglected to paint St. 
 Peter's, or the Coliseum ; the cascade of Terni, or the bay of 
 Naples; and had not a single, glacier or volcano in his whole 
 collection. 
 
 \ ' 
 
THE VOYAGE. 
 
 Ships, ships, I will descrie you 
 
 Amidst the main, 
 I will come and try you, 
 What you are protecting, 
 And projecting, 
 
 What's your end and aim. 
 One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
 Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
 A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 
 Hallo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go ? 
 
 Old Poem. 
 
 To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to 
 make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of 
 worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind pecu- 
 liarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The vast 
 space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank page 
 in existence. There is no gradual transition by which, as in 
 Europe, the features and population of one country blend al- 
 most imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment 
 you lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you 
 step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the 
 bustle and novelties of another world. 
 
 In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a 
 connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the 
 story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separation. 
 We drag, it is true, "a lengthening chain" at each remove of 
 our pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken : we can trace it back 
 link by link ; and we feel that the last of them still grapples us 
 lo home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes 
 
6 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 us conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of 
 settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It in- 
 terposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between us 
 and our homes — a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, and 
 uncertainty, that makes distance palpable, and return pre- 
 carious. 
 
 Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last 
 blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the hori- 
 zon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its 
 concerns, and had lime for meditation before I opened another. 
 That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained 
 all that was most dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might oc- 
 cur in it !— what changes might take place in me, before I should 
 visit it again! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, 
 whither he may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence; 
 or when he may return ; or whether it may ever be his lot to re- 
 visit the scenes of his childhood? 
 
 I said that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the expres- 
 sion. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself 
 in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but 
 then they are the wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather 
 tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to 
 loll over the quarter railing, or climb to the main top, of a calm 
 day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a 
 summer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just 
 peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and 
 people them with a creation of my own ;— -to watch the gentle 
 undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away 
 on those happy shores. » 
 
 There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe 
 with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the mon- 
 sters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises 
 tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus slowly heaving 
 his huge form above the surface; or the ravenous shark, darting, 
 like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination would 
 conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world 
 beneath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys; 
 of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations 
 
THE VOYAGE. 7 
 
 ol the earth ; and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of 
 fishermen and sailors. 
 
 Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, 
 would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting 
 this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of 
 existence ! What a glorious monument of human invention ; 
 that has thus triumphed over wind and wave; has brought the 
 ends of the world into communion ; has established an inter- 
 change of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north 
 all the luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of know- 
 ledge and the charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound 
 together those scattered portions of the human race, be- 
 tween which nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable 
 barrier. 
 
 We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a dis- 
 tance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony of the 
 surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the 
 mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for 
 there Were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the 
 crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being 
 washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the 
 name of the ship could be ascertained . The wreck had evidently 
 drifted about for many months ; clusters of shell fish had fastened 
 about it, and loug sea weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, 
 thought I, is the crew ? Their struggle has long been over — 
 they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest — their bones 
 lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, 
 like the waves have closed over them, and no one can tell the 
 story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that 
 ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! 
 How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over 
 the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of 
 the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety- — anxiety 
 into dread — and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one memento 
 shall ever return for love to cherish. All that shall ever be 
 known is, that she sailed from her port, "and was never heard 
 of more!" 
 
 The sight of this wreck, as usual, ^ave rise to many dismal 
 
8 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when 
 the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild 
 and threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden 
 storms that will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a 
 summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp in 
 the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his 
 tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with 
 a short one related by the captain. 
 
 " As I was once sailing," said he, u in a fine stout ship, across 
 the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs that prevail 
 in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far a-head 
 even in the day-time ; but at night the weather was so thick 
 that we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of 
 the ship. I kept lights at the mast head, and a constant watch 
 forward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to 
 lie at anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking 
 breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. 
 Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail a-head V — it was 
 scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small 
 schooner, at anchor, with her broadside towards us. The crew 
 were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck 
 her just a-mid-ships. The force, the size, and weight of our 
 vessel bore her down below the waves; we passed over her, and 
 were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking 
 beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches, 
 rushing from her cabin ; they just started from their beds to be 
 swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry 
 mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears 
 swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall never forget that 
 cry ! It was some time before we could put the ship about, 
 she was under such head-way. We returned, as nearly as we 
 could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. 
 We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We 
 fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo 
 of any survivors : but all was silent — we never saw or heard 
 any thing of them more." 
 
 I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine 
 fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was 
 
THE VOYAGE. 9 
 
 lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen 
 sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. Deep called unto 
 deep. At times the black volume of clouds over head seemed 
 rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quivered along the 
 foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly 
 terrible. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, 
 and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I 
 saw the ship staggering and plunging among these roaring 
 caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or 
 preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water : 
 her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an 
 impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and 
 nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her 
 from the shock. 
 
 When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed me. 
 The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like fu- 
 nereal wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and 
 groaning of bulk heads, as the ship laboured in the weltering sea, 
 were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the side of 
 the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were 
 raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey: the mere 
 starling of a nail , the yawning of a seam , might give him entrance, 
 
 A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favouring breeze> 
 soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible 
 to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind 
 at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvass, every 
 sail swelled, and careering gaily over the curling waves, how 
 lofty, how gallant she appears ! — how she seems to lord it over 
 the deep ? I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, 
 for with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is time to 
 get to shore. 
 
 It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of " Land !' 
 was given from the mast head. None but those who have ex- 
 perienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations 
 which rush into an American's bosom, when he first comes in 
 sight of Europe. There is a volume of associations with the very 
 name. It is the land of promise, teeming with everything of 
 
1<> THE VOYAGE. 
 
 which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years 
 have pondered. 
 
 From that time until the moment of arrival it was all feverish 
 excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants 
 along the coast; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into 
 the channel ; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds ; all 
 were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I 
 reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with 
 delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green 
 grass-plots* I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun 
 with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising from the 
 brow of a neighbouring hill ; — all were characteristic of England . 
 
 The tide and wind were so favourable, that the ship was en- 
 abled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people ; 
 some, idle lookers-on, others eager expectants of friends or re- 
 latives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was 
 consigned. I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. 
 His hands were thrust into his pockets ; he was whistling thought- 
 fully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded 
 him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. 
 There were repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged 
 between the shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognise 
 each other. I particularly noticed one young woman of humble 
 dress, but interesting demeanour. She was leaning forward from 
 among the crowd ; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the 
 shore, ; to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed dis- 
 appointed and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice call her name. 
 — It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and 
 had excited the sympathy of every one on board. When the 
 weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him 
 on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so increased, that 
 he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he 
 might see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck 
 as we came up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, 
 with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no 
 wonder even the eye of affection did not recognise him. But at 
 the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features ; it read, at 
 
THE VOYAGE. 11 
 
 once, a whole volume of sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered 
 a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony. 
 
 All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquain- 
 tances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of men of bu- 
 siness. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, 
 no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my fore 
 fathers — but felt that I was a stranger in the land. 
 
ROSCOE 
 
 — — In the service of mankind to be 
 A guardian god below; still to employ 
 The mind's brave ardour in heroic aims, 
 Such as may raise us o'er the groveling herd, 
 And make us shine for ever — that is life. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liver- 
 pool, is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and judi- 
 cious plan ; it contains a good library, and spacious reading-room, 
 and is the great literary resort of the place. Go there at what 
 hour you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave-looking 
 personages, deeply absorbed in the study of newspapers. 
 
 As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention 
 was attracted to a person just entering the room. He was ad- 
 vanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once have been com- 
 manding, but it was a little bowed by time — perhaps by care. 
 He had a noble Roman style of countenance ; a head that would 
 have pleased a painter ; and though some slight furrows on his 
 brow showed that wasting thought had been busy there, yet his 
 eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was some- 
 thing in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a different 
 order from the bustling race around him. 
 
 I enquired his name, and, was informed that it was*RoscoE. 
 I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, 
 then, was an author of celebrity; this was one of those men, 
 whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth ; with whose 
 minds I had communed even in the solitudes of America. Ac- 
 customed, as we are in my country, to know European writers 
 only by their works, we cannot conceive of them, as of other 
 men, engrossed by trival or sordid pursuits, and jostling with 
 
14 ROSCOE. 
 
 the crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life. They 
 pass before our imaginations like superior beings radiant with 
 the emanations of their own genius, and surrounded by a halo of 
 literary glory. 
 
 To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici mingling 
 among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical ideas ; 
 but it is from the very circumstances and situation in which he 
 has been placed, that Roscoe derives his highest claims to ad- 
 miration. It is interesting to notice how some minds seem 
 almost to create themselves, springing up under every disadvan- 
 tage, and working their solitary but irresistible way through a 
 thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disappointing 
 the assiduities of art, with which it would rear legitimate dulness 
 to maturity ; and to glory in the vigour and luxuriance of her 
 chance productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the 
 winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of 
 the world, and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of 
 early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even 
 in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and 
 spread over their sterile birth-place all the beauties of vegeta- 
 tion. 
 
 Such has been the case with Roscoe. Born in a place appa- 
 rently ungenial to the growth of literary talent ; in the very 
 market-place of trade; without fortune, family connections, or 
 patronage; self-prompted, self-sustained, and almost self-taught, 
 he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, 
 and, having become one of the ornaments of the nation, has 
 turned the whole force of his talents and influence to advance and 
 embellish his native town. 
 
 Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given him 
 the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particularly to 
 point him out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his literary 
 merits, he is but one among the many distinguished authors of 
 this intellectual nation. They, however, in general, live but for 
 their own fame, or their own pleasures. Their private history 
 presents no lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one 
 of human frailty and inconsistency. At best, they are prone to 
 steal away from the bustle and common-place of busy existence; 
 
ROSCOE. tS 
 
 to indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease ; and to revel in scenes 
 of mental, hut exclusive, enjoyment. 
 
 Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the accorded 
 privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden of 
 thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth into the high- 
 ways and thoroughfares of life ; he has planted bowers by the way 
 side, for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, and 
 has opened pure fountains, where the labouring man may turn 
 aside from the dust and heat of the day, and drink of the living 
 streams of knowledge. There is a " daily beauty in his life," on 
 which mankind may meditate and grow better. It exhibits no 
 lofty and almost useless, because inimitable, example of excel- 
 lence ; but presents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable 
 virtues, which are within every man's reach, but which not 
 many exercise, or this world would be a paradise. 
 
 But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the 
 citizens of our young and busy country, where literature and the 
 elegant arts must grow up side by side with the coarser plants of 
 daily necessity ; and must depend for their culture, not on the 
 exclusive devotion of time and wealth ;, nor the quickening rays 
 of titled patronage ; but on hours and seasons snatched from the 
 pursuit of worldly interests, by intelligent and public-spirited in- 
 dividuals. 
 
 He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours 
 of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it can give its 
 own impress to surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo de' 
 Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed his eye as on a pure 
 model of antiquity, he has interwoven the history of his life with 
 the history of his native town, and has made the foundations of its 
 fame the monuments of his virtues. Wherever you go in Li- 
 verpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant 
 and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the 
 channels of traffic ; he has diverted from it invigorating rills to re- 
 fresh the gardens of literature. By his own example and con- 
 slant exertions, he has effected that union of commerce and the 
 intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of his 
 latest writings;* and has practically proved how beautifully they 
 
 Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. 
 
10 ROSCOE. 
 
 may be brought to harmonise with and to benefit each other. 
 The noble institutions for literary and scientific purposes, which 
 reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse 
 to the public mind, have mostly been originated, and have all 
 been effectually promoted, by Roscoe ; and when we consider the 
 rapidly increasing opulence and magnitude of that town, which 
 promises to vie in commercial importance with the metropolis, 
 it will be perceived that, in awakening an ambition of mental 
 improvement among its inhabitants, he has effected a great bene- 
 fit to the cause of British literature. 
 
 In America, we know Roscoe only as the author — in Liverpool 
 he is spoken of as the banker ; and T 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 overcome by the mutations of fortune. They do but 
 drive him in upon the resources of his own mind ; to the supe- 
 rior 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 with antiquity and with posterity; with antiquity, in the 
 sweet communion of studious retirement ; and with posterity, in 
 the generous aspiring 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 aliment of noble 
 souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the wilderness 
 of this world. 
 
 While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my 
 fortune to light on farther traces of Roscoe. I was riding out 
 with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, when he 
 turned off, through a gate, into some ornamented gounds. After 
 riding a short distance, we came to a spacious mansion of free- 
 stone, built in the Grecian style. It was not in the purest taste, 
 yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was delightful. 
 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 sheet 
 
ROSCOE. 17 
 
 of water through an expanse of green meadow land ; while the 
 Welsh mountains, blending with clouds and melting into dis- 
 tance, bordered the horizon. 
 
 This was Roscoe's favourite residence during the days of his 
 prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and lite- 
 rary 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-favoured beings were loiter- 
 ing about the place, whom my fancy pictured into retainers of 
 me 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 shat- 
 tered marbles. 
 
 I enquired after the fate of Roscoe's library, which had con- 
 sisted 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 into the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the 
 armoury of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons 
 which they could not wield. We might picture 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 Roscoe's misfortunes, 
 and one which 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 pro- 
 voke the notice of his muse. The scholar alone knows how dear 
 these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and in- 
 nocent hours become in the season of adversity. When all that 
 is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their steady 
 
 2 
 
18 ROSCOE. 
 
 value. When friends grow cold, and the converse of intimates 
 languishes into vapid civility and common-place, these only con- 
 tinue 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 Roscoe and 
 themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good 
 wordly 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 opportu- 
 nity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling under 
 misfortunes, by one of the most delicate, but most expressive 
 tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate 
 a man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He be- 
 comes mingled and confounded with other men. His great 
 qualities lose their novelty, and we become too familiar with the 
 common materials which form the basis even of the loftiest 
 character. Some of Roscoe's townsmen may regard him merely 
 as a man of business ; others, as a politician ; all find him en- 
 gaged 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 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 traveller who visits it, enquires 
 where Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the literary landmark of the 
 place, indicating its existence to the distant scholar. — He stands 
 like Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic 
 dignity. 
 
 The following sonnet, adressed 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 effusion 
 of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the writer's heart : — 
 
ROSCOE. 19 
 
 TO MY ROOKS. 
 
 As one, who, destined from his friends to part, 
 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 art, 
 
 Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
 My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 
 
 I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 
 
 For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
 And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
 And all your sacred fellowship restore ; 
 When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
 Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
 And kindred spirits meet to part no more, 
 
THE WIFE 
 
 The treasure's of Ihc deep are not so precious 
 As are (he conceal'd comforts of a man 
 Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air 
 Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
 What a delicious breath marriage sends forth . . . 
 The violet bed's not sweeter. 
 
 MlDDLETON, 
 
 1 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 pros- 
 trate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the 
 softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their cha- 
 racter, that at times itapproaches 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 supporter 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 foliage about 
 the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when thehardy 
 plantis rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caress- 
 ing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs ; so is it beauti- 
 fully 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 into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting 
 the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. 
 
 I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a 
 blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. "I 
 
22 THE WIFE. 
 
 can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than to 
 have 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 sti- 
 mulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved 
 beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly be- 
 cause his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endear- 
 ments, 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 life. She had, it is true, no fortune, 
 but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in the anti- 
 cipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and adminis- 
 tering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of 
 witchery about the sex. — " Her life," said he, " shall belike 
 a fairy tale." 
 
 The very difference in their characters produced an harmo- 
 nious combination : he was of a romantic and somewhat serious 
 cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the 
 mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, 
 of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, 
 in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if 
 there alone she sought favour and acceptance. When leaning 
 on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall 
 manly person. The fond confiding air with which she looked 
 up to him seemed to call forth a flash of triumphant pride and 
 cherishing tenderness, as if he doated on his lovely burthen for 
 its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the 
 flowery path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer pro- 
 spect of felicity. 
 
THE WIFE. 23 
 
 It was the fate of my friend, however, to have embarked his 
 fortune in large speculations ; and he had not been married many 
 months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept 
 from kirn, 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 her, the more torturing was the thought that he 
 was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and 
 the smile will vanish from that cheek — the song will die away 
 from those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with 
 sorrow ; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that 
 bosom, .will be weighed down like mine, by the cares and mi- 
 series of the world. 
 
 At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situ- 
 ation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard him 
 through, I enquired, "Does your wife know all this?" — At the 
 question he burst into an agony of tears. "For God's sake!" 
 cried he, " if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife ; 
 it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness !" 
 
 " And why not?" said I. " She must know it sooner or later: 
 you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break 
 upon her in a more startling manner, than if imparted by your- 
 self ; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. 
 Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sym- 
 pathy ; 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 
 
2i THE WIFE. 
 
 reserve : it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sor- 
 rows of those it loves are concealed from it." 
 
 " Oh, hut, my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to ; ftll 
 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 all 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 admiration of every heart !— How can she bear po- 
 verty 1 She has been brought up in all the refinements of opu- 
 lence. How can she bear neglect? She has been the idol of 
 society. Oh, it will break her heart — it will break her heart ! " 
 
 I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for 
 sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had sub- 
 sided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the 
 subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to 
 his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but 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 countenance, 
 ''don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never placed 
 your happiness in outward show — you have yet friends, warm 
 friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splen- 
 didly lodged ; and surely it does not require a palace to be happy 
 with Mary ." 
 
 " I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, " in a 
 hovel ! I could go down with her into poverty and the dust !— I 
 
 could— I could God bless her !— God bless her ! " cried he, 
 
 bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness, 
 
 ' ' And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up and grasping 
 him warmly by the hand,—" believe me she can be the same 
 with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph 
 to her— it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sym- 
 pathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves 
 you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark 
 
THE WIFE. 25 
 
 of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of 
 prosperity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the 
 dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his 
 bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is — until 
 he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." 
 
 There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and 
 the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited ima- 
 gination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; and, 
 following up the impression I had made, I 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 forti- 
 tude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasures? Her 
 gay spirits might revolt at the downward path of low humility 
 suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny 
 regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in 
 fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifica- 
 tions ,to which in other ranks it is a stranger. In short, I could 
 not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. He had 
 made the disclosure. 
 
 " And how did she bear it ? " 
 
 "Like an angel! It seemed rather to be a relief to her 
 mind, for she threw her arms 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 pri- 
 vation ; she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor ele- 
 gancies. When we come practically to experience its sordid 
 cares, its paltry wants, its petty humiliations— then will be the 
 real trial." 
 
 1 ' But," said I, ' [ now that you have got over the severest task, 
 that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the 
 secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then 
 it is a single misery, and soon over: whereas you otherwise suf- 
 fer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty 
 so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man— the struggle 
 
26 THE WIFE. 
 
 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. 5 ' 
 On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false 
 pride himself; and as. to his wife, she was only anxious to con- 
 form 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- 
 ture 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 we 
 walked out, feli into a fit of gloomy musing. 
 
 "Poor Mary !" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his 
 lips. 
 
 " And what of her?" asked 1 : "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 V 
 
 "Has she then repined at the change?" 
 "Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good hu- 
 mour. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever 
 known her. She has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
 comfort !" 
 
THE WIFE. 27 
 
 "Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, 
 my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew the bound- 
 less treasures of excellence you possessed 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 mi- 
 serable equipments — she has, for the^rst time, known the fa- 
 tigues 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, ex- 
 hausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future po- 
 verty." 
 
 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 
 appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing 
 rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion 
 of foliage : a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it ; 
 and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about 
 the doors and on the grass-plot 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 sim- 
 plicity, 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 
 
2S THE WIFE, 
 
 the lane, and looking out for you. Fve 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 
 could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has 
 often assured me that though the world has since gone prospe- 
 rously with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet 
 never has he experienced a moment of such unutterable felicity. 
 
29 
 
 [The follow in? Tale was found among ihe 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 
 favourite topics ; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their 
 wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. When- 
 over, therefore , he chanced to find a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut 
 up in its low-roofed farm-house, 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 since. There 
 have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, 
 to tell the private 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 established ; and it is now 
 admitted into all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable autho- 
 rity. 
 
 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 b?en much better employed in weightier labours. 
 He was apt, however, 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 neighbours, and 
 grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the 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 among many folk, whose good opinion is well worth having ; 
 particularly certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his 
 likeness on their new-year cakes, and have thus given him a chance for im- 
 mortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a 
 Queen Anne's farthing.] 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 A POSTHUMOUS WRITING 
 
 OF 
 
 DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 
 
 By Woden, God of Saxons, 
 
 From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 
 
 Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 
 
 Unto thylke day in which I creep into 
 
 My sepulchre 
 
 Cartwright. 
 
 Whoevbr 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 baro- 
 meters. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed 
 in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear 
 evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is 
 cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapours 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 
 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 green of the nearer landscape. 
 It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by 
 some of the Dutch colonists, in the earlier times of the province, 
 
32 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 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 weathercocks. 
 
 In that same village, and intone 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 Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van 
 Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days oi 
 Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort 
 Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial cha- 
 racter of his ancestors. I have observed that he w r as a simple, 
 good-natured man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbour, and 
 an obedient, hea-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter cir- 
 cumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained 
 him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt to 
 be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the disci- 
 pline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered 
 pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, 
 and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for 
 teaching the virtues of patience and long suffering. A termagant 
 wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable 
 blessing ; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 
 
 Certain it is, that he was a great favourite 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. t The children of the village, 
 too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He as- 
 sisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly 
 kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, 
 witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the 
 village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his 
 skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on 
 him with impunity ; and not a dog would bark at him throughout 
 the neighbourhood. ,* 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 33 
 
 The great error in Rips composition was an insuperable 
 aversion to all kinds of profitable labour. It could not be from 
 ihe want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a wel 
 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 neighbour 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 
 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 pota- 
 toes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged 
 to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own like- 
 ness, promised to inherit the habits with the old clothes of his fa- 
 ther. 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 
 
 3 
 
:m rip van winkle. 
 
 or trouble, antl 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 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 henpecked husband. 
 
 Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as 
 much henpecked 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 honourable dog, he 
 was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — but 
 what courage can withstand the ever-during and all- besetting 
 terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the 
 house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground or curled 
 between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting 
 many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least 
 flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with 
 yelping precipitation . 
 
 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 vil- 
 lage; which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, de- 
 signated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third . 
 Here they used to sit in the shade, during a long lazy summer's 
 day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy 
 stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any 
 statesman's money to have heard the profound discussions that 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 8t5 
 
 sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into 
 their hands from some passing traveller. How solemnly they 
 would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van 
 Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was 
 not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; 
 and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some 
 months after they had taken place. 
 
 The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Ni- 
 cholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the 
 inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, 
 just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of 
 a large tree ; so that the neighbours 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 send forth short, 
 frequent, and angry whiffs; 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 vapour 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 him- 
 self, 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 labour of the farm and clamour 
 of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the 
 woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a 
 tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom 
 he sympathised as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. " Poor 
 Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it S 
 but never mind, mv lad, whilst T live, thou shalt never want a 
 
36 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 friend to stand by thee ! Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully 
 in his master's face, and, if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe 
 he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 
 
 In a long 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 favourite 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 open- 
 ing between the trees he could overlook all the lower country 
 for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the 
 lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but ma- 
 jestic 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 Rip lay musing on this scene : 
 evening was gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw 
 their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would 
 be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a 
 heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame 
 Van Winkle. 
 
 As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, 
 hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle !" He looked 
 around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary 
 flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have de- 
 ceived 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 W^olf 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 
 perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bend- 
 ing under the weight of something he carried on his back. He 
 was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfre- 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 3? 
 
 quented place ; but supposing it to be some one of the neigh- 
 bourhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 
 
 On nearer approach he was 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 pairs 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 distrust- 
 ful of this new acquaintance, Kip complied with his usual ala- 
 crity ; and mutually relieving each other, they clambered up a 
 narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. 
 As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling 
 peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep 
 ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their 
 rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing 
 it to be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers 
 which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. 
 Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small 
 amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the 
 brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, merely al- 
 lowing glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. 
 During the whole time Rip and his companion had laboured on 
 in silence ; for though the former marvelled 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 
 
W RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of 
 various shapes and colours. 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 
 Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlour of 
 Dominie Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had been 
 brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 
 
 What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these 
 folk 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. No- 
 thing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the 
 balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the moun- 
 tains 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 was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, 
 which he found had much of the flavour 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 over- 
 epowered, 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 from 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 occur- 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. SS 
 
 rences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of 
 liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks 
 — the wo-begone party at nine-pins — the flagon — "Oh! that 
 flagon ! that wicked flagon !" thought Rip, — "what excuse shall 
 I make to Dame Van Winkle?" 
 
 He looked round for his gun ; but, in the 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 gambol, 
 and, if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. 
 As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and 
 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 Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into 
 the glen : he found the gully up which he and his companion 
 had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a 
 mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock 
 to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He made 
 shift, however, to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome 
 way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witchhazel, and 
 sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape vines that 
 twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a 
 kind of network in his path. 
 
 At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through 
 the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no traces of such opening re- 
 mained. 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 
 
40 MP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, secure ire 
 their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's 
 perplexities, What was to be done ? the morning was passing 
 away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He 
 grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife ; 
 but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook 
 his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of 
 trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 
 
 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 eyes upon him, in- 
 variably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this 
 gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his 
 astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long ! 
 
 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 recognised for 
 an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very vil- 
 lage was altered ; it was larger and more populous. There were 
 rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which 
 had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names 
 were over the doors — strange faces at the windows— every thing 
 was strange. His mind now misgave him ; he began to doubt 
 whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. 
 Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day 
 before. There stood theKaatskill 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!" 
 
 It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own 
 house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every 
 moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He 
 found the house gone to decay— the roof fallen in, the windows 
 shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog, 
 that looked like Wolf-, was skulking about it. Rip called him 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 11 
 
 by name ; but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. 
 This was an unkind cut indeed — " My very dog," sighed poor 
 Rip, " has forgotten me !" 
 
 He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van 
 Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, 
 and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his 
 connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife and children — 
 the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then 
 all again was silence. 
 
 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort the village 
 inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building 
 stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them 
 broken, with old hats and petticoats stuffed into the chasms, and 
 over the door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan 
 Dooliltle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the 
 quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked 
 pole, with something on the top that looked like a red nightcap, 
 and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assem- 
 blage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and incompre- 
 hensible. He recognised 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 w^as changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in 
 the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a 
 cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, 
 General Washington. 
 
 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 tran- 
 quillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Velder, with 
 his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of 
 tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches; or VanRummel, the 
 schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. 
 In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets 
 full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of 
 citizens — elections— members of congress— liberty — Bunker's 
 
42 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other words, thai were a per- 
 fect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 
 
 The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty 
 fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and 
 children that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted the atten- 
 tion of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, 
 eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator 
 bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, enquired 
 "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, enquired in his ear, " whether he was Federal 
 or Democrat V 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 pene- 
 trating, 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, "lama 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 bystanders — " A lory ! a 
 lory ! 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 neighbours, who used to keep about the 
 tavern. 
 
 ' ' Well — who are they ? — name them . " 
 
 Rip bethought himself a moment, and enquired, "Where's 
 Nicholas Vedder?" 
 
 There was a silence for a little while, when an old man 
 replied, in a thin piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder? why he is 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 43 
 
 dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden 
 tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but 
 that's rotten and gone too !" 
 
 " Where's Brom Dulcher?" 
 
 V Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; 
 some say he was killed at the storming of Stoney-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 enormous 
 lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand : 
 war — congress — Stoney-Point; — he had no courage to ask after 
 any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here 
 know Rip Van Winkle?" 
 
 " Oh, Rip Van Winkle !" exclaimed two or three, " Oh, to 
 be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle, yonder, leaning against the 
 tree." 
 
 Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as 
 he went up the mountain : apparently as lazy, and certainly as 
 ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. 
 He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or 
 another man. 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 wits' end; "I'm not 
 myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's 
 somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I 
 fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and 
 every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's 
 my name, or who I am ! " 
 
 The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink 
 significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. 
 There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping 
 the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of 
 
44 KIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with 
 some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely 
 woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray- 
 bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, 
 frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried 
 she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." 
 The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her 
 voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What 
 is your name, my good woman?" asked he. 
 
 " Judith Gardenier." 
 
 " And your father's name?" 
 
 " Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle ; 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 died but a short time since; she broke a blood- 
 vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedlar." 
 
 There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. 
 The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught 
 his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father !" 
 — cried he — "Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van 
 Winkle now! — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?" 
 
 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 ! it is Rip 
 Van Winkle — it is himself! Welcome home again, old 
 neighbour — 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 neighbours 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 
 (o the field,, screwed down the corners of his mouth and shook 
 
RIP VAX WINKLE. 15 
 
 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 
 wonderful events and traditions of the neighbourhood. 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 
 Kaalskill mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. 
 That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first 
 discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there 
 every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon ; being 
 permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and 
 keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called 
 by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old 
 Dutch dresses playing at 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 re- 
 turned to the more important concerns of the election. Rips 
 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 climb upon his 
 back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, 
 seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the 
 farm ; but evinced 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 favour. 
 
 Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy 
 age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his place 
 once more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as 
 one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old 
 
4(i RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 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 him ; 
 but there was one species of despotism under which he had long 
 groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Happily that 
 was at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matri- 
 mony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without 
 dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her 
 name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged 
 his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; which might pass either for 
 an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deli- 
 verance. 
 
 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 
 neighbourhood 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 re- 
 mained 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 neighbourhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, 
 that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's 
 flason. 
 
HIP VAN WINKLE. 43 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knick- 
 erbocker by a little German legend about the Emperor Frederick, der 
 Rothbart, and the Kiffhaiiser mountain : the subjoined note, however, which 
 he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with 
 his usual fidelity : — 
 
 " The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but never- 
 theless I give it my full belief; for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settle- 
 ments to have been very subject to marvellous events and appearances. In- 
 deed, I have heard many stranger stories than this in the villages along the 
 Hudsou ; all of which are 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 bargain ; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken be- 
 fore a country justice, and signed with a cross, in the justice's own hand- 
 writing. The story, therefore, is bevond the possibility of doubt. 
 
 "D. K." 
 
ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 u Methinks I see in ray 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 mighty youth, and kindling 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 
 animosity 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 dif- 
 fuse 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 travellers are the best and the worst in the world. 
 Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal 
 ?.hem 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 candour, in the indulgence of spleen, 
 and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 
 
 Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the more 
 remote the country described. I would place implicit confi- 
 dence in a Englishman's description of the regions beyond the 
 
 4 
 
50 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 cataracts of the Nile; of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea; of 
 the interior of India; or of any other tract which other travellers 
 might be apt to picture out with the illusions of their fancies ; hut 
 I would cautiously receive his account of his immediate neigh- 
 bours, 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 travellers. While men of philoso- 
 phical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from England 
 fo ransack the poles, to penetrate deserts, and to study the man- 
 ners 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 
 the world is now performing ; and which presents the most pro- 
 found and momentous studies to the statesman and the philoso- 
 pher. 
 
 That such men should give prejudiced 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 
 frothiness and sediment, but its ingredients are sound and whole- 
 some ; it has already given proofs of powerful and generous qua- 
 lities; and the whole promises to settle down into something 
 substantially excellent. But the causes which are operating to 
 strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indications of admirable 
 properties, are all lost upon these purblind observers ; who are 
 only affected by the little asperities incident to its present situa- 
 tion. They are capable of judging only of the surface of things; 
 of those matters which come in contact with their private inte- 
 rests and personal 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 
 
ON AMERICA. 51 
 
 of useful labour are crowded, and many earn a painful and ser- 
 vile subsistence by studying the very caprices of appetite and 
 self-indulgence. These minor comforts, however, are all impor- 
 tant in the estimation of narrow minds ; which either do not per- 
 ceive, or will not acknowledge, that they are more than coun- 
 terbalanced 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 un- 
 foreseen, but easy manner. The same weakness of mind that 
 indulges absurd expectations, produces petulance in disappoint- 
 ment. 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, and the shrewd- 
 ness of an intelligent and enterprising people. 
 
 Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed hospitality, or the 
 prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the stranger, pre- 
 valent among my countrymen, they may have been treated with 
 unwonted respect in America ; and having been accustomed all 
 their lives to consider themselves below the surface of good so- 
 ciety, and brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority, ^they be- 
 come arrogant on the common boon of civility ; they attribute to 
 the lowliness of others their own elevation ; and underrate a 
 society where 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 en- 
 quiry and observation, and their capacities forjudging correctly, 
 would be rigorously scrutinised before their evidence was admit- 
 ted, 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 
 
 4* 
 
52 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 which English critics will examine the credibility of the traveller 
 who publishes an account of some distant, and comparatively un- 
 important country. How warily will they compare the mea- 
 surements of a pyramid, or the descriptions of a ruin ; and how 
 sternly will they censure any inaccuracy in these contributions 
 of merely curious knowledge : while they will receive, with 
 eagerness and unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations of 
 coarse and obscure 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. 
 
 I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hackneyed 
 topic; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the undue in- 
 terest 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 essentia! injury. The tissue of 
 misrepresentations attempted to be woven round us are like cob- 
 webs woven round the limbs of an infant giant. Our country 
 continually outgrows them. One falsehood after another falls 
 off of itself. We have but to live on, and every day we live a 
 whole 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 reli- 
 gious principles, which give force and sustained energy to the 
 character of a people ; and, in fact, have been the acknow- 
 ledged and wonderful supporters of their own national power and 
 glory. 
 
 But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of Eng- 
 land? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by the con- 
 tumely she has endeavoured to cast upon us? It is not in the 
 opinion of England alone that honour lives and reputation has its 
 being. The world at large is the arbiter of a nation's fame ; with 
 
ON AMERICA. 53 
 
 its thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, and from their 
 collective testimony is national glory or national disgrace esta- 
 blished. 
 
 For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little im- 
 portance whether England does us justice or not ; it is, perhaps, 
 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 labouring 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 literature at the 
 present day, and how much the opinions and passions of mankind 
 are under its control. The mere contests of the sword are tempo- 
 rary; 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 w 7 ill 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 Ahe people of 
 America ; for the universal education of the poores Classes makes 
 every individual a reader. There is nothing published in Eng- 
 land on the subject of our country thatdoes not circulate through 
 every part of it. There is not a calumny dropt from an English 
 pen, nor an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an English statesman, 
 (hat does not go to blight good-will, and add to the mass of la- 
 tent resentment. Possessing, then, as England does, the foun- 
 tain head from whence the literature of the language flows, how 
 < ompletely is it in her power, and how truly is it her duty, to 
 
54 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 make it the medium of amiable and magnanimous feeling— & 
 stream where the two nations might meet together, and drink 
 in peace and kindness. Should she, however, persist in turn- 
 ing it to waters of bitterness, the time may come when she may 
 repent her fotly. The present friendship of America may be of 
 but little moment to her ; but the future destinies of that coun- 
 try 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 proud- 
 est empires have not been exempt; she may look back with re- 
 gret 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 do- 
 minions. 
 
 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 design- 
 ing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political hosti- 
 lity, and a general soreness at the illiberality of the English press; 
 but, collectively speaking, the prepossessions of t the people are 
 strongly in favour 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 currency to the worthless and the ungrateful. Through- 
 out the country 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 fore- 
 fathers— the^august repository of the monuments and antiquities 
 of our race— the birth-place 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 throbbings of warm consanguinity. 
 Even during the late war, whenever there was the least oppor- 
 tunity for kind feelings to spring forth, it was the delight of the 
 generous spirits of our country to show that, in the midst of hos- 
 tilities, they still kept alive the sparks of future friendship. 
 
ON AMERICA. 55 
 
 Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden band ol 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, interfered occasionally with 
 our true interest, 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 lo 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 way- 
 wardnessof the parent that would repel the affections of the child, 
 • Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of 
 England 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, or the keenest castiga- 
 tion of her slanderers — but I allude to a disposition to retaliate 
 in kind ; to retort sarcasm, and inspire prejudice ; which seems 
 to be spreading widely among our writers. Let us guard par- 
 ticularly against such a temper, for it would double the evil, in- 
 stead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy and inviting 
 as the retort of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and unpro- 
 fitable contest. It is the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted 
 into petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. If Eng- 
 land is willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or the 
 rancorous animosities of politics, lo deprave the integrity of her 
 press, and poison the fountain of public opinion, let us beware 
 of following her example. She may deem it her interest to dif- 
 fuse 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 gain- 
 ing 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 are never republished in England ; 
 they fall short, therefore, of their aim, but they foster a queru- 
 lous and peevish temper among our writers ; they sour the sweet 
 flow of our early literature, and sow thorns and brambles 
 among its blossoms. What is still worse, they circulate through 
 our own country, and, as far as they have effect, excite virulent 
 
56 ENGLISH WRITERS 
 
 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 
 public mind. Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledge; 
 whoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, wilfully 
 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 un- 
 biassed judgments. From the peculiar nature of our relations* 
 with England, we must have more frequent questions of a dif- 
 ferent and delicate character with her than with any other nation ; 
 questions that affect the most acute and excitable feelings ; and 
 as, in the adjusting of these, our national measures must ulti- 
 mately be determined by popular sentiment, we cannot be too 
 anxiously attentive to purify it from all latent passion or prepos- 
 session ; 
 
 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 courte- 
 sies which spring from liberality of opinion. 
 
 What have we to do with national prejudices? They are 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 habi- 
 table 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 ex- 
 cellent and amiable in the English character. We are a young 
 
ON AMERICA. 57 
 
 people, necessarily an imitative one, and must take our exam- 
 ples 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 of opinion — their habits of thinking on those sub- 
 jects which concern the dearest interests and most sacred chari- 
 ties 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 prospe- 
 rity are laid ; and however the superstructure may be time- 
 worn, or overrun by abuses, there must be something solid in 
 the basis, admirable in the materials, 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 illiberality 
 of British authors, to speak of the English nation without preju- 
 dice, and with determined candour. While they rebuke the 
 indiscriminating 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 ap- 
 probation, We may thus place England before us as a perpe- 
 tual volume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deduc- 
 tions from ages of experience ; 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 
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
 Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
 Domestic life in rural pleasure pass'd ! 
 
 Cowper, 
 
 The stranger who 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 humours. 
 
 In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and fashion 
 of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and in- 
 telligent 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 gaiety and dissipation, and having indulged this carnival, return 
 again to the apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The 
 various orders of society are therefore diffused over the whole 
 service of the kingdom, and the most retired neighbourhoods 
 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, 
 
60 RURAL LIFE 
 
 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 turn 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 his commercial enterprises. Even those less fortunate indivi- 
 duals, 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 quarters 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 pic- 
 turesque taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. 
 
 Those who see the Englishman only in town, are apt to form 
 an unfavourable 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 abstrac- 
 tion. Wherever he happens to be, he is on the point of going 
 somewhere else : at the moment he is talking on one subject, his 
 mind is wandering to another ; and while paying a friendly visit, 
 he is calculating how he shall economise time so as to pay the 
 other visits allotted to the morning. An immense metropolis 
 like London is calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting. 
 In their casual and transient meetings, they can but deal briefly 
 in common-places. They present but the cold superficies of 
 character — 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 natu- 
 ral feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formalities 
 and negative civilities of town ; throws off his habits of shy re- 
 serve, 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, 
 
IN ENGLAND. 61 
 
 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 unrivalled. 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 witchery, about 
 their rural abodes. 
 
 Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of Eng- 
 lish park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid 
 green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up 
 rich piles of foliage. The solemn pomp of groves and woodland 
 glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them ; the 
 h'are, bounding away to the covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly 
 bursting upon the wing, The brook, taught to wind in the most 
 natural meanderings, or expand into a glassy lake — the seques- 
 tered 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 ca- 
 pabilities, and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The 
 sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the 
 operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be per- 
 ceived. The cherishing and training of some trees ; the cautious 
 pruning of others; the nice distribution of flowers and plants of 
 tender and graceful foliage ; the introduction of a green slope of 
 velvet turf; the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or 
 
62 RURAL LIFE 
 
 silver gleam of water ; all these are managed with a delicate tact, 
 a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic louchings with 
 which a painter finishes up a favourite picture. 
 
 The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the coun- 
 try has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy, 
 that descends to the lowest class. The very labourer, with his 
 thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their em- 
 bellishment. The trim hedge, the grass-plot before the door, the 
 little flower-bed bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up 
 against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice, the 
 pot of flowers in the window, the holly providently planted about 
 the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and throw in a sem- 
 blance of green summer to cheer the fireside : all these bespeak 
 the influence of taste, flowing down from high sources, and per- 
 vading 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 cha- 
 racterise 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 recrea- 
 tions of the country. These hardy exercises produce alsoahealth- 
 ful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of man- 
 ners, 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 favourably 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 far- 
 mers, down to the labouring peasantry; and while it has thus 
 banded the extremes of society together, has infused into each 
 
IN ENGLAND. G'J 
 
 intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be con- 
 fessed, is not so universally the case at presentas it was 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 men- 
 tioned. 
 
 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 in- 
 tercourse 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 distinc- 
 tinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoy- 
 ments of common life. Indeed the very amusements of the 
 country bring men more and more together; and the sound of 
 hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this 
 is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more po- 
 pular among the inferior orders in England than they are in any 
 other country ; and why the latter have endured so many ex- 
 cessive pressures and extremities, without repining more ge- 
 nerally 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 incompa- 
 rable descriptions of nature that abound in the British poets — 
 that have continued down from " the Flower and the Leaf" of 
 Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and 
 fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other 
 countries appear as if they had paid nature an occasional visit, 
 and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British 
 poets have lived and revelled with her, — they have wooed her 
 in her most secret haunts, — they have watched her minutest 
 caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could 
 not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter in the 
 
m RURAL LIFE 
 
 stream — a fragance 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. 
 
 Tbe effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupa- 
 tions has been wonderful on the face of the country. A great 
 part of the island is level, and would be monotonous, were it 
 not for the charms of culture ; but it is studded and gemmed as 
 it were with castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and 
 gardens. It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, 
 but rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered 
 quiet. Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cottage is 
 a picture : and as the roads are continually winding, and the 
 view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is lighted by a 
 continual succession of small landscapes of captivating love- 
 liness. 
 
 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 prin- 
 ciples, 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 ; its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the 
 olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil; its tomb- 
 stones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, 
 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 hedgerows, ac- 
 cording to an immemorable right of way — The neighbouring 
 village, with its venerable cottages, its public green sheltered by 
 trees, under which the forefathers of the present race have 
 sported — The antique family mansion, standing apart in some 
 little rural domain, but looking down with a protecting air on 
 the surrounding scene — All these common features of English 
 landscape evince a calm and settled security, and hereditary 
 
IN ENGLAND. 65 
 
 transmission of homebred virtues and local attachments, that 
 speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the na- 
 tion. 
 
 It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the bell is 
 sending its sober melody aeross the quiet fields, to behold the 
 peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces and modest 
 cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to 
 church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, 
 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, from the castled hall, 
 
 The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, 
 
 But chief from modest mansions numberless, 
 
 In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 
 
 Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof 'd shed, 
 
 This western isle hath long heen famed for scenes 
 
 Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place : 
 
 Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 
 
 (Honour 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 enjoyed ; that wants no witnesses 
 
 But its own sharers, and approving heaven ; 
 
 That, like a flow er deep hid in rocky cleft, 
 
 Smiles, though "t is looking only at the sky.* 
 
 * From a Poem on the Death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend 
 Rami Kennedy, AM 
 
THE 
 
 BROKEN HEART. 
 
 I never heard 
 Of any true affection, but 't was nipt 
 With care, that, like 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 sus- 
 ceptibility of early 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 
 are sometimes desolating in their effects. • Indeed, I am a true 
 believer in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of his doc- 
 trines. 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 be- 
 lieve that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early 
 grave. 
 
 Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature 
 leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love 
 is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the 
 intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space 
 in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow men. But 
 a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart 
 is her world : it is there her ambition strives for empire; it is 
 
08 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 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 bitter 
 pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it blasts some 
 prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being — he can dissipate 
 his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or can 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 ut- 
 termost parts of the earth and be at rest." 
 
 But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and a me- 
 ditative 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 de- 
 solate. 
 
 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 it is the nature of woman to hide 
 from the world the pangs of wounded affection. The. love of a 
 delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when fortunate, 
 she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she 
 buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and 
 brood among the ruins of her peace. With her the desire of the 
 heart has failed. The great charm of existence is at an end. 
 She neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, 
 quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents 
 through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet refreshment 
 of sleep is poisoned by 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 bid lately glowed with all the radiance of health and 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 00 
 
 beauty, should so speedily be brought down to " darkness and 
 the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual 
 indisposition, that laid her low; but no one knows the mental 
 malady that previously sapped her strength, and made her so easy 
 a prey to the spoiler. 
 
 She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove ; 
 graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but w 7 ith 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 recol- 
 lect 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 de- 
 clensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, 
 until I reached 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. Dur- 
 ing the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed, 
 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 dic- 
 tated his execution. 
 
 But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impos- 
 
70 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 sible 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 
 disinterested fervour of a woman's first and early love. When 
 every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted 
 in fortune ; when disgrace and danger darkened around his name, 
 she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, 
 then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what 
 must have been the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied 
 by his image ! Let those tell who have had the portals of the 
 tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most 
 loved on earth—- who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out 
 in a cold and lonely world, from whence all that was most 
 lovely and loving had departed. 
 
 But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful ! so disho- 
 noured ! There was nothing for memory to dwell on that could 
 soothe the pang of separation- — none of those tender, though 
 melancholy circumstances, that endear the parting scene — no- 
 thing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews 
 of heaven, to revive the heart in the partjng 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 (he paternal roof. But could the sym- 
 pathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked 
 and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want 
 of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous 
 sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were 
 paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into 
 society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement 
 to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of 
 her loves. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of 
 calamity that scathe and scorch the soul — that penetrate to the 
 vital seat of happiness — and blast it, never again to put forth 
 bud or blossom. She did not object to frequent the haunts of 
 pleasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of 
 solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently un- 
 conscious of the world around her. She carried with her an in- 
 
THE BROKEN HEART. 11 
 
 ward 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 
 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 wo-begone, as if it had tried in vain to 
 cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. 
 After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd 
 with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the 
 steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some time with a 
 vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, 
 she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble 
 a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice ; but on this 
 occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a 
 soul of .wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent 
 around her, and melted every one into tears. 
 
 The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great 
 interest in a 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 con- 
 viction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and 
 dependent 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 unal- 
 terably another's. 
 
 He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene 
 might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an 
 amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy 
 one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy 
 that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow. 
 
12 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the vic- 
 tim 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 he 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 '11 shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 
 
 From her own loved island of sorrow 1 
 
THE 
 
 ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 
 
 If that severe doom of Synesius be true — ' It is a greater offence t& 
 steal dead men's labours, than their clothes,' what shall become of most 
 writers ? " 
 
 Btjrtox's Anat. 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 
 seems to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, yet 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 un- 
 folded 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 hiero- 
 glyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, with 
 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 suite 
 of apartments. It was closed, but every now and then it would 
 open, and some strange favoured 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 de- 
 termined to attempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the 
 unknown regions that lay beyond. The door yielded to my 
 
74 THE ART OF 
 
 hand, with all that facility with which the portals of enchanted 
 castles yield to the adventurous knight-errant. I found myself 
 in a spacious chamber, surrounded with great cases of venerable 
 books. Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were ar- 
 ranged a great number of quaint black-looking portraits of an- 
 cient authors. About the room were placed long tables, with 
 stands for reading and writing, at which sat many pale, cada- 
 verous personages, poring intently over dusty volumes, rummag- 
 ing among mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of 
 their contents. The most hushed stillness reigned through this 
 mysterious apartment, excepting that you might hear the racing 
 of pens over sheets of paper, or occasionally the deep sigh of 
 one of these sages, as he shifted his position to turn over the 
 page of an old folio ; doubtless arising from that hollowness 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 after 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 magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. 
 The scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale of a philoso- 
 pher, who was shut up in an enchanted library in the bosom 
 of a mountain, that opened only once a year ; where he made 
 the spirits of the place obey his commands, and bring 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 powers 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 
 personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally 
 authors, and were in the very act of manufacturing books. I 
 was, in fact, in the reading-room of the great British Library 
 
BOOK-MAKING. 75 
 
 — an immense collection of volumes of all ages and languages, 
 many of which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom 
 read. To these sequestered pools of obsolete literature, therefore, 
 do many 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-looking wight, who sought none but the most 
 worm-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 ; whe- 
 ther it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavouring to keep 
 off that exhaustion of the stomach produced by much pondering 
 over dry works, I leave to harder students than myself to deter- 
 mine. 
 
 There was one dapper little gentleman in bright coloured 
 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 recognised in him 
 a diligent getter up 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. Il 
 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 " thick and slab." 
 
 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 (o age, in spite of the 
 
76 THE ART OF 
 
 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 
 certain birds; so that animals, which, in themselves, are little 
 better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers of the 
 orchard and the corn-field, are, in fact, Nature's carriers to dis- 
 perse and perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beau- 
 ties and fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are caught 
 up by these 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 pon- 
 derous history, revives 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 pros- 
 trate 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 mat- 
 ter shall be limited in their duration, but which decrees, also, 
 that their elements shall never perish. Generation after genera- 
 tion, both in animal and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital 
 principle is transmitted to posterity, and the species continue to 
 flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors, 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 
 wandering; 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 
 
BOOK-MAKING. 77 
 
 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 disap- 
 peared, and in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, thread- 
 bare throng, such as may be seen plying about that great repo- 
 sitory of cast-off clothes, Monmouth Street. Whenever they 
 seized upon a book, by one of those incongruities common to 
 dreams, methought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique 
 fashion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I no- 
 ticed, however, 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 piece- 
 meal, 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- 
 deavoured to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking common- 
 place of his countenance set at nought 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 
 cour.t 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 dainty Devices," and having put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on 
 one side of his head, strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar 
 elegance. A third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bol- 
 stered 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 
 contemplate the costumes of the old Writers, merely to imbibe 
 
78 THE ART OF 
 
 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 
 pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably 
 large and square, but bald head. He entered the room wheez- 
 ing 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 formidable frizzled wig. 
 
 In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly re- 
 sounded 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 
 canvass, 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 endeavoured 
 in vain to escape with the 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 dra- 
 matic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, raged 
 round the field like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson 
 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 
 colours 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 off with scarce a 
 rag to cover their nakedness. Just then my eye was caught by 
 
BOOK-MAKING. 79 
 
 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 domineer- 
 ing pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, "chopp'd bald shot," 
 and made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his 
 back. 
 
 There w as 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, 
 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 licence and permission. In a word, 
 I stood convicted of being an arrant poacher, and was glad lo 
 make a precipitate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of 
 authors let loose upon me. 
 
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 May, I 
 made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a proud old pile, 
 full of storied and poetical interest, and its very external aspect is 
 sufficient to inspire a train of fanciful and romantic associations. 
 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 sur- 
 rounding world. 
 
 On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous vernal 
 kind, which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's tempe- 
 rament, filling his mind with music, and disposing him to quote 
 poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through the mag- 
 nificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle, I 
 passed with indifference by whole rows of portraits of warriors 
 and statesmen, but lingered in the chamber where hang the 
 likenesses of the beauties that graced the gay court of Charles 
 the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, depicted with amorous 
 half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed 
 the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus enabled me to 
 bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In traversing also the 
 " large green courts" with sunshine beaming on the gray walls, 
 and glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with 
 the image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and his 
 
 6 
 
82 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 account of his loiterings about them in his stripling days, when 
 enamoured 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 huge 
 gray tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good 
 preservation . 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 armoury, which is a gothic hall furnished 
 with weapons of various kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of 
 armour hanging against the wall, which I was told had once 
 belonged to James. From hence I was conducted up a staircase 
 to a suite of apartments of faded magnificence, hung with storied 
 tapestry, which formed his prison, and the scene of that pas- 
 sionate 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 IIL, and destined for the French 
 court, to be reared under the eye of the French monarch, secure 
 from the treachery and danger that surrounded the royal house 
 of Scotland. It was his mishap in the course of his voyage to 
 fall into the hands of the English ; and he was detained prisoner 
 by Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce existed between the 
 two countries. 
 
 The intelligence of his capture, coming in the 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 servants that attended 
 him. But being carried to his bed-chamber, he abstained 
 from all food, and in three days died of hunger and grief, at 
 Rothesay." * 
 
 * Buchanan. 
 
A ROYAL POET. 83 
 
 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 
 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 calcu- 
 lated 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 in- 
 spirations of the muse. Some minds corrode and grow inactive 
 under the loss of personal liberty ; others grow morbid and 
 irritable ; but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and 
 imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. He banquets 
 upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, 
 pours forth his soul in melody. 
 
 Have you not seen the nightingale, 
 
 A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
 How doth she chant her wonted tale. 
 
 In that her lonely hermitage ! 
 
 Ballenden's Translation of Hector Boyce. 
 
84 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 Even there her charming melody doth prove 
 That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.* 
 
 Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is 
 irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is shut out, 
 it can create a world for itself, and, with a necromantic power, 
 can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, 
 to make solitude populous, and to irradiate the gloom of the 
 dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived 
 round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the 
 splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may consider the 
 "King's Quair," composed by James during his captivity at 
 Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings forth of the 
 soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house. 
 
 The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane Beaufort, 
 daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of the blood 
 royal of England, of whom he became enamoured in the course 
 of his captivity. What gives it 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 
 sovereigns 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 
 favour by administering to his pleasures. It is a proof of the 
 honest equality of intellectual competition, which strips off all 
 the trappings of factitious dignity, brings the candidate down 
 to a level with his fellow-men, and obliges him to depend on his 
 own native powers for distinction. It is curious, too, to get at 
 the history" of a monarch's heart, and to find the simple affec- 
 tions of human nature throbbing under the ermine. But James 
 had learnt to be a poet before he was a king : he was schooled 
 in adversity, and reared in the company of his own thoughts. 
 Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their hearts, or to 
 meditate their minds into poetry ; and had James been brought 
 up amidst the adulation and gaiety of a court, we should never, 
 in all probability, have had such a poem as the Quair. 
 
 * Roger L'Estrange, 
 
A ROYAL POET. 85 
 
 I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem 
 which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation, 
 or which are connected with the apartment in the tower. They 
 have thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such 
 circumstantial truth, as to make the reader present with the 
 captive in his prison, and the companion of his meditation. 
 
 Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit, 
 and of the incident that first suggested the idea of writing the 
 poem. It was the still mid-watch of a clear moonlight night ; the 
 stars, he says, were twinkling as the 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 Boelius's Consolations 
 of Philosophy, a work popular among the writers of that day, 
 and which had been translated by his great prototype Chaucer. 
 From the high eulogium in which he indulges, it is evident this 
 was one of his favourite volumes while in prison ; and indeed it 
 is an admirable text-book for meditation under adversity. It 
 is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, 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, may lay upon 
 his nightly pillow. 
 
 After closing the volume, he turns its contents over" in his 
 mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness of 
 fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that had 
 overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears 
 the bell ringing to matins ; but its sound chiming in with his 
 melancholy fancies, seems to him like a voice exhorting him to 
 write his story. In the spirit of poetic errantry he determines to 
 comply with this intimation; he therefore takes pen in hand, 
 makes with it a sign of the cross to implore a 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 
 
8ft A ROYAL POET. 
 
 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 pecu- 
 liar 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 lamen- 
 tations of an amiable and social spirit at being denied the indul- 
 gence of its kind and generous propensities ; there is nothing in 
 them harsh or exaggerated ; they flow with 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 effu- 
 sions 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 sympathise 
 with James, a romantic, active, and accomplished prince, cut 
 off in the lustihood of youth from all the enterprise, the noble 
 uses, and vigorous delights of life ; as we do with Milton, alive 
 to all the beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes 
 forth brief, but deep-toned lamentations, over his perpetual 
 blindness. 
 
 Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we 
 might almost have suspected that these tourings of gloomy re- 
 flection were meant as preparative to the brightest scene of his 
 story ; and to contrast with that effulgence of light and love- 
 liness, 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. "Be- 
 wailing in his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy and 
 
A ROYAL POET. 87 
 
 remedy, " fortired of thought and wo-begone," he had wan- 
 dered to the window, to indulge the captive's miserable solace 
 of gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is excluded. 
 The window looked forth upon a small garden which lay at the 
 foot of the tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot adorned with 
 arbours 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 seen 
 
 The sharpe, grene, sweet 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 f set 
 
 The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 
 So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 
 
 Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 
 That all the garden and the wallis rung 
 Right of their song 
 
 It was the month of May, when every thing was in bloom ; 
 and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the language 
 of his enamoured 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 lapses into one of those tender and undefinable re- 
 
 * Lyf, person. t Twistis, small boughs or twigs. 
 
 Note.— The language of the quotations is generally modernised. 
 
88 A ROYAL POET, 
 
 veries 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 of beings, why is he alone cut 
 off from its enjoyments? 
 
 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 maistrjc ? 
 Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? 
 
 For giff he be of so grete excellence, 
 
 That he of every wight hath care and charge? 
 
 What have I gilt ~f to him, or done offense, 
 That I am thral'd, and birdis go at large ? 
 
 In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, he 
 beholds "the fairest and the freshest young floure" that ever he 
 had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane walking in the garden to 
 enjoy the beauty of that u fresh May morrowe." Breaking thus 
 suddenly upon his sight in the moment of loneliness and excited 
 susceptibility/ she at once captivates the fancy of the romantic 
 prince, and becomes the object of his wandering wishes, the so- 
 vereign of his ideal world. 
 
 There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance to 
 the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale , where Palamon and 
 Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the 
 garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual fact 
 to the incident which he had read in Chaucer may have induced 
 James to dwell on it in his poem. His description of the Lady 
 Jane is given in the picturesque and minute manner of his master ; 
 and being doubtless taken from the life, may be considered as 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 
 
 Setten, incline. 
 t Gilt, what injury have I done, &c. 
 
A ROYAL POET. W 
 
 of pearl, splendent 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 while 
 bosom. Her dress 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 ; probably the small Italian hound of exquisite symmetry, 
 which was a parlour favourite and pet among the fashionable 
 dames of ancient times. James closes his description by a burst 
 of general eulogium. 
 
 In her was youth, heauty, with humble port, 
 Bountee, richesse, and womanly feature ; 
 
 God better knows than my pen can report, 
 
 Wisdom, largesse, f 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 "bad farewell to every leaf and flower," he still 
 lingers at the window, and laying his head upon the cold stone, 
 gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until gradually 
 lulled by the mute melancholy of the twilight hour, he lapses, 
 " half sleeping, half swoon," into a vision, which 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, questions 
 his spirit whither it has been wandering ; whether, indeed, all 
 that has passed before his dreaming fancy has been conjured up 
 
 * Wrought gold. t Largesse, bounty. 
 
 £ Estate, dignity. § Cunning, discretion. 
 
<H) A ROYAL POET. 
 
 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 was 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, Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, or 
 whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of her 
 favour in this romantic way, remains to be determined according 
 to the faith or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem, by 
 intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision and by the 
 flower is fulfilled, by his being restored to liberty, and made 
 happy in possession of the sovereign of his heart. 
 
 Such is the poetical account given by James of his love ad- 
 ventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute fact, 
 and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to con- 
 jecture : do not, however, let us always consider whatever is 
 romantic as incompatible with real life ; but let us sometimes 
 take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely such parts of 
 the poem as were immediately connected with the tower, and 
 have passed over a large part, which was 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 perceived 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. 
 
A ROYAL POET. 91 
 
 As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in these days of coarser 
 thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite de- 
 licacy which pervade it; banishing every gross thought or im- 
 modest 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 
 masters ; and in some parts of his poem, we find traces of simi- 
 larity 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 bor- 
 rowed from each other as from the times. Writers, like bees, 
 toll their sweets in the wide world : they incorporate with their 
 own conceptions the anecdotes and thoughts which are current 
 in society; and thus each generation has some features in com- 
 mon, characteristic of the age in which it lived. 
 
 James, in fact, belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our 
 literary history, and establishes the claims of his country to a 
 participation in its primitive honours. 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 constellation of remote but never-failing luminaries, who 
 shine in the highest firmament of literature, and who, like morn- 
 ing stars, sang together at the bright dawning of British poesy. 
 
 Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish history 
 (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 connection 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. 
 
92 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 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 on the affections of his people. 
 He attached the lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, 
 the temperate and equable administration of justice, the encou- 
 ragement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of every thing 
 that could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent enjoyment 
 through the humblest ranksof society. He mingled occasionally 
 among the common people in disguise; visited their firesides ; 
 entered into their cares, their pursuits, and their amusements : 
 informed himself of the mechanical arts, and how they could 
 best be patronised and improved ; and was thus an all-pervading 
 spirit, watching with a benevolent eye over the meanest of his 
 subjects. Having in this generous manner made himself strong 
 in the hearts of the common people, he turned himself to curb 
 the power of the factious nobility ; to strip them of those dan- 
 gerous 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 outward submission, but secret impatience and brooding 
 resentment. A conspiracy was at length formed against his life, 
 at the head of which was his own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of 
 Athol, who, being too old himself for the perpetration of the 
 deed of blood, instigated his grandson Sir Robert Stewart, toge- 
 ther with Sir Robert Graham, and others of less note, to commit 
 the deed. They broke into his bed-chamber at the Dominican 
 Convent near Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously 
 murdered him by oft repeated wounds. His faithful queen, 
 rushing to throw her tender body between him and the sword, 
 was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to shield him from 
 the assassin ; and it was not until she had been forcibly torn 
 from his person, that the murder was accomplished. 
 
 It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, 
 and of the golden little poem which had its birthplace in this 
 tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than common 
 interest. The suit of armour hanging up in the hail, richly gill 
 
A ROYAL POET. 93 
 
 and embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the image 
 of the gallant and romantic prince vividly before my imagination. 
 I paced the deserted chambers where he had composed his 
 poem ; I leaned upon the window, and endeayoured 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 me- 
 lody; 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 are gone 
 by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot of the tower. It occu- 
 pies what was once the moat of the keep; and though some parts 
 have been separated by dividing walls, yet others have still their 
 arbours 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 round nature an odour 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 
 warrior and a legislator; but I have delighted to view him 
 merely as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of 
 the human heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet 
 flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common life. He was 
 the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish ge- 
 nius, which has since become so prolific of the most wholesome 
 and highly flavoured fruit. He carried with him into the sterner 
 regions of the north all the fertilising arts of southern refine- 
 ment. He did every thing in his power to win his countrymen 
 to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts, which soften and refine 
 the character of a people, and wreathe a grace round the loftiness 
 of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, which, 
 
04 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 unfortunately for the fulness of his fame, are now lost to the 
 world; one, which is still preserved, called "Christ's Kirk of 
 the Green," shows how diligently he had made himself 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 humour he could enter into 
 their enjoyments. He contributed greatly to improve the national 
 music; and traces of his tender sentiment, and elegant taste, 
 are said to exist in those witching airs, still piped among the wild 
 mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected 
 his image with whatever is most gracious and endearing in the 
 national character; he has embalmed his memory in song, and 
 floated his name to after-ages in the rich stream of Scottish me- 
 lody. 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 Royal Poet of Scotland. 
 
THE 
 
 COUNTRY CHURCH 
 
 What, o' the woolpack ? or the sugar chest ? 
 Or lists of velvet? which is 't, pound, or yard, 
 You vend your gentry by ? 
 
 Shepherd's Bush. 
 
 There are few places more favourable 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 pe- 
 culiar 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 gene- 
 rations. The interior walls were encrusted 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 coloured marble. On every side the eye was struck with 
 some instance of aspiring mortality ; some haughty memorial 
 which human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this 
 temple of the most humble of all religions. 
 
 The congregation was composed of the neighbouring people of 
 rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and cushioned, and 
 furnished with richly gilded prayer-books ; of the villagers and 
 peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a small gallery beside 
 
<J6 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 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 neighbourhood, 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 neighbours. 
 
 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 plain- 
 est equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would stop 
 and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, caress 
 the children, and listen to the stories of the humble cottagers. 
 Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, with an ex- 
 pression of high refinement, but, at the same time, a frank cheer- 
 fulness, and an engaging affability. Their brothers were tall, 
 and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but 
 simply; with strict neatness and propriety, but without any 
 mannerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanour 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 mor- 
 bid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was pleased 
 to see the manner in which they would converse with the pea- 
 santry about those rural concerns and field-sports, in which the 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH 97 
 
 gentlemen of this country so much delight. In these conver- 
 sations, there was neither haughtiness on the one part nor ser- 
 vility on the other ; and you were only reminded of the diffe- 
 rence 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 neighbourhood, was en- 
 deavouring 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 be- 
 hind. The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with pe- 
 culiar stateliness of motion. The very horses champed their 
 bits, arched their necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly 
 than common horses ; either because they had caught a little 
 of the family feeling, or were reined up more tightly than ordi- 
 nary. 
 
 I could not but admire the style with which this splendid 
 pageant was brought up to the gate of the churchyard. There 
 was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall; 
 — a great smacking of the whip ; straining and scrambling of the 
 horses; glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through 
 gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vain-glory to the 
 coachman. The horses were urged and checked until they were 
 fretted into a foam. They 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 im- 
 mediate stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. 
 
 There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to alight, 
 open the door, pull down the steps, and prepare every thing for 
 the descent on earth of this august family. The old citizen first 
 
 7 
 
D8 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 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, comfortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I 
 must confess, but little pride in her composition. She was the 
 picture of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went 
 well with her ; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, 
 a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, 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. 
 
 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-fashionables 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 de- 
 scended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line of pea- 
 santry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They 
 cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over the burly 
 faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the nobleman's 
 family, when their countenances immediately brightened into 
 smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant courtesies ; 
 which were returned in a manner that showed they were but 
 slight acquaintance. 
 
 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 pedan- 
 try of dress which marks the man of questionable pretensions 
 to style. They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing every one 
 askance that came near them, as if measuring his claims to re- 
 spectability ; yet they were without conversation, except the ex- 
 change of an occasional cant phrase. They even moved artifi- 
 cially ; for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the 
 day, had been disciplined into the absence of all ease and free- 
 dom. Art had done every thing to accomplish them as men of 
 fashion, but nature had denied them the nameless grace. They 
 were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the [common pur- 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 5)9 
 
 poses of life, and had that air of supercilious assumption which 
 is never seen in the true gentleman. 
 
 I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these 
 two families, because I considered them specimens of what is 
 often to be met with in this country — the unpretending great, and 
 the arrogant little. I have no respect for titled rank, unless it be 
 accompanied with true nobility of soul; but I have remarked in 
 all countries where artificial distinctions exist, the very highest 
 classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. Those 
 who are well assured of their own standing are least apt to tres- 
 pass on that of others ; whereas nothing is so offensive as the as- 
 pirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating 
 its neighbour. 
 
 As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice 
 their behaviour in church. That of the nobleman's family was 
 quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared to have any 
 fervour 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 
 himself, standing bolt upright, and uttering the responses with a 
 loud voice, that might be heard all over the church. It was evi- 
 dent that he was one of those thorough church and king men, 
 who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty ; who consider the 
 Deity, somehow or other, of the government party, and religion 
 " a very excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced 
 and kept up." 
 
 When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more 
 by way of example to the lower orders, to show them , that though 
 so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious; as I 
 have seen a turtle-fed Alderman swallow publicly a basin of 
 charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pro- 
 nouncing it " excellent food for the poor." 
 
 When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness 
 the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their 
 
100 THE COUNTRY CHURCH, 
 
 sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home across the 
 fields, chatting with the country people as they went. The others 
 departed as they came, in grand parade. Again were the 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; 
 and the aspiring family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. 
 
THE 
 
 WIDOW AND HER SON 
 
 Pittie old age, within whose silver haires 
 Honour and reverence evermore have raign'd. 
 
 Marlowe's Tamburlaitie. 
 
 During my residence in the country, I used frequently to 
 attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its moulder- 
 ing monuments, its dark oaken panelling, all reverend with the 
 gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn 
 meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy in its 
 repose ; such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of nature, that 
 every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the na- 
 tural religion of the soul gently springing up within us. 
 
 " Sweet day, so pure, sb calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky." 
 
 I do not pretend to claim the character of a devout man ; but 
 there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the 
 beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere else; 
 and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday, 
 than on any other day of the seven. 
 
 But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon 
 the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around 
 me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble 
 and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor decrepit old 
 woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She 
 bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The 
 lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her 
 
102 THE WIDOW 
 
 dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. 
 Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not 
 lake her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps 
 of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship , 
 all society ; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. 
 When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in 
 prayer ; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied 
 hand and failing eyesjwould not permit her to read, but which she 
 evidently knew by heart ; I felt persuaded that the faltering 
 voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the re- 
 sponses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the 
 choir. 
 
 I am fond F of loitering about country churches, and this was 
 so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood 
 on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend, 
 and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow 
 scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees which 
 seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up 
 lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally 
 wheeling about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning, 
 watching two labourers 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 fu- 
 neral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride 
 had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without 
 pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The 
 sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There 
 were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe ; but 
 there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. 
 It was the aged mother of the deceased — the poor old woman 
 whom I had seen sealed on the steps of the altar. She was 
 supported by a humble friend, who was endeavouring to comfort 
 her. A few of the neighbouring poor had joined the train, and 
 
AND HER SON. 103 
 
 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- 
 hook in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, how- 
 over, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been desti- 
 tute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, 
 therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed 
 priest moved but a few steps from the church door; his voice 
 could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and 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 — ' ' George 
 Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted 
 to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were 
 clasped, as if in prayer, but I could perceive by a feeble rocking 
 of the body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was 
 gazing on the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a 
 mother's heart. 
 
 The service being ended, preparations were made to deposit 
 the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks 
 so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection ; directions given 
 in the cold tones of business; the striking of spades into sand 
 and gravel ; which, at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, 
 the most withering. The bustie around seemed to waken the 
 mother from a wretched reverie . She raised her glazed eyes, and 
 looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with 
 cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands and 
 broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended 
 her took her by the arm, endeavouring to raise her from the 
 earth, and to whispersomething like consolation — "Nay, now — 
 nay, now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only 
 >hake her head and wring her hands, as one not to be com- 
 forted. 
 
 As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the 
 cords seemed to agonise her ; but when, on some accidental ob- 
 
104 THE WIDOW 
 
 struclion, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of 
 the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who 
 was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 
 
 I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — my 
 eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part 
 in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. 
 I wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I remained 
 until the funeral train had dispersed. 
 
 When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 
 grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her 
 on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached 
 for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ! they have 
 friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to divert and 
 dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young! 
 Their growing minds soon close above the wound — their elastic 
 spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green and ductile 
 affections soon twine around 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 aftergrowth of joy — the sorrows of a widow, 
 aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last 
 solace of her years ; these are indeed sorrows which make us 
 feel the impotency of consolation. 
 
 It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way 
 homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter : 
 she was just returning from accompanying the mother to her 
 lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars con- 
 nected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 
 
 The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from 
 childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and 
 by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small garden, 
 had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and led a 
 happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who had grown 
 up to be the staff and pride of their age.- — " Oh, sir!" said the 
 good woman, "he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, 
 so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents ! It did 
 one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his best, 
 so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to. 
 
AND HER SOX. 105 
 
 church — for she was always fonder of leaning on George's 
 arm than on her good man's ; and, poor soul, she might well 
 be proud of him, for a finer lad there was not in the country 
 round." 
 
 Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity 
 and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of 
 the small craft that plied on a neighbouring 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 al- 
 ready 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 appplied 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 neighbours 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 open. A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking 
 eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seamen's clothes, 
 was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken 
 by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened toward 
 her, but his steps were faint and faltering; he sank on his knees 
 before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed 
 upon him with a vacant and wandering eye — " Oh my dear, 
 dear mother ! don't you know 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 
 
106 THE WIDOW 
 
 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, offering every comfort and assistance 
 that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, 
 to talk—he could only look his thanks. His mother was his 
 constant attendant; and he seemed unwilling to be helped by 
 any other hand. 
 
 There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of 
 manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the 
 feelings of infancy. Who that has languished , even in advanced 
 life, in sickness and despondency ; who that has pined on a 
 weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land; but 
 has thought on the mother "that looked on his childhood," that 
 smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ! Oh 1 
 there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to her son 
 that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to 
 be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened 
 by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice 
 every comfort to his convenience ; she will surrender every 
 pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame, and 
 exult in his prosperity : — and if adversity overtake him, he will 
 be the dearer to her through 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 sickness* 
 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 
 venerable form bending over him ; when he would^ take her 
 
AND HER SON. 107 
 
 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 
 enquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted 
 them to do every thing that the case admitted; and as the poor 
 know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture 
 to intrude. 
 
 The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to my 
 surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to 
 her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 
 
 She had made an effort to put on something like mourning 
 for her son ; and nothing could be more touching than this 
 struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a black 
 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 monu- 
 ment 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 
 themselves to render her situation more comfortable, and to 
 lighten her affliction. 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 neighbourhood 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. 
 
THE 
 
 BOAR S HEAD TAVERN, 
 
 EASTCHEAP. 
 
 A SHAKSPERIAN RESEARCH. 
 
 " A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows, 
 I have heard ray great grandfather tell, how his great grandfather should 
 say, that it was an old proverb when his great great grandfather was a child, 
 that ' it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine.'" 
 
 Mother Bombie. 
 
 
 It is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to honour 
 the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their pictures. 
 The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the num- 
 ber of these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the 
 darkness of his little chapel ; another may have a solitary lamp 
 to throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy ; while the whole 
 blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beatified father 
 of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of 
 wax ; the eager zealot his seven-branched candlestick ; and even 
 the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient 
 light is thrown upon the deceased, unless he hang up his little 
 lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the eagerness 
 to enlighten, they are often apt to obscure; and I have occa- 
 sionally seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of countenance 
 by the officiousness of his followers. 
 
 In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakspeare. 
 Every writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some por- 
 
110 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 tion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit from 
 oblivion. The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast 
 tomes of dissertations ; the common herd of editors send up 
 mists of obscurity from their notes at the bottom of each 
 page ; and every casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of 
 eulogy or research, to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. 
 
 As I honour all established usages of my brethren of the quill, 
 I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the 
 memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, 
 sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I found 
 myself anticipated in every attempt at a new reading ; every 
 doubtful line had been explained a dozen different ways, and 
 perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine pas- 
 sages, 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 humour 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 neighbourhood of Eastcheap. 
 
 For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry. 
 A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to me as 
 a hero of history that existed a thousand years since ; and, if I 
 may be excused such an insensibility to the common ties of 
 human nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half the great 
 men of ancient chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done 
 for me, or men like me? They have conquered countries of 
 which I do not enjoy an acre ; or they have gained laurels of 
 which I do not inherit a leaf; or they have furnished examples 
 of harebrained prowess, which I have neither the opportunity nor 
 the inclination to follow. But old Jack Falstaff !— kind Jack 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. Ill 
 
 Falstaff! — sweet Jack Falstaff! — has enlarged the boundaries of 
 human enjoyment : he has added vast regions of wit and good 
 humour, in which the poorest man may revel; and has be- 
 queathed 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 knows but I may light upon 
 some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests ; at any 
 rate, there will be a kindred pleasure in treading the halls 
 once vocal with their mirth, to that which 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 en- 
 countered 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 at Cateaton Street and Old Jewry ; of the re- 
 nowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the pride and 
 wonder of the city, and the terror of all unlucky urchins ; and 
 how I visited London Stone, and struck my staff upon it, in 
 imitation of that arch rebel, Jack Cade. 
 
 Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry 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 Stow, " was always famous for its convivial doings. The 
 cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well baked, and 
 other victuals : there was clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, 
 and sawtrie." Alas ! how sadly is the scene changed since the 
 roaring days of Falstaff and old Stow ! 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 carls and the ac- 
 cursed dinging of the dustman's bell ; and no song is heard, save, 
 haply, the strain of some syren 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 
 
112 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 the parting line of two houses, which stand on the site of the re- 
 nowned old tavern. 
 
 For the history of this little empire 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 in- 
 disputable chronicler of the neighbourhood. I found her seated 
 in a little back parlour, the window of which looked out upon 
 a yard about eight feet square, laid out as a flower-garden ; 
 while a glass door opposite afforded a distant peep of the street, 
 through a vista of soap and tallow candles : the two views, 
 which comprised, in all probability, her prospects in life, and 
 the little world in which she had lived, and moved, and had 
 her being, for the better part of a century. 
 
 To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, 
 from London Stone even unto the Monument, was, 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 gene- 
 rally remarked in intelligent old ladies knowing in the concerns 
 of their neighbourhood. 
 
 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 iniqui- 
 ties, which are incident to the sinful race of publicans, endea- 
 voured to make his peace with heaven, by bequeathing the ta- 
 vern to St. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, toward the sup- 
 porting of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings were 
 regularly held there ; but it was observed that the old Boar 
 never held up his head under church government. He gra- 
 dually declined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years 
 since. The tavern was then turned into shops ; but she in- 
 formed me, that a picture of it was still preserved in St. Michael's 
 Church, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of this 
 picture was now my determination ; so, having informed myself 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 113 
 
 of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chro- 
 nicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her 
 opinion of her legendary lore, and furnished an important inci- 
 dent "in the history of her life. 
 
 It cost me some difficulty, and much curious enquiry, to 
 ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church . I had to explore 
 Crooked Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, and dark 
 passages, with which this old city is perforated, like an ancient 
 cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At length I traced 
 him td a corner of a small court, surrounded by lofty houses, 
 where the inhabitants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven 
 as a community of frogs at the bottom of a well. The sexton 
 was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bowing, lowly habit; 
 yet he had a pleasant twinkle in his eye; and, if encouraged, 
 Svould 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 Mil- 
 ton's angels ; discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, 
 and settling the affairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale— - 
 for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate on any weighty 
 matter without the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their un- 
 derstandings. I arrived at the moment when they had finished 
 their ale and their, argument, and were about to repair to the 
 church to put it in order; so, having made known my wishes, I 
 received their gracious permission to accompany them. 
 
 The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing at a 
 short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of 
 many fishmongers of renown ; and as every profession has its ga- 
 laxy of glory, and its constellation of great men, I presume the 
 monument of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regard- 
 ed with as much reverence by succeeding generations of the 
 craft, as poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or sol- 
 diers the monument of a Marlborough or a Turenne. 
 
 T cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious 
 men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains 
 /also the ashes of that doughty champion, William Walworth, 
 Knight, who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat 
 
 8 
 
114 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy of honourable 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 un- 
 der the back windows of what was once the Boar's Head, stands 
 the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilome drawer at the tavern. 
 It is now nearly a century since this trusty drawer of good 
 liquor closed his bustling career, and was thus quietly deposited 
 within call of his customers. As I was clearing away the weeds 
 from his epitaph, the little sexton drew me on one side with a 
 mysterious air, and informed me in a low voice, that once upon 
 a time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, 
 howling, and whistling, banging about doors and windows, and 
 twirling weathercocks, so that the living were frightened out of 
 their beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in their 
 graves, the ghost of honest Preston, which happened to be airing 
 itself in the churchyard, was attracted by the well-known call 
 of "waiter" from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appear- 
 ance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was 
 
 * The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this 
 worthy ; which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration : 
 
 Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
 
 William Walworth callyd by name ; 
 
 Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, 
 
 And twise Lord Maior as in books appere; 
 
 Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 
 
 Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
 
 For which act done, and trew entent, 
 
 The Kyng made him knight incontinent; 
 
 And gave him armes, as here you see, 
 
 To declare his fact and chivaldrie, 
 
 He left this lyif the yere of our God 
 
 Thirteen hondred fourscore and three odd. 
 An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the venerable 
 Stow. " Whereas," saith he, " it hath been far spread abroad by vulgar 
 opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William Walworth, 
 the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, 
 I thought good to reconcile this rash conceived doubt by such testimony as ' 
 I find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders, or captains, of 
 the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man; the second was John, or 
 Jack, Straw, &c. &c." — Stow'* London. 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 115 
 
 singing a stave From the " mime garland of Captain Death;" to 
 the discomfiture of sundry train-band Captains, and the conver- 
 sion of an infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on 
 the spot, and was never known to twist the truth afterwards, 
 except in the way of business. 
 
 I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for 
 the authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is well known that 
 the churchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very 
 much infested with perturbed spirits ; and every one must have 
 heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the 
 regalia in the Tower, which has frightened so many bold cen- 
 tinels 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 Falslaff, the veracity of whose taste no man will 
 venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his 
 sack ; whereas, honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the so- 
 briety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness 
 of his measure.* The w r orthy dignitaries of the church, how- 
 ever, 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 corro- 
 borated his opinion by a significant wink, and a dubious shake 
 of the head. 
 
 * 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 Oil his pots, 
 Had sundry virtues that excus'd his faults, 
 You that on Bacchus have the like dependance, 
 Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance.- 
 
J 16 THE BOAR'S HEAD 
 
 Thus far my researches, (hough they threw much light on 
 the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and lord mayors, yet dis- 
 appointed me in the great object of my quest, the picture of the 
 Boar's Head tavern. No such painting was to be found in the 
 church of St Michael. "Marry and amen!" said I; "here 
 endeth my research !" So I was giving the matter up with the 
 air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton, perceiv- 
 ing me to be curious in every thing relative to the old tavern, 
 offered to show me the choice vessels of* the vestry, which had 
 been handed down from remote times, when the parish meet- 
 ings were held at the Boar's Head. These were deposited in 
 the parish clmVroom, which had been transferred, on the de- 
 cline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 As a few steps brought us to, the house, which stands No. 12. 
 Mile's Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept 
 by Master Edward .Honey-ball, the " bully-rock" of the esta- 
 blishment. 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 neighbourhood. We entered the bar-room, which was 
 narrow and darkling ; for in these close lanes but few rays of 
 reflected light are enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, 
 whose broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room 
 was partitioned. into boxes, each containing a table spread with 
 a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the 
 guests were of the good old stamp, and divided their day equally, 
 for it was but just one o'clock. At the lower end of the room 
 was a clear coal fire, before which abreast of lamb was roasting. 
 A row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened 
 along the mantel-piece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one 
 corner. There was something primitive in this medley of kit- 
 chen, parlour, and hall, that carried me back to earlier times, 
 and pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble ; but every 
 thing had that look of order and neatness, which bespeak the 
 superintendence of a notable English housewife. A group of 
 amphibious-looking beings, who might be either fishermen or 
 sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As I was 
 a visiter of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered into a little 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 117 
 
 mis-shapen back room, having at least nine corners. It was 
 lighted by a skylight, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, 
 and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently 
 appropriated to particular customers, and I found a shabby gen- 
 tleman, in a red nose and oil-cloth hat, seated in one corner me- 
 ditating on a half-empty pot of porter. 
 
 The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air 
 of profound importance imparled to her my errand. Dame Ho- 
 neyball was a likely, plump, bustling, little woman, and no bad 
 substitute for that paragon of hostesses, Dame Quickly. She 
 seemed delighted with an opportunity to oblige ; and hurrying 
 up stairs to the archives of her house, where the precious vessels 
 of the parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and 
 courtesying, with them in her hands. 
 
 The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco-box, 
 of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked 
 at their staled meetings, since lime immemorial ; and which 
 was never suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or used on 
 common occasions. I received it with becoming reverence; but 
 what was my deliglit, at beholding on its cover the identical 
 painting of which I was in quest! There was displayed the 
 oulside of the Boar's Head tavern, and before the door was to 
 be seen the whole'convivial group, at table, in full revel ; pic- 
 tured 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 beany mistake, the cunning limner had warily 
 inscribed (he names of Prince Hal and Falslaffon the bottoms 
 of their chairs. 
 
 On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obli- 
 terated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, 
 for the use of the vestry meeting at the Boar's Head tavern, and 
 that it was " repaired and beautified by his successor, Mr. John 
 Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful description of this au- 
 gust and venerable relic ; and 1 -question whether the learned 
 Scribleiius contemplated his Roman shield, or the Knights of 
 the Round Table the long-sought saint-greal, with more exul- 
 tation. 
 
II* THE BOAR'S HEAD . 
 
 While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dam© 
 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 Wylhers, 
 Knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, 
 being considered very ' ' anfyke." This last opinion was strength- 
 ened by the shabby gentleman in the red nose and oil-cloth 
 hat, and whom I strongly suspect to be 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 aneienl 
 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-gill goblet" on which Falstaffmade 
 his loving, but faithless vow to Dame Quickly ; and which 
 would, of course, be treasured up with care among the regalia 
 of her domains as a testimony of that solemn contract. * 
 
 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 vestrymen who have seated themselves thus quietly on 
 the stools of the ancient royslers of Eastcheap, and, like so 
 many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honour of Shak- 
 speare. These I forbear to relate, lest ray readers should not 
 be as curious in these mailers as myself. Suffice it to say, the 
 neighbours, one and all, about Eastcheap, believe that FalstafI 
 and his merry crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, 
 there are several legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant 
 
 * Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin 
 chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in Whitsun- 
 week, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing 
 man of 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 
 W. Part-It. 
 
TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 119 
 
 among the oldest frequenters of the Masons Arms, which they 
 give as transmitted down from their forefathers ; and Mr. M'Kash, 
 an Irish hair-dresser, whose shop stands on the site of the 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. 
 
 1 now turned to my friend the sexton to make some farther 
 enquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. His 
 head had declined a little on one side ; a deep sigh heaved from 
 the very bottom of his stomach ; and though I could not see a 
 tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently stealing 
 from a corner of his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye 
 through the door which stood open, and found it fixed wist- 
 fully on the savoury 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 
 small token of my gratitude and good-will, I departed with a 
 hearty benediction on him, Dame Honeybali, and the Parish 
 Club of Crooked Lane ; — not forgetting my shabby, but sen- 
 tentious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. 
 
 Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account of this interest- 
 ing research, for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, 
 I can only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, 
 so deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware that a 
 more skilful 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 ; pri- 
 vate anecdotes of Dame Honeybali and her pretty daughter, 
 whom I have not even mentioned ; to say nothing of a damsel 
 lending the breast of lamb (and whom, by the way, I remarked 
 to be a comely lass, with a neat foot and ankle) ; — the wiiole 
 enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the 
 great fire of London. 
 
120 THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 
 
 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 
 subjects of future engravings, and almost as fruitful of volu- 
 minous dissertations and disputes as the shield of Achilles, or 
 the far-famed Portland vase. 
 
THE 
 
 MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 
 
 A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 
 
 I know that all beneath the moon decays. 
 And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
 In time's great periods shall return to nought. 
 
 I know that all the muse's heavenly layes, 
 With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
 As idle sounds, of few »r none are sought, 
 
 That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 
 
 Drummond op Hawthornden 
 
 There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which we 
 naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet 
 haunt, where we may indulge our reveries and build our air 
 castles undisturbed. In such a mood I was loitering about the 
 old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury 
 of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with the name 
 of reflection ; when suddenly an irruption of madcap boys from 
 Westminster School, playing at football, broke in upon the mo- 
 nastic 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 
 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 
 
122 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 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 lighted 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 fire-place. 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, that echoed soberly 
 along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merri- 
 ment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away. The 
 bell ceased to loll, and a profound silence reigned through the 
 dusky hall. 
 
 I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in 
 parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in a 
 venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, however, I was 
 beguiled by the solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the 
 place, into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old 
 volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves, 
 and apparently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but 
 consider the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, 
 like mummies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and 
 moulder in dusty oblivion. 
 
 How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust 
 aside with such indifference, cost some aching head ! how many 
 weary days! how many sleepless nights! How have their 
 authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters ; 
 shut themselves up from the face of man, and the still more 
 blessed face of nature ; and devoted themselves to painful research 
 
OF LITERATURE. 123 
 
 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 tem- 
 porary rumour, a local sound ; like the tone of that bell which 
 has just tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment 
 — lingering transiently in echo— and then passing away like a 
 thing that was not ! 
 
 While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these unprofitable 
 speculations, with my head resting on my hand, I was 
 thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, until I acci- 
 dentally 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 ex- 
 posure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, 
 however, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceed- 
 ingly fluent, conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, 
 was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation, what, in 
 the present day, would be deemed barbarous ; but I shall endea- 
 vour, as far as I am able, to render it in modern parlance. 
 
 It began with railings about the neglect of the world — about 
 merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such 
 common-place topics of literary repining, and complained bit- 
 terly that it had not been opened for more than two centuries ; 
 that the Dean only looked now and then into the library, some- 
 times look down a volume or two, trifled with them for a few 
 moments, and then returned them to their shelves. "What a 
 plague do they mean," said the little quarto, which I began to 
 perceive was somewhat choleric, — "what a plague do they 
 mean by keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here, 
 and watched by a set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a 
 harem, merely to be looked at now and then by the Dean ? 
 Books were written to give pleasure and to be enjoyed ; and I 
 would have a rule passed that the Dean should pay each of us a 
 
124 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 visit at least once a year ; or if he is not equal to the task, let 
 them once in a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster 
 among us, that at any rate we may now and then have an airing. ' ' 
 
 " Softly, my worthy friend," replied I; " you are not aware 
 how much better you are off than most books of your generation 
 By being stored away in this ancient library, you are like the 
 treasured remains of those saints and monarchs which lie en- 
 shrined in the adjoining chapels; while the remains of their 
 contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of nature, 
 have long since returned to dust." 
 
 ';• Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking big, 
 * ' I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an 
 abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like 
 other great contemporary works ; but here have I been clasped 
 up for more than two centuries, and might have silently fallen a 
 prey to these worms that are playing the very vengeance with 
 my intestines, if you had not by chance given me an opportunity 
 of uttering a few last words before I go to pieces." 
 
 "My good friend," rejoined I, "had you been left to the 
 circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this have 
 been no more. To judge from your physiognomy, you are now 
 well stricken in years : very few of your contemporaries can be 
 at present in existence ; and those few owe their longevity to 
 being immured like yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me 
 to add, instead of likening to harems, you might more properly 
 and gratefully have compared to those infirmaries attached to 
 religious establishments, for the benefit of the old and decrepit, 
 and where, by quiet fostering and no employment, they often 
 endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of 
 your contemporaries as if in circulation — where do you meet 
 with their works? what do we hear of Robert Grosteste of Lin- 
 coln? No one could have toiled harder than he for immor- 
 tality. He is said to have written nearly two hundred volumes. 
 He built, as it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name ; 
 but, alas! the pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few- 
 fragments are scattered in various libraries, where they are scarce- 
 ly disturbed even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of 
 Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquarian, philosopher, 
 
OF LITERATURE. 125 
 
 theologian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics that he might 
 shut himself up and write for posterity ; but posterity never en- 
 quiresafter his labours. What of Henry of Huntingdon, who, 
 besides a learned History of England, wrote a treatise on the 
 contempt of the world, which the world has revenged by for- 
 getting him? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the 
 miracle of his age in classical composition? Of his three great 
 heroic poems one is lost for ever, excepting a mere fragment : 
 the others are known only to a few of the curious in literature ; 
 and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely dis- 
 appeared. What is in current use of John Wallis, the Fran- 
 ciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life? Of William 
 of Malmsbury ; of Simeon of Durham ; of Benedict of Peter- 
 borough ; of John Hanvil of St. Albans ; of— — " 
 
 "Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, "how 
 old do you think me ? You are talking of authors that lived long 
 before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that 
 they in a manner expatriated themselves, and deserved to be 
 forgotten;* but I, sir, was ushered into the world from the 
 press of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in 
 my own native tongue at a time when the language had become 
 fixed ; and indeed I was considered a model of pure and elegant 
 English.". 
 
 (I should observe that these remarks were couched in such 
 intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty 
 in rendering them into modern phraseology.) 
 
 "I cry your mercy," said I, 'for mistaking your age; but 
 it matters little ; almost all the writers of your time have likewise 
 passed into forge If ulness; and De Worde's publications are mere 
 literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stabi- 
 lity of language, too, on which you found your claims to perpe- 
 tuity, have been the fallacious dependence of authors of every 
 age, even back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, 
 
 * In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to 
 endite and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes there ben some thai 
 speaken their poisye in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as 
 good a fantasye as we have in hearyng of Frenchmen's Englishe. — Chaucer's 
 Testament of Lovp. 
 
126 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon.* Even 
 now many talk of Spencer's "well of pure English undefiled," 
 as if the language ever sprang from a well or fountain head, 
 and was not rather a mere confluence of various tongues, per- 
 petually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this which 
 has made English literature so extremely mutable, and the re- 
 putation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be com- 
 mitted to something more permanent and unchangeable than 
 such a medium, even thought must share the fate of every thing 
 else, and fall into decay. This should serve as a check upon 
 the vanity and exultation of the most popular writer. He finds 
 the language in which he has embarked his fame gradually al- 
 tering, and subject to the dilapidations of time and the caprice 
 of fashion. He looks back and beholds the early authors of his 
 country, once the favourites of their day, supplanted by modern 
 writers. A few short ages have covered them with obscurity, 
 and their merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of the 
 bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of his 
 own work, which, however it may be admired in its day, and 
 held up as a model of purity, will in the course of years grow 
 antiquated and obsolete ; until it shall become almost as unin- 
 telligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of 
 those Runic inscriptions, said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. 
 I declare," added I, with some emotion, " when I contemplate 
 a modern library, filled with new works in all the bravery of 
 rich gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; 
 like the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked out 
 in all the splendour of military array, and reflected that in one 
 hundred years not one of them would be in existence!" 
 
 "Ah!" said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see 
 how it is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good 
 
 * Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, " afterwards, also, by diligent 
 travell of Geffry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of Richard the 
 Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie, 
 our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it 
 never came unto the type of perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, 
 wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and 
 excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornalure of the same, to their 
 great praise and immortal commendation." 
 
OF LITERATURE. 127 
 
 old authors. I suppose nothing is read now-a-days but Sir 
 Philip Sidney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays, and Mirror 
 for Magistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the ' unparalleled 
 John Lyly." 
 
 " There you are again mistaken," said I ; "the writers whom 
 you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when 
 you were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir 
 Philip Sidney's Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly 
 predicted by his admirers,* and which, in truth, is full of noble 
 thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is 
 now scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into ob- 
 scurity; and even Lyly, though his writings were once the 
 delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, 
 is now scarcely known even by name. A whole crowd of 
 authors who wrote and wrangled at the time have likewise gone 
 down, with all their writings and their controversies. Wave 
 after wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until 
 they are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that 
 some industrious diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a 
 specimen for the gratification of the curious. 
 
 " For my part/' I continued, "I consider this mutability of 
 language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the 
 world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason from 
 analogy ; we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of ve- 
 getables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short 
 time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their succes- 
 sors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature would 
 be a grievance instead of a blessing. The earth would groan 
 with rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface become a 
 tangled wilderness. In like manner the works of genius and 
 learning decline, and make way for subsequent productions. 
 
 * Live ever sweete booke, the simple image of his "gentle witt, and the 
 golden pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto the world that thy 
 writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey 
 bee of the dayntiest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intel- 
 lectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the tongue of Suada in the 
 chamber, the sprite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellency in 
 print. 
 
 Harvey'* Pierce's Supererogation. 
 
128 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings 
 of authors who have flourished their allotted time ; otherwise, 
 the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, and 
 the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless mazes 
 of literature. Formerly there were some restraints on this 
 excessive multiplication. Works had to be transcribed by hand, 
 which was a slow and laborious operation : they were written 
 either on parchment, which was expensive, so that one work 
 was often erased to make way for another ; or on papyrus, 
 which was fragile and extremely perishable. Authorship was a 
 limited and unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the 
 leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of 
 manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to 
 monasteries. To these circumstances it may, in some measure, 
 be owing that we have noj been inundated by the intellect of 
 antiquity ; that the fountains of thought have not been broken 
 up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the inven- 
 tions of paper and the press have put an end to all these re- 
 straints. They have made every one a writer, and enabled every 
 mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself over the whole 
 intellectual world. The consequences are alarming. The stream 
 of literature has swoln into a torrent — augmented into a river 
 — expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or six hun- 
 dred manuscripts constituted a great library ; but what would 
 you say to libraries such as actually exist, containing three and 
 four hundred thousand volumes ; legions of authors at the same 
 lime busy ; and the press going on with fearfully increasing ac- 
 tivity, to double and quadruple the number? Unless some 
 unforeseen mortality should break out among the progeny of 
 the Muse, novv that she has become so prolific, I tremble for 
 posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be 
 sufficient. Criticism may do much. It increases with the in- 
 crease of literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks 
 on population spoken of by economists. All possible encou- 
 ragement, therefore, should be given to the growth of critics, 
 good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain ; let criticism do 
 what it may, writers will write, printers will print, and the 
 world will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will 
 
OF LITERATURE. 129 
 
 soon be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn their 
 names. Many a man of passable information, at the present 
 day, reads scarcely any thing but Reviews ; and before long a 
 man of erudition will be little better than a mere walking cata- 
 logue." 
 
 " My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 
 drearily in my face, ' ' excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive 
 you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an au- 
 thor who was making some noise just as I left the world. His 
 reputation, however, was considered quite temporary. The 
 learned shook their heads at him, for he was a poor half- 
 educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, 
 and had been obliged to run the country for deer-stealing. I 
 think his name was Shakspeare. I presume he soon sunk into 
 oblivion." 
 
 "On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very man 
 that the literature of his period has experienced a duration 
 beyond the ordinary term of English literature. There rise 
 authors now and then, who seem proof against the mutability 
 of language, because they have rooted themselves in the un- 
 changing principles of human nature. They are like gigantic 
 trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream; which 
 by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere sur- 
 face, and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, pre- 
 serve the soil around them from being swept away by the ever- 
 flowing current, and hold up many a neighbouring plant, and, 
 perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with 
 Shakspeare, whom we behold defying the encroachments of 
 time, retaining in modern use the language and literature of his 
 day, and giving duration to many an indifferent author, merely 
 from having flourished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve 
 to say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, and his whole form 
 is overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, like clamber- 
 ing vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant that up- 
 holds them." 
 
 Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, 
 until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of laughter that 
 had well nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpu- 
 
 9 
 
130 THE MUTABILITY 
 
 lency. " Mighty well !" cried he, as soon as he could recover 
 breath, " mighty well! and so you would persuade me that the 
 literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer- 
 stealer! by a man without learning : by a poet, forsooth — a 
 poet !" And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. 
 
 I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which 
 I ascribed to his having flourished in a less polished age. I 
 determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point. 
 
 " Yes," resumed I, positively, " a poet ; for of all writers he 
 has the best chance for immortality. Others may write from 
 the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always 
 understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of nature, whose 
 features are always the same, and always interesting. Prose 
 writers are voluminous and unwieldy ; their pages crowded with 
 common-places, and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. 
 But with the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or bril- 
 liant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. 
 He illustrates them by every thing that he sees most striking in 
 nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, 
 such as it is, passing before him. His writings, therefore, con- 
 tain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in 
 which he lives. They are caskets which enclose within a small 
 compass the wealth of the language — its family jewels, which 
 are thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The setting 
 may occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to be 
 renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and in- 
 trinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back 
 over the long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of 
 dulness, filled with monkish legends and academical contro- 
 versies! What bogs of theological speculations; what dreary 
 wastes of metaphysics ! Here and there only do we behold the 
 heaven-illumined bards, elevated like beacons on their widely- 
 separated heights, to transmit the pure light of poetical intelli- 
 gence from age to age." * 
 
 * Thorow earth and waters deepe, 
 The pen by skill doth passe: 
 And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 
 And shoes us in a slasse, 
 
OF LITERATURE. 131 
 
 1 was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the 
 poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused 
 me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform 
 me that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a 
 parting word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was 
 silent : the clasps were closed ; and it looked perfectly uncon- 
 scious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two 
 or three times since, and endeavoured to draw it into further 
 conversation, but in vain ; and whether all this rambling colloquy 
 actually took place, or whether it was another of those odd day- 
 dreams to which I am subject, I have never to this moment 
 been able to discover. 
 
 The vertu and the vice 
 
 Of every wight alyve ; 
 The honey comb that bee doth make 
 
 Is not so sweete in hy ve, 
 As are the golden leves 
 
 That drops from poets head : 
 Which doth surmount our common talke 
 
 As farre as dross doth lead. 
 
 Churchyard, 
 
 9* 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 Here's a few flowers ! but about midnight more : 
 The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night 
 Are strewings fitt'st for graves—— 
 You were as flowers now withered ; even so 
 These herb'lets shall, which we upon you strow. 
 
 Cymbeline, 
 
 Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural life 
 which still linger in some parts of England, are those of strew- 
 ing flowers before the funerals, and planting them at the graves, 
 of departed friends. These, it is said, are the remains of some 
 of the rites of the primitive church ; but they are of still higher 
 antiquity, having been observed among the Greeks and Romans, 
 and frequently mentioned by their writers, and were, no doubt, 
 the spontaneous tributes of unlettered affection, originating long 
 before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, or 
 story it on the monument. They are now only to be met with 
 in the most distant and retired places of the kingdom, where 
 fashion and innovation have not been able to throng in, and 
 trample out all the curious and interesting traces of the olden 
 time. 
 
 In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse 
 lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the 
 wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : 
 
 White his shroud as the mountain snow, 
 
 Larded all with sweet flowers : 
 Which be-wept to the grave did go, 
 
 With true love showers. 
 
 There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in 
 some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a fe- 
 
134 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 male who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet of white 
 flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl nearest in 
 age, size, and resemblance, and is afterwards hung up in the 
 church over the accustomed seat of the deceased. These 
 chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, in imitation of 
 flowers, and inside of them is generally a pair of white gloves. 
 They are intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, 
 and the crown of glory which she has received in heaven. 
 
 In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to the 
 grave with the singing of psalms and hymns : a kind of triumph, 
 " to show," says Bourne, ''that they have finished their course 
 with joy, and are become conquerors." This, 1 am informed, 
 is observed in some of the northern counties, particularly in 
 Northumberland, and it has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, 
 to hear, of a still evening, in some lonely country scene, the 
 mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, 
 and to see the train slowly moving along the landscape. 
 
 Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
 Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground, 
 And as we sing thy dirge, we will 
 
 The Daffodil], 
 And other flowers lay upon 
 The altar of our love, thy stone. 
 
 Herrick. 
 
 There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to the 
 passing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such spectacles, 
 occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep into the 
 soul. As the mourning train approaches, he pauses, uncovered, 
 to let it go by ; he then follows silently in the rear , sometimes 
 quite to the grave, at other times for a few hundred yards, and 
 having paid this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and 
 resumes his journey. 
 
 The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English 
 character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling 
 graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the 
 solicitude shown by the common people for an honoured and a 
 peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be his 
 lowly lot while living, is anxious that some little respect may 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 135 
 
 be paid lo his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the 
 " faire and happy milkmaid," observes, " thus lives she, and 
 all her care is, that she may die in the spring time, to have 
 store of flowers slucke upon her winding sheet." The poets, 
 too, who always breathe the feeling of a nation, continually 
 advert to this fond solicitude about the grave. In " The Maid's 
 Tragedy," by Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful in- 
 stance of the kind, describing the capricious melancholy of a 
 broken-hearted girl : — 
 
 When she sees a bank 
 Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
 Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
 To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 
 Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 
 
 The custom of decorating graves was once universally pre- 
 valent ; osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the turf 
 uninjured, and about them were planted evergreens and flowers. 
 "We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his Sylva, " with 
 flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the life of man, 
 which has been compared in Holy Scriptures to those fading 
 beauties, w r hose roots being buried in dishonour, rise again in 
 glory." This usage has now become extremely rare in Eng- 
 land ; but it may still be met with in the churchyards of retired 
 villages, among the Welsh mountains ; and I recollect an in- 
 stance of it at the small town of Ruthen, which lies at the head 
 of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been told also by a 
 friend, who was present at the funeral of a young girl in 
 Glamorganshire, that the female attendants had their aprons 
 full of flowers, which, as soon as the body was interred, they 
 stuck about the grave. 
 
 He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the 
 same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the 
 ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might be 
 seen in various states of decay ; some drooping, others quite 
 perished. They were afterwards to be supplanted by holly, 
 rosemary, and other evergreens; which on some graves had 
 :irown to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tombstones. 
 
 There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrange- 
 
136 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 ment of these rustic offerings, that had something in it truly 
 poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to 
 form a general emblem of frail mortality. ' ' This sweet flower, ' • 
 said Evelyn, "borne on a branch set with thorns, and accom- 
 panied with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, 
 umbratile, anxious, and transitory life, which, making so fair a 
 show for a time, is not yet without its thorns and crosses." 
 The nature and colour of the flowers, and of the ribands with 
 which they were tied, had often a particular reference to the 
 qualities or story of the deceased, or were expressive of the 
 feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled " Corydon's 
 Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the decorations he intends to 
 use : — 
 
 A garland shall be framed 
 
 By Art and Nature's skill, 
 Of sundry-coloured flowers, 
 
 In token of good-will. 
 
 And sundry -coloured ribands ] 
 
 On it I will bestow ; 
 But chiefly blacke and yellowe 
 With her to grave shall go. 
 
 I 'U deck her tomb with flowers, 
 
 The rarest ever seen ; 
 And with my tears as showers, 
 
 I'll keep them fresh and green. 
 
 The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a 
 virgin : her.chaplet was tied with white ribands, in token of her 
 spotless innocence ; though sometimes black ribands were in- 
 termingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose 
 was occasionally used in remembrance of such as had been re- 
 markable for benevolence ; but roses in general were appropriated 
 to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not 
 altogether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the county 
 of Surrey, " where the maidens yearly planted and decked the 
 graves of their defunct sweet-hearts with rose-bushes." And 
 Camden likewise remarks, in his Britannia ; ' ' Here is also a 
 certain custom, observed time out of mind, of planting rose-trees 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 137 
 
 upon the graves especially, by the young men and maids who 
 have lost their loves ; so that this churchyard is now full of 
 them . 
 
 When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems 
 of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and 
 cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they were of the most me- 
 lancholy colours. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. 
 published in 1651,) is the following stanza I 
 
 Yet strew 
 Upon my disinall grave 
 Such offerings as you have, 
 
 Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe ; 
 For kinder flowers can take no birth 
 Or growth from such unhappy earth. 
 
 In " The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is introduced, 
 illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females 
 who had been disappointed in love : — 
 
 Lay a garland on my hearse 
 
 Of the dismall yew, 
 Maidens wallow branches wear, 
 
 Say I died true. 
 My love was false, but I was firm, 
 
 From my hour of birth, 
 Upon my buried body lie 
 
 Lightly, gentle earth. 
 
 The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and 
 elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity of sen- 
 timent and the unaffected elegance of thought which pervaded 
 the whole of these funeral observances. Thus, it was an especial 
 precaution, that none but sweet-scented evergreens and flowers 
 should be employed. The intention seems to have been to 
 soften the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind from brood- 
 ing over the disgraces of perishing mortality, and to associate the 
 memory of the deceased with the most delicate and beautiful 
 objects in nature. There is a dismal process going on in the 
 grave, ere dust can return to its kindred dust, which the ima- 
 gination shrinks from contemplating ; and we seek still to think 
 of the form we have loved, with those refined associations which 
 
138 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 it awakened when blooming before us in youth and beauty, 
 " Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes of his virgin sister,— 
 
 And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
 May violets spring! 
 
 Herrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a fra- 
 grant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner 
 embalms the dead in the recollections of the living. 
 
 Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spiee, 
 
 And make this place all Paradise : 
 
 May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence, 
 
 Fat frankincence. 
 Let balme and cassia send their scent 
 From out thy maiden monument. 
 
 May all shie maids at wonted hours 
 
 Come forth to strew thy tomhe with flowers ! 
 
 May virgins, when they come to mourn, 
 
 Male incense burn 
 Upon thine altar ! then return 
 And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 
 
 I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British 
 poets, who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, and de- 
 lighted frequently to allude to them; but I have already quoted 
 more than is necessary. I cannot how T ever refrain from giving 
 a passage from Shakspeare, even though it should appear trite ; 
 which illustrates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in 
 these floral tributes; and the same time possesses that magic of 
 language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands pre- 
 eminent. 
 
 With fairest flowers, 
 Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
 I '11 sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 
 The flower that 's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
 The azured harebell like thy veins : no, nor 
 The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, 
 Outsweetened not thy breath. 
 
 There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt 
 and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the most costly mo- 
 numents of art : the hand strews the flower while the heart is 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 139 
 
 warm, and the tear falls on the grave as affection is binding the 
 osier round the sod ; but pathos expires under the slow labour of 
 the chisel, and is chilled among the cold conceits of sculptured 
 marble. 
 
 It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly elegant and 
 touching has disappeared from general use, and exists only in the 
 most remote and insignificant villages. But it seems as if poe- 
 tical custom always shuns the walks of cultivated society. In 
 proportion as people grow polite, they cease to be poetical. They 
 talk of poetry, but they have learnt to check its free impulses, to 
 distrust its sallying emotions, and to supply its most affecting and 
 picturesque usages, by studied form and pompous ceremonial. 
 Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than an English 
 funeral in town. It is made up of show and gloomy parade: 
 mourning carriages, mourning horses, mourning plumes, and 
 hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief. " There is 
 a grave digged." says Jeremy Taylor, " and a solemn mourn- 
 ing, and a great talk in the neighbourhood, and when the daies 
 are finished, they shall be remembered no more." The asso- 
 ciate in the gay and crowded city is soon forgotten ; the hurrying 
 succession of new intimates and new pleasures effaces him from 
 our minds, and the very scenes and circles in which he moved 
 are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the country are so- 
 lemnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider space 
 in the village circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil uni- 
 formity of rural life. The passing-bell tolls its knell in every 
 ear ; it steals with its pervading melancholy over every hill and 
 vale, and saddens all the landscape. 
 
 The fixed and unchanging features of the country also perpe- 
 tuate the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed 
 them ; who was the companion of our most retired walks, and 
 gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea is associated 
 with every charm of nature ; we hear his voice in the echo which 
 he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit haunts every grove 
 which he once frequented ; we think of him in the wild upland 
 solitude, or amidst the pensive beauty of the valley. In the 
 freshness of joyous morning, we remember his beaming smiles 
 and bounding gaiety; and when sober evening returns with il^ 
 
140 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a 
 twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet-souled melancholy. 
 
 Each lonely place shall him restore, 
 
 For him the tear be duly shed ; 
 Beloved, till life can charm no more ; 
 And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. 
 
 Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the deceased in 
 the country, is, that the grave is more immediately in sight of the 
 survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer : it meets their 
 eyes when their hearts are softened by the exercises of devotion ; 
 they linger about it on the Sabbath, when the mind is disen- 
 gaged from worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside from 
 present pleasures and present loves, and to sit down amongst the 
 solemn mementos of the past In North Wales the peasantry 
 kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friends for se- 
 veral Sundays after the interment ; and where the tender rite of 
 strewing and planting flowers is still practised, it is always re- 
 newed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the 
 season brings the companion of former festivity more vividly to 
 mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest relatives 
 and friends ; no menials nor hirelings are employed ; and if a 
 neighbour yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult to 
 offer compensation. 
 
 I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as it 
 is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love. The 
 grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine 
 passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive 
 impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter must be con- 
 tinually refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its object; 
 but the love that is seated in the soul can live on long remem- 
 brance. The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline 
 with the charms which excited them, and turn with shuddering 
 disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb; but it is thence 
 that truly spiritual affection rises purified from every sensual 
 desire, and returns like a holy flame to illumine and sanctify the 
 heart of the survivor. 
 
 The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 141 
 
 refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — 
 every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a 
 duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over in 
 solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the 
 infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every 
 recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly 
 forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but 
 to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the 
 friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is 
 closing upon the remains of her he most loved ; when he feels his 
 heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; would 
 accept of consolation that must be bought by forge tfulness? — No, 
 the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes 
 of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and 
 when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle 
 tear of recollection ; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive 
 agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened 
 away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its 
 loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? 
 Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright 
 hour of gaiety ; or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of 
 gloom; yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, 
 or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb 
 sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to 
 which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the 
 grave!— the grave !— It buries every error— covers every defect 
 —extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom 
 spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can 
 look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a 
 compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with the 
 poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him? 
 
 But the grave of those we loved — what a place for medita- 
 tion I There it is that we call up in long review the whole 
 history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments 
 lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of 
 intimacy— there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the 
 solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of 
 death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance — its 
 
142 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring 
 love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh, how thrilling! — 
 pressure of the hand. The last fond look of the glazing eye 
 turning upon us even from the threshold of existence! The 
 faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more 
 assurance of affection ! 
 
 Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There 
 settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit un- 
 requited — every past endearment unregarded, of that departed 
 being, who can never — never — never return to be soothed by 
 thy contrition ! 
 
 If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, 
 or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent — if 
 thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that 
 ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment 
 of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou art a friend, and hast ever 
 wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that gene- 
 rously confided in thee — if thou art a lover, and hast ever given 
 one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and 
 still beneath thy feet; — then be sure that every unkind look, 
 every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come throng- 
 ing back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy 
 soul — then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and re- 
 pentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour 
 the unavailing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard 
 and unavailing. 
 
 Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of 
 nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, 
 with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning 
 by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and 
 henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of 
 thy duties to the living. 
 
 In writing the preceding article, it was not pretended to give 
 a full detail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, 
 but merely to furnish a few hints and quotations illustrative of 
 particular rites to be appended, by way of note, to another 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 143 
 
 paper, which has been withheld. The article swelled insensibly 
 into its present form, and this is mentioned as an apology for so 
 brief and casual a notice of these usages, after they have been 
 amply and learnedly investigated in other works. 
 
 I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this custom 
 of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other countries be- 
 sides England. Indeed, in some it is much more general, and 
 is observed even by the rich and fashionable ; but it is then apt 
 to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate into affectation. Bright, 
 in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of monuments of mar- 
 ble, and recesses formed for retirement, with seats placed among 
 bowers of greenhouse plants ; and that the graves generally are 
 covered with the gayest flowers of the season. He gives a 
 casual picture of filial piety, which I cannot but describe; for I 
 trust it is as useful as it is delightful, to illustrate the amiable 
 virtues of the sex. " When I was at Berlin," says he, "I fol- 
 lowed the celebrated Iffland to the grave. Mingled with some 
 pomp, you might trace much real feeling. In the midst of the 
 ceremony, my attention was attracted by a young woman who 
 stood on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf, which she 
 anxiously protected from the feet of the passing crowd. It was 
 the tomb of her parent ; and the figure of this affectionate daugh- 
 ter presented a monument more striking than the most costly 
 work of art." 
 
 I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I 
 once met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was at 
 the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the Lake 
 of Lucern, at the foot of Mount Rigi. It was once the capital 
 of a miniature republic, shut up between the Alps and the Lake, 
 and accessible on the land side only by footpaths. The whole 
 force of the republic did not exceed six hundred fighting men ; 
 and a few miles of circumference, scoped out as it were from the 
 bosom of the mountains, comprised its territory. The village 
 of Gerseau seemed separated from the rest of the word , and 
 retained the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a small 
 church, with a burying ground adjoining. At the heads of the 
 graves were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some were 
 affixed miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at 
 
144 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 likenesses of the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets 
 of flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if occasionally re- 
 newed. I paused with interest at this scene; I felt that I was 
 at the source of poetical description , for these were the beau- 
 tiful but unaffected offerings of the heart which poets are fain 
 to record. In a gayer and more populous place, I should have 
 suspected them to have been suggested by factitious sentiment, 
 derived from books ; but the good people of Gersau knew little 
 of books ; there was not a novel nor a love poem in the village ; 
 and I question whether any peasant of the place dreamt, while 
 he was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, 
 that he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful riles of poetical 
 devotion, and that he was practically a poet. ' 
 
THE 
 
 INN KITCHEN. 
 
 Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? 
 
 Falstaff. 
 
 During a journey that I once made through the Netherlands, I 
 had arrived one evening at the Pomme dOr, the principal inn 
 of a small Flemish village. It was after the hour of the table 
 d'hote, so that I was obliged to make a solitary supper from the 
 relics of its ampler board. The weather was chilly: I was 
 seated alone in one end of a great gloomy dining-room, and my 
 repast being over, I had the prospect before me of a long dull 
 evening, without any visible means of enlivening it. I sum- 
 moned mine host, and requested something to read ; he brought 
 me the whole literary stock of his household, a Dutch family 
 Bible, an almanack in the same language, and a number of old 
 Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, 
 reading old news and stale criticisms, my ear was now and then 
 struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to proceed from the 
 kitchen. Every one that has travelled on the Continent must 
 know how favourite a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to 
 the middle and inferior order of travellers ; particularly in that 
 equivocal kind of weather, when a fire becomes agreeable toward 
 evening. I threw aside the newspaper, and explored my way 
 to the kitchen, to take a peep at the group that appeared to be 
 so merry. It was composed partly of travellers who had arrived 
 some hours before in a diligence, and partly of the usual atten- 
 dants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round a great 
 burnished stove, that might have been mislaken for an altar, at 
 
 10 
 
146 THE INN KITCHEN. 
 
 which they were worshipping. It was covered with various 
 kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness; among which steamed 
 and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A large lamp threw a strong 
 mass of light upon the group, bringing out many odd features 
 in strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the spacious 
 kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners ; except where 
 they settled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of 
 bacon, or were reflected back from well-scoured ustensils, that 
 gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, 
 with long golden pendents in her ears, and a necklace with a 
 golden heart suspended to it, was the presiding priestess of the 
 temple. 
 
 Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most 
 of them with some kind of evening potation. T found their 
 mirth was occasioned by anecdotes, which a little swarthy 
 Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and large whiskers, was 
 giving of his love adventures ; at the end of each of which there 
 was one of those bursts of honest unceremonious laughter, in 
 which a man indulges in that temple of true liberty, an inn . 
 
 As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious blustering 
 evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened to a variety 
 of travellers' tales, some very extravagant, and most very dull. 
 All of them, however, have faded from my treacherous memory 
 except one, which I will endeavour to relate. I fear, however, 
 it derived its chief zest from the manner in which it was told, 
 and the peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. He was 
 a corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveller. 
 He was dressed in a tarnished green travelling jacket, with a 
 broad belt round his waist, and a pair of overalls, with buttons 
 from the hips to the ankles. He was of a full rubicund counte- 
 nance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a pleasant twink- 
 ling eye. His hair was light, and curled from under an old 
 green velvet travelling cap stuck on one side of his head. He 
 was interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests, or the 
 remarks of his auditors ; and paused now and then to replenish 
 his pipe ; at which times he had generally a roguish leer, and a 
 sly joke for the buxom kitchen maid. 
 
THE INN KITCHEN. 147 
 
 I wish my reader could imagine the old fellow lolling in a 
 huge arm-chair, one arm a-kimbo, the other holding a curiously 
 twisted tobacco-pipe, formed of genuine ecume de mer, deco- 
 rated with silver chain and silken tassel — his head cocked on 
 one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he re- 
 lated the following story. 
 
 10 
 
THE 
 
 SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 
 
 A TRAVELLER'S TALE.* 
 
 He that supper for is dight, 
 
 He lyes full cold, I trow, this night ! 
 
 Yestreen to chamber I him led, 
 
 This night Gray-steel has made his bed. 
 
 Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel, 
 
 On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild 
 and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies not far from the 
 confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood, many, many 
 years since, the Castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now 
 quite fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech trees and 
 dark firs ; above which, however, its old watch-tower may still 
 be seen struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, 
 to carry a high head, and look down upon the neighbouring 
 country. 
 
 The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenel- 
 lenbogen,f and inherited the relics of the property, and all the 
 pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his pre- 
 decessors had much impaired the family possessions, yet the 
 Baron still endeavoured to keep up some show of former state. 
 The times were peaceable, and the German nobles, in general, 
 
 * The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will perceive 
 that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little 
 French anecdote of a circumstance said to have taken place at Paris, 
 
 t i- e. Cat's Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very powerful 
 in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compliment to 
 a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for a fine arm. 
 
150 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles' 
 nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient re- 
 sidences in the valleys : still the Baron remained proudly drawn 
 up in his little fortress, cherishing, with hereditary inveteracy, 
 all the old family feuds ; so that he was on ill terms with some 
 of his nearest neighbours, on account of disputes that had hap- 
 pened between their great great grandfathers. 
 
 The Baron had but one child, a daughter; but nature, when 
 she grants but one child, always compensates by making it a 
 prodigy ; and so it was with the daughter of the Baron. All the 
 nurses, gossips, and country cousins, assured her father that she 
 had not her equal for beauty in all Germany ; and who should 
 know better than they? She had, moreover, been brought up 
 with great care under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, 
 who had spent some years of their early life at one of the little 
 German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of know- 
 ledge necessary to the education of a fine lady. Under their 
 instructions, she became a miracle of accomplishments. By the 
 time she was eighteen, she could embroider to admiration, and 
 had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry, with such 
 strength of expression in their countenances, that they looked 
 like so many souls in purgatory. She could read without great 
 difficulty, and had spelled her way through several church 
 legends, and almost all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. 
 She had even made considerable proficiency in writing ; could 
 sign her own name without missing a letter, and so legibly that 
 her aunts could read it without spectacles. She excelled in 
 making little elegant good-for-nothing-lady-like knick-knacks 
 of all kinds; was versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day ; 
 played a number of airs on the harp and guitar ; and knew all 
 the tender ballads of the Minnielieders by heart. 
 
 Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their 
 younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guar- 
 dians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece; for there 
 is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a 
 superannuated coquette. She was rarely suffered out of their 
 sight ; never went beyond the domains of the castle, unless well 
 attended, or rather well watched ; had continual leetures read 
 # 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 151 
 
 to her about strict decorum and implicit obedience ; and, as to 
 the men — pah ! — she was taught to hold them at such distance, 
 and in such absolute distrust, that, unless properly authorised, 
 she would not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier 
 in the world — no, not if he were even dying at her feet. 
 
 The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. 
 The young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. 
 While others were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the 
 world, and liable to be plucked and thrown aside by every hand ; 
 she was coyly blooming into fresh and lovely womanhood under 
 the protection of those immaculate spinsters, like a rose-bud 
 blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon 
 her with pride and exultation ; and vaunted that though all the 
 other young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thank 
 Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress of 
 Katzenellenbogen . 
 
 But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be 
 provided with children, his household was by no means a small 
 one ; for Providence had enriched him with abundance of poor 
 relations. They, one and all, possessed the affectionate dispo- 
 sition common to humble relatives ; were wonderfully attached 
 to the Baron, and took every possible occasion to come in swarms 
 and enliven the castle. All family festivals were commemo- 
 rated by these good people at the Baron's expense ; and when 
 they were filled with good cheer, they would declare that there 
 was nothing on earth so delightful as these family meetings, 
 these jubilees of the heart. 
 
 The Baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it 
 swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest 
 man in the little world about him. He loved to tell long stories 
 about the stark old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down 
 from the walls around, and he found no listeners equal to those 
 who fed at his expense. He was much given to the marvellous, 
 and a firm believer in all those supernatural tales with which 
 every mountam and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of 
 his guests exceeded even his own : they listened to every tale of 
 wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be asto- 
 nished, even though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus 
 
152 t THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, the ab- 
 solute monarch of his little territory, and happy, above all things, 
 in the persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age. 
 
 At the time of which my story treats, there was a great family 
 gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost importance i 
 it was to receive the destined bridegroom of the Baron's daughter. 
 A negociation had been carried on between the father and an old 
 nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the 
 marriage of their children. The preliminaries had been con- 
 ducted with proper punctilio. The young people were be- 
 trothed without seeing each other ; and the time was appointed 
 for the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg 
 had been recalled from the army for the purpose, and was ac- 
 tually on his way to the Baron's to receive his bride. Missives 
 had even been received from him, from Wurtzburg, where he 
 was accidentally detained, mentioning the day and hour when 
 he might be expected .to arrive. 
 
 The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suit- 
 able welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with un- 
 common care. The two aunts had superintended her toilet, and 
 quarrelled the whole morning about every article of her dress. 
 The young lady had taken advantage of their contest to follow 
 the bent of her own taste; and fortunately it was a good one. 
 She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could desire ; and 
 the flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of her charms. 
 
 The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle 
 heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all 
 betrayed the soft tumult that was going on in her little heart. 
 The aunts were continually hovering around her; for maiden 
 aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of this nature. They 
 were giving her a world of staid counsel how to deport herself, 
 what to say, and in what manner to receive the expected lover. 
 
 The Baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in 
 truth, nothing exactly to do; but he was naturally a fuming, 
 bustling little man, and could not remain passive when all the 
 world was in a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of the castle 
 with an air of infinite anxiety : he continually called the servants 
 from their work to exhort them to be diligent ; and buzzed about 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 153 
 
 every hall and chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a 
 blue-botle fly on a warm summer's day. 
 
 In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed ; the forests 
 had rung with the clamour of the huntsmen ; the kitchen was 
 crowded with good cheer ; the cellars had yielded up whole 
 oceans ol. Rhein-we in and Fern e-wein ; and even the great Heidel- 
 burg tun had been laid under contribution. Every thing was 
 ready to receive the distinguished guest with Saus und Braus in 
 the true spirit of German hospitality — but the guest delayed to 
 make his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that 
 had poured his downward rays upon the rich forests of the 
 Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of the mountains. 
 The Baron mounted the highest tower, and strained his eyes in 
 hopes of catching a distant sight of the Count and his attendants. 
 Once he thought he beheld them ; the sound of horns came float- 
 ing from the valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A 
 number of horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing 
 along the road ; but when they had nearly reached the foot of 
 the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction. 
 The last ray of sunshine departed — the bats began to flit by in 
 the twilight — the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view ; 
 and nothing appeared stirring in it, but now and then a peasant 
 lagging homeward from his labour. 
 
 While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of per- 
 plexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a different 
 part of the Odenwald. 
 
 The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his 
 route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a man travels toward 
 matrimony when his friends have taken all the trouble and un- 
 certainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for 
 him, as certainly as a dinner at the end of his journey. He had 
 encountered, at Wurtzburg, a youthful companion in arms, with 
 whom he had seen some service on the frontiers ; Herman Von 
 Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands, and worthiest hearts, of 
 German chivalry, who was now returning from the army. His 
 father's castle was not far distant from the old fortress of Land- 
 short, although an hereditary feud rendered the families hostile, 
 and strangers to each other. 
 
154 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young friends 
 related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the Count gave 
 the whole history of his intended nuptials with a young lady 
 whom he had never seen, but of whose charms he had received 
 the most enrapturing*descriptions. 
 
 As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they 
 agreed to perform the rest of their journey together ; and that 
 they might do it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at 
 an early hour, the Count having given directions for his retinue 
 to follow and overtake Jhim. 
 
 They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their mi- 
 litary scenes and adventures, but the Count was apt to be a little 
 tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride, 
 and the felicity that awaited him. 
 
 In this way they had entered among the mountains of the 
 Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly 
 wooded passes. It is well known that the forests of Germany 
 have always been as much infested by robbers as its castles by 
 spectres; and, at this time, the former were particularly nume- 
 rous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering about the 
 country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the 
 cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the depth 
 of the forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were 
 nearly overpowered, when the Count's retinue arrived to their 
 assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the 
 Count had received a mortal wound. He was slowly and 
 carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar 
 summoned from a neighbouring convent, who was famous for 
 his skill in administering to both soul and body ; but half of his 
 skill was superfluous; the moments of the unfortunate Count 
 were numbered. 
 
 With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instant- 
 ly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause of his 
 not keeping his appointment with his bride. Though not the 
 most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men, 
 and appeared earnestly solicitous that this mission should be 
 speedily and courteously executed. "Unless this is done," said 
 he, " I shall not sleep quietly in my grave !" He repeated these 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 155 
 
 last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so 
 impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavoured 
 to soothe him to calmness ; promised faithfully to execute his 
 wish, and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying 
 man pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium 
 — raved about his bride — his engagement — his plighted word; 
 ordered his horse, that he might ride to. the castle of Landshort; 
 and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. 
 
 Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh, and a soldier's tear, on the un- 
 timely fate of his comrade ; and then pondered on the awkward 
 mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy, and his 
 head perplexed; for he was to present himself an unbidden 
 guest among hostile people, and to damp their festivity with 
 tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there were certain whisper- 
 ings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of 
 Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world ; for 
 he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash 
 of eccentricity and enterprise in his character that made him 
 fond of all singular adventure. 
 
 Previous to his departure, he made all due arrangements with 
 the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities 
 of his friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtz- 
 burg, near some of his illustrious relatives; and the mourning 
 retinue of the Count, took charge of his remains. 
 
 It is now high time that we should return to the aricient fa- 
 mily of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, 
 and still more for their feast, and to the worthy little Baron, whom 
 we left airing himself on the watch-tower. 
 
 Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The Baron de- 
 scended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had 
 been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be postponed. 
 The meats were already overdone : the cook in an agony; and 
 the whole household had the look of a garrison that had been re- 
 duced by famine. The Baron was obliged reluctantly to give 
 orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were 
 seated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the 
 sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach 
 
156 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts of the 
 castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder from the 
 walls. The Baron hastened to receive his future son-in-law. 
 
 The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was be- 
 fore the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted on a 
 black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, 
 romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The Baron 
 was a little mortified that he should have come in this simple, 
 solitary style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled ; and he 
 felt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for the im- 
 portant occasion, and the important family with which he was 
 to be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the con- 
 clusion, that it must have been youthful impatience which had 
 induced him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants. 
 
 " I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon you thus 
 unseasonably " 
 
 Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of compliments 
 and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his 
 courtesy and his eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or 
 twice, to stem the torrent of words, but in vain, so he bowed his 
 head and suffered it to flow on. By the time the Baron had come 
 to a pause, they had reached the inner court of the castle ; and 
 the stranger was again about to speak, when he was once more 
 interrupted by the appearance of the female part of the family, 
 leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride ; he gazed on her 
 for a moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if his whole soul 
 beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. 
 One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear ; she 
 made an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly raised ; 
 gave a shy glance of enquiry on the stranger ; and was cast again 
 to the ground. The words died away ; but there was a sweet 
 smile playingfabout her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek that 
 showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was impos- 
 sible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed 
 for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a ca- 
 valier. 
 
 The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 157 
 
 parley. The Baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular 
 conversation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted 
 banquet. 
 
 It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the 
 walls hung the hard-favoured portraits of the heroes of the house 
 of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in 
 the field and in the chase. Hacked corslets , splintered jousting 
 spears, and tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of 
 sylvan warfare ; the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, 
 grinned horribly among cross-bows and battle axes, and a huge 
 pair of antlers branched just over the head of the youthful bride- 
 groom. 
 
 The cavalier look but little notice of the company or the en- 
 tertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed ab- 
 sorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low tone 
 that could not be overheard — for the language of love is never 
 loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that it cannot catch the 
 softest whisper of the lover S There was a mingled tenderness 
 and gravity in his manner, that appeared to have a powerful effect 
 upon the young lady. Her colour came and went as she listened 
 with deep attention. Now and then she made some blushing 
 reply, and when his eye was turned away, she would steal a 
 sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a gentle 
 sigh of tender happiness. It was evident that the young couple 
 were completely enamoured. Theaunts, who were deeply versed 
 in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen in 
 love with each other at first sight. 
 
 The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for tho guests 
 were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light 
 purses and mountain air. The Baron told his best and longest 
 stories, and never had he told them so well, or with such great 
 effect. If there was any thing marvellous, his auditors were lost 
 in astonishment ; and if any thing facetious, they were sure to 
 laugh exactly in the right place. The Baron, it is true, like 
 most great men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull 
 one ; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excel- 
 lent Hochheimer ; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, 
 
158 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things 
 were said by poorer and keener wits, that would not bear repeat- 
 ing, except on similar occasions : many sly speeches whispered 
 in ladies' ears, that almost convulsed them with suppressed 
 laughter, and a song or two roared out by a poor but merry and 
 broad-faced cousin of the Baron, that absolutely made the maiden 
 aunts hold up their fans. 
 
 Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a most 
 singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed 
 a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced ; and, strange 
 as it may appear, even the Baron's jokes seemed only to render 
 him the more melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and 
 at times there was a perturbed and restless wandering of the eye 
 that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the 
 bride became more and more earnest and mysterious. Louring 
 clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tre- 
 mours to run through her tender frame. 
 
 All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their 
 gaiety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bride- 
 groom ; their spirits' were infected; whispers and glances were 
 interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the 
 head. The song and the laugh grew less and less frequent ; 
 there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which were at 
 length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One 
 dismal story produced another still more dismal, and the Baron 
 nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the his- 
 tory of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair Leonora ; 
 a dreadful but true story, which has since been put into excel- 
 lent verse, and is read and believed by all the world. 
 
 The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. 
 He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the Baron; and, as the story 
 drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing 
 taller and taller, until, in the Baron's entranced eye, he seemed 
 almost to tower into a giant. The moment the tale was finished, 
 he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the com- 
 pany. They were all amazement. The Baron was perfectly 
 thunderstruck. 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 159 
 
 '"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, every 
 thing was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was ready for 
 him if he wished to retire." 
 
 The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously; " I 
 must lay my head in a different chamber to-night ! " 
 
 There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it 
 was uttered, that made the Baron's heart misgive him ; but he 
 rallied his forces and repeated his hospitable entreaties. 
 
 The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every 
 offer; and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly 
 out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified — 
 the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye. 
 
 The Baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, 
 where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and snorting 
 with impatience. When they had reached the portal, whose 
 deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger 
 paused, and addressed the Baron in a hollow tone of voice, 
 which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral. 
 
 "Now that we are alone," said he, " I will impart to you the 
 reason of my going. I have a solemn, and indispensable enga- 
 gement " 
 
 " Why," said the Baron, "cannot you send some one in your 
 place?" 
 
 " It admits of no substitute — I must - attend it in person — I 
 must away to Wurtzburg cathedral " 
 
 " Ay," said the Baron, plucking up spirit, " but not until to- 
 morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." 
 
 "No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, 
 "my engagement is with no bride — the worms! the worms 
 expect me ! I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers 
 — my body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be buried 
 — the grave is waiting for me — I must keep my appointment !" 
 
 He sprung on his black charger, dashed over the draw- 
 bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the 
 whistling of the night blast. 
 
 The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, 
 and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, 
 others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. 
 
ICO THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 It was the opinion of some, that this might be the wild hunts- 
 man, famous in German legend. Some talked of mountain 
 sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings, with 
 which the good people of Germany have been so grievously 
 harassed in time immemorial. One of the poor relations ven- 
 tured to suggest that it might be some sportive evasion of the 
 young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the caprice 
 seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. This, how- 
 ever, drew on him the indignation of the whole company, and 
 especially of the Baron, who looked upon him as little better 
 than an infidel ; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily 
 as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers. 
 
 But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they 
 were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of 
 regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the young Count's 
 murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 
 
 The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The Baron 
 shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who had come to 
 rejoice with him, could not think of abandoning him in his dis- 
 tress. They wandered about the courts, or collected in groups 
 in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders, 
 at the troubles of so good a man ; and sat longer than ever at 
 table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keep- 
 ing up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride 
 was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had 
 even embraced him — and such a husband ! if the very spectre 
 could be so gracious and noble, what must have been the living 
 man ? She filled the house with lamentations. 
 
 On the night of the second day of her widowhood she had 
 retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who 
 insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the 
 best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had just been re- 
 counting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the very 
 midst of it. The chamber was remote, and overlooked a small 
 garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the 
 rising moon as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen tree before 
 the lattice. The castle clock had just tolled midnight, when a 
 soft strain of music stole upfrom the garden. She rose hastily 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 161 
 
 from her bed, and stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure 
 stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, 
 a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. Heaven and 
 earth ! she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom ! A loud shriek at 
 that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been 
 awakened by the music, and had followed her silently to the 
 window, fell into her arms. When she looked again, the spectre 
 had disappeared. 
 
 Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, 
 for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the 
 young lady, there was something, even in the spectre of her 
 lover, that seemed endearing. There was still the semblance 
 of manly beauty ; and though the shadow of a man is but little 
 calculated to satisfy the affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where 
 the substance is not to be had, even that is consoling. The aunt 
 declared she would never sleep in that chamber again ; the 
 niece, for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that she 
 would sleep in no other in the castle : the consequence was, that 
 she had to sleep in it alone ; but she drew a promise from her 
 aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she should be denied 
 the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth — that of inhabit- 
 ing the chamber oyer which the guardian shade of her lover kept 
 its nightly vigils. 
 
 How long the good old lady would have observed this promise 
 is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous, and 
 there is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story ; it is, 
 however, still quoted in the neighbourhood, as a memorable 
 instance of female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole 
 week ; when she was suddenly absolved from all further re- 
 straint, by intelligence brought to the breakfast table one morning 
 that the young lady was not to be found. Her room was empty 
 —the bed had not been slept in — the window was open, and 
 the bird had flown ! 
 
 The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was 
 received, can only be imagined b^ those who have witnessed 
 the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his 
 friends. Even the poor relations paused for a moment from 
 the indefatigable labours of the trencher ; when the aunt, who 
 
 11 
 
102 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked 
 out, ' ' The goblin ! the goblin ! she's carried away by the goblin !" 
 
 In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, and 
 concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. Two 
 of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the 
 clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, 
 and had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black charger, 
 bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck with 
 the direful probability ; for events of the kind are extremely 
 common in Germany, as many well authenticated histories bear 
 witness. 
 
 What a lamentable situation was that of the poor Baron ! 
 What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a member 
 of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daughter had 
 either been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have some wood- 
 demon for a son-in-law, and, perchance, a troop of goblin 
 grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered, and 
 all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take 
 horse, and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. 
 The Baron himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on 
 his sword, and was about to mount his steed to sally forth on the 
 doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new appa- 
 rition. A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on a 
 palfrey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up 
 to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the Baron's feet , 
 embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her companion 
 — the Spectre Bridegroom ! The Baron was astounded. He 
 looked at his daughter, then at the spectre, and almost doubted 
 the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully 
 improved in his appearance, since his visit to the world of spirits. 
 His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly 
 symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine 
 countenance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted 
 in his large dark eye. 
 
 The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in 
 truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no goblin ) 
 announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He re- 
 lated his adventure with the young Count. He told how he 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 103 
 
 had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but 
 that the eloquence of the Baron had interrupted him in every 
 attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride had com- 
 pletely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near her, 
 he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he had 
 been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, 
 until the Baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccentric exit. 
 How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated 
 his visits by stealth — had haunted the garden beneath the young 
 lady's window — had wooed — had won — had borne away in 
 triumph — and, in a word, had wedded the fair. 
 
 Under any other circumstances the Baron would have been 
 inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and 
 devoutly obstinate in all family feuds ; but he loved his daughter ; 
 he had lamented her as lost ; he rejoiced to find her still alive ; 
 and, though her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank 
 Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was something, it must 
 be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with his notions 
 of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed upon him 
 of his being a dead man ; but several old friends present, who 
 had served in the wars, assured him that every stratagem was 
 excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial 
 privilege, having lately served as a trooper. 
 
 Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baron 
 pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle 
 were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this new 
 member of the family with loving kindness ; he was so gallant, 
 so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is true, w r ere somewhat 
 scandalised that their system of strict seclusion, and passive obedi- 
 ence, should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it all to 
 their negligence in not having the windows grated. One of 
 them was particularly mortified at having her marvellous story 
 marred, and that the only spectre she had ever seen should 
 turn out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly happy 
 at having found him substantial flesh and blood — and so the 
 story ends. 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 When I behold, with deepe astonishment, 
 
 To famous Westminster how there resorte, 
 
 Living in brasse or stoney monument, 
 
 The princes and the worthies of all sorte ; 
 
 Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, 
 
 Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
 
 And looke upon offenselesse majesty, 
 
 Naked of pomp or earthly domination ? 
 
 And how a play-game of a painted stone 
 
 Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
 
 Whom all the world which late they stood upon, 
 
 Could not content nor quench their appetites. 
 
 Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 
 
 And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 
 
 Ckristolero's Epigrams, by T. B. 1598. 
 
 On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the 
 latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening 
 almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of 
 the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster 
 Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the 
 mournful magnificence of the old pile; and as I passed its 
 threshold, it seemed like stepping back into the regions of anti- 
 quity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. 
 
 I entered from the inner court of Westminster school, through 
 a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean 
 look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in 
 the massy walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view 
 of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black 
 gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a 
 spectre from one of the neighbouring tombs. The approach to the 
 abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind 
 
166 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain some- 
 thing of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray walls 
 are discoloured by damps, and crumbling with age ; a coat of 
 hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural mo- 
 numents, and obscured the death's heads, and other funereal 
 emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the 
 rich tracery of the arches ; the roses which adorned the key- 
 stones have lost their leafy beauty ; every thing bears marks of 
 the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has something 
 touching and pleasing in its very decay. 
 
 The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the 
 square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in 
 the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with 
 a kind of dusty splendour. From between the arcades, the eye 
 glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud ; and beheld 
 the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure 
 heaven. 
 
 As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled 
 picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavouring to de- 
 cipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the 
 pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, 
 rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps 
 of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the 
 early abbots ; the epitaphs were entirely effaced ; the names alone 
 remained, having no doubt been renewed in later times. (Vi- 
 talis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 111A, and 
 Lauren tius. Abbas. 1176.) I remained some little while musing 
 over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon 
 this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had 
 been and had perished ; teaching no moral but the futility of that 
 pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live 
 in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint records 
 will be obliterated, and the monument will cease to be a memo- 
 rial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these grave-stones, 
 I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating 
 from buttress to buttress; and echoing among the cloisters. 
 It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed time 
 sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 1G7 
 
 which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. 
 I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior of 
 the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the building 
 breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the 
 cloisters. The eye gazes with wonder at clustered columns of 
 gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to such 
 an amazing height; and man wandering about their bases, 
 shrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handi- 
 work. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice pro- 
 duce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and 
 softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence 
 of the tomb ; while every foot-fall whispers along the walls, 
 and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of 
 the quiet we have interrupted. 
 
 It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down 
 upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. 
 We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of 
 the great men of past times, who have filled history with their 
 deeds, and the earth with their renown. 
 
 And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human 
 ambition, to see how they are crowded together and justled in 
 the dust ; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty 
 nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those, whom, 
 when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ; and how many shapes, 
 and forms, and artifices, are devised to catch the casual notice 
 of the passenger, and save from forge tfulness, for a few short 
 years, a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's 
 thought and admiration. 
 
 I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end 
 of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The mo- 
 numents are generally simple ; for the lives of literary men 
 afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakspeare and Ad- 
 dison have statues erected to their memories; but the greater part 
 have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Not- 
 withstanding the simplicity of these memorials, I have always 
 observed that the visiters to the abbey remain longest about 
 them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold cu- 
 riosity or vague admiration wilh which they gaze on the splendid 
 
J6S WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about 
 these as about the tombs of friends and companions; for indeed 
 there is something of companionship between the author and 
 the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through 
 the medium of history, which is continually growing faint and 
 obscure : but the intercourse between the author and his fellow- 
 men is eyer new, active, and immediate. He has lived for 
 them more than for himself ; he has sacrificed surrounding en- 
 joyments and 'shut himself up from the delights of social life, 
 that he might the more intimately commune with distant minds 
 and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown ; for 
 it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but 
 by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be 
 grateful to his memory ; for he has left it an inheritance, not of 
 empty names and sounding actions, but whole treasures of wis- 
 dom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language. 
 
 From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that part 
 of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I 
 wandered among what once were chapels, but which are now 
 occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every 
 turn I met with some illustrious name ; or the cognisance of 
 some powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts 
 into these dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint 
 effigies; some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others 
 stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together; 
 warriors in armour, as if reposing after battle ; prelates with 
 crosiers and mitres; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it 
 were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely popu- 
 lous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost 
 as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city, where every 
 being had been suddenly transmuted into stone. 
 
 I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a 
 knight in complete armour. A large buckler was on one arm ; 
 the hands were pressed together in. supplication upon the breast ; 
 the face was almost covered by the morion ; the legs were crossed,, 
 in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the holy war. 
 It was the tomb of a crusader ; of one of those military enthusiast, 
 w v =o so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 109 
 
 exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction ; 
 between the history and the fairy tale. There is something ex- 
 tremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, de- 
 corated as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic 
 sculpture. They comport with the antiquated chapels in which 
 they are generally found ; and in considering them, the ima- 
 gination is apt to kindle with the legendary associations, the 
 romantic fictions, the chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which 
 poetry has spread over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. 
 They are the relics of times utterly gone by ; of beings passed 
 from recollection ; of customs and manners with which ours have 
 no affinity. They are like objects from some strange and distant 
 land, of which we have no certain knowledge, and about which 
 all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is something 
 extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic tombs, 
 extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the supplication of the 
 dying hour. They have an effect infinitely more impressive on 
 my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the overwrought conceits, 
 and allegorical groups, which abound on modern monuments. 
 I have been struck, also, with the superiority of many of the old 
 sepulchral inscriptions . There was a noble way, in former times , 
 of saying things simply, and yet saying them proudly ; and I do 
 not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of 
 family worth and honourable lineage, than one which affirms, of 
 a noble house, that " all the brothers were brave, and all the 
 sisters virtuous." 
 
 In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument 
 which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art ; 
 but which to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the 
 tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the 
 monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and 
 a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from 
 his fleshless frame as he lanches his dart at his victim. She is 
 sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with 
 vain and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed 
 with terrible truth and spirit ; we almost fancy we hear the 
 gibbering yell of triumph, bursting from the distended jaws of 
 the spectre.— But why should we thus seek to clothe death with 
 
170 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of 
 those we love ? The grave should be surrounded by every 
 thing that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead ; 
 or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of 
 disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. 
 
 While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, 
 studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence 
 from without occasionally reaches the ear; — the rumbling of the 
 passing equipage ; the murmur of the multitude ; or perhaps the 
 light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the death- 
 like repose around : and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, 
 thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along and beating 
 against the very walls of the sepulchre. 
 
 I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from 
 chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away ; the 
 distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less fre- 
 quent ; the sun had poured his last ray through the lofty windows; 
 the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers ; and 
 I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing 
 the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to 
 Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps leads up to it, 
 through a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates 
 of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their 
 hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common 
 mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. 
 
 On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture, 
 and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls 
 are wrought into universal ornament, encrusted with tracery, 
 and scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and 
 martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labour of the chisel, to 
 have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft as if 
 by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful mi- 
 nuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 
 
 Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights 
 of the Bath, of oak richly carved, though with the grotesque de- 
 corations of gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls 
 are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs 
 and swords : and above them are suspended their banners, em- 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 171 
 
 blazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendour 
 of gold and purple and crimson, with the cold gray fretwork of 
 the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the 
 sepulchre of its founder, — his effigy, with that of his queen, 
 extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a 
 lofty and superbly wrought brazen railing. 
 
 There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence; this strange 
 mixture of tombs and trophies ; these emblems of living and as- 
 piring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust 
 and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. No- 
 thing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, 
 than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and 
 pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights 
 and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous 
 banners that were once borne before them, my imagination con- 
 jured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valour and 
 beauty of the land; glittering with the splendour of jewelled 
 rank and military array; alive with the tread of many feet and 
 the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed away ; the 
 silence of death had settled again upon the place ; interrupted 
 only by the casual chirping of birds, which had found their way 
 into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and 
 pendants — sure signs of solitariness and desertion. 
 
 When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were 
 those of men scattered far and wide about the world; some 
 tossing upon distant seas ; some under arms in distant lands ; 
 some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets: all 
 seeking to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of 
 shadowy honours : the melancholy reward of a monument. 
 
 Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touch- 
 ing instance of the equality of the grave ; which brings down the 
 oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of 
 the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre of the 
 haughty Elizabeth, in the other is that of her victim, the lovely 
 and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejacu- 
 lation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with 
 indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre 
 
in WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave 
 of her rival. 
 
 A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies 
 buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened 
 by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and 
 the walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble 
 figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an 
 iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem, the 
 thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest 
 myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the chequered 
 and disastrous story of poor Mary. 
 
 The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I 
 could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priesf 
 repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir ; 
 these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the 
 desertion and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around* 
 gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place : 
 
 For in the silent grave no conversation, 
 No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
 No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard> 
 For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
 Dust and an endless darkness. 
 
 Suddenly the notes of the deep labouring organ burst upon the 
 ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, 
 as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume 
 and grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With what 
 pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their 
 awful harmony through these caves of death and make the silent 
 sepulchre vocal ! — And now they rise in triumphant acclamation, 
 heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling 
 sound on sound. — And now they pause, and the soft voices of 
 the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody ; they soar aloft, 
 and warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty 
 vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ 
 heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and 
 rolling it forth upon the soul. What long drawn cadences! 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 173 
 
 What solemn sweeping concords! It grows more and more 
 dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the 
 very walls— the ear is stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. 
 And now it is winding up in full jubilee — it is rising from the 
 earth to heaven — the very soul seems rapt away and floated 
 upwards on this swelling tide of harmony! 
 
 I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain 
 of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening 
 were gradually thickening around me; the monuments began to 
 cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again gave 
 token of the slowly waning day. 
 
 I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended 
 the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my 
 eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I 
 ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from 
 thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine 
 is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the 
 sepulchres of various kings and queens. From this eminence the 
 eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the 
 chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs; where 
 warriors, prelates, courtiers and statesmen lie mouldering in their 
 tl beds of darkness." Close by me stood the great chair of co- 
 ronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a re- 
 mote and gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, 
 with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. 
 Here was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and 
 power ; here it was literally but a step from the throne to the se- 
 pulchre. Would not one think that these incongruous mementos 
 had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness? — to 
 show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neg- 
 lect and dishonour to which it must soon arrive ; how soon that 
 crown which encircles its brow must pass away ; and it must lie 
 down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled 
 upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude? For, strange 
 to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. There is 
 a shocking levity in some natures, which leads them to sport 
 with awful and hallowed things ; and there are base minds, which 
 delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject homage and 
 
174 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 groveling servility which they pay to the living. The coffin 
 of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his remains 
 despoiled of their funeral ornaments ; the sceptre has been stolen 
 from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry 
 the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some 
 proof how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some 
 are plundered ; some mutilated ; some covered with ribaldry and 
 insult— all more or less outraged and dishonoured ! 
 
 The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the 
 painted windows in the high vaults above me ; the lower parts of 
 the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. 
 The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies 
 of the kings faded into shadows ; the marble figures of the mo- 
 numents assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light ; the even- 
 ing breeze crept though the aisles like the cold breath of the 
 grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the 
 the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. 
 I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the 
 portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise be- 
 hind me, filled the whole building with echoes. 
 
 I endeavoured to form some arrangement in my mind of the 
 objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already 
 falling into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, 
 trophies had all become confounded in my recollection, though I 
 had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, thought 
 I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humi- 
 liation ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of 
 renown, and the certainty of oblivion ! It is, indeed, the em- 
 pire of death ; his great shadowy palace ; where he sits, in state, 
 mocking at the relics of human glory and spreading dust and 
 forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, 
 after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever silently 
 turning over his pages ; we are too much engrossed by the story 
 of the present, to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave 
 interest to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be 
 speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yes- 
 terday out of our recollection; and will in turn be supplanted 
 by his successor of to-morrow. ' ' Our fathers," says Sir Thomas 
 
' WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 175 
 
 Brown, " find their graves in our short memories, and sadly 
 tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades 
 into fable ; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy ; 
 the inscription moulders from the tablet : the statue falls from 
 the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but 
 heaps of sand ; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the 
 dust? What is the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an 
 embalmment? The remains of Alexander the Great have been 
 scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the 
 mere curiosity of a museum. The Egyptian mummies which 
 Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; Mizraim 
 cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams."* 
 
 What then is to ensure this pile which now towers above me 
 from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The time must 
 come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall 
 lie in rubbish beneath the feet ; when, instead of the sound of 
 melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken 
 arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower — when the 
 garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death ; 
 and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the fox-glove 
 hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the 
 dead. Thus man passes away; his name perishes from record 
 and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very 
 monument becomes a ruin. 
 
 * Sir T. Brown. 
 
CHRISTMAS. 
 
 feut is old, old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair of his 
 good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot 
 have more of him. 
 
 Hue and Cry after Christmas. 
 
 A man might then behold 
 
 At Christmas, in each hall, 
 Good fires to curb the cold, 
 
 And meat for great and small. 
 The neighbours were friendly bidden, 
 
 And all had welcome true, 
 The poor from the gates were not chidden, 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 There is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful 
 spell over my imagination, than the lingerings of the holiday 
 customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pic- 
 tures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when 
 as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to 
 be all that poets had painted it; and they bring with them the 
 flavour of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with 
 equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, 
 social, and joyous than at present. I regret to say that they are 
 daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away 
 by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They 
 resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which 
 we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapi- 
 dated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and 
 alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherish- 
 ing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which 
 it has derived so many of its themes — as the ivy winds its rich 
 
 12 
 
178 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully 
 repaying their support, by clasping together their tottering re- 
 mains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. 
 
 Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens 
 the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of 
 solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and 
 lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The 
 services of the church about this season are extremely tender 
 and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of 
 our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announce- 
 ment. They gradually increase in fervour and pathos during 
 the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the 
 morning that brought peace and good-will to men. I do not 
 know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings, than to 
 hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas 
 anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with 
 triumphant harmony. 
 
 It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, 
 that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the 
 religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gather- 
 ing together of family connections, and drawing* closer again 
 those bands of kindred hearts which the cares and pleasures and 
 sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose ; of 
 calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth 
 in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble 
 about the paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, 
 there to grow young and loving again among the endearing me- 
 mentos of childhood. 
 
 There is something in the very season of the year that gives a 
 charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive 
 a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. 
 Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny 
 landscape, and we "live abroad and every where." The song 
 of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of 
 spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of 
 autumn ; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven 
 with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill 
 us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury 
 
CHRISTMAS. 179 
 
 of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature lies 
 despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted 
 snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The 
 dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days 
 and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, 
 shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us 
 more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our 
 thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more 
 aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's so- 
 ciety, and are brought more closely together by dependence on 
 each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; and we 
 draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living kindness, which 
 lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms ; and which, when re- 
 sorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity. 
 
 The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering 
 the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. 
 The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine 
 through the room, and lights up each countenance into a kindlier 
 welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality expand 
 into a broader and more cordial smile — where is the shy glance 
 of love more sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fireside ? and 
 as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps 
 the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down 
 the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of 
 sober and sheltered security, with which we look round upon the 
 comfortable chamber, and the scene of domestic hilarity? 
 
 The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits through- 
 out every class of society, have always been fond of those fes- 
 tivals and holydays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of 
 country life ; and they were, in former days, particularly obser- 
 vant of the religious and social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring 
 to read even the dry details which some antiquarians have given 
 of the quaint humours, the burlesque pageants, the complete 
 abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this fes- 
 tival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, and 
 unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, 
 and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and 
 kindness. The old halls of castles and manor houses resounded 
 
180 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards 
 groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cot- 
 tage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay 
 and holly — the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, 
 inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot 
 huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with le- 
 gendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 
 
 One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the 
 havoc it has made among the hearty old holyday customs. It 
 has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs 
 of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a 
 more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic sur- 
 face. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have 
 entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff^ 
 are become matters of speculation and dispute among commen- 
 tators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, 
 when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously ; 
 times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its 
 richest materials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of 
 characters and manners. The world has become more worldly. 
 There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure 
 has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream ; and has 
 forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed 
 sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has 
 acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone ; but it has lost 
 many of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its 
 honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden- 
 hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, 
 have passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor 
 houses in which they were celebrated . They comported with the 
 shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlour, 
 but are unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms 
 of the modern villa. 
 
 Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honours* 
 Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. 
 It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused 
 which seems to hold so powerful a place in every English bosom. 
 The preparations making on every side for the social board that 
 
CHRISTMAS. 181 
 
 is again to unite friends and kindred ; the presents of good cheer 
 passing and repassing, those tokens of regard, and -quickeners of 
 kind feelings ; the ever-greens distributed about houses and 
 churches, emblems of peace and gladness ; all these have the 
 most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling 
 i benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, rude as 
 may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a 
 winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have 
 been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour, " when 
 deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed 
 delight, and connecting them with the sacred and joyous oc- 
 casion, have almost fancied them into another celestial choir, 
 announcing peace and good-will to mankind. 
 
 How delightfully the imagination, wrought upon by these 
 moral influences, turns every thing to melody and beauty ! 
 The very crowing of the cock, who is sometimes heard in the 
 profound repose of the country, " telling the night watches to 
 his feathery dames," was thought by the common people to an- 
 nounce the approach of this sacred festival : — 
 
 " Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
 Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
 This bird of dawning singeth all night long: 
 And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; 
 The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 
 No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
 So hallowed and so gracious is the time." 
 
 Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, 
 and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what 
 bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of re- 
 generated feeling — the season for kindling, not merely the fire 
 of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in 
 the heart. 
 
 The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond 
 the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home, fraught with 
 the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, re-animates the drooping 
 spirit, — as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness 
 of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. 
 
 Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though for mo 
 
1S2 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its 
 doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the 
 threshold— yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into 
 my soul from the happy looks of those around me. Surely 
 happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every counte- 
 nance, bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, * 
 is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever 
 shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from 
 contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and sit down 
 darkling and repining in his loneliness when all around is joy- 
 ful, may have his moments of strong excitement and selfish gra- 
 tification, but he wants the genial and social sympathies which 
 constitute the charm of a merry Christmas, 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 
 
 Orane bene 
 
 Sine poena 
 iTempus est ludendi. 
 
 Venit hora 
 
 Absque mora 
 Libros deponendi. 
 
 Old Holy day School Song. 
 
 In the preceding paper I have made some general observat- 
 ions on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted 
 to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in 
 the country ; in perusing which I would most courteously in^ 
 vile my reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put 
 on that genuine holy day spirit which is tolerant of folly, and 
 anxious only for amusement. 
 
 In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a 
 long distance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding 
 Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with 
 passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the 
 mansions of relations or friends to eat the Christmas dinner. It 
 was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes 
 of delicacies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the 
 coachman's box — presents from distant friends for the impend- 
 ing feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys for my 
 fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly 
 spirit which I have observed in the children of this country. 
 They were returning home for the holydays in high glee, and 
 promising themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful 
 to hear the gigantic plans of pleasure of the little rogues, and 
 the impracticable feats they were to perform during their six 
 
181 THE STAGE COACH. 
 
 weeks 8 emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of hook, birch, 
 and pedadogue. They were full of anticipations of the meeting 
 with the family and household, down to the very cat and dog; 
 and of the joy they were to give their little sisters by the pre- 
 sents with which their pockets were crammed : but the meeting 
 to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest impa- 
 tience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, ac- 
 cording to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed 
 since the days of Bucephalus, How he could trot ! how he could 
 run ! and then such leaps as he would take— there was not a 
 hedge in the whole country that he could not clear. 
 
 They were under the particular guardianship of the coach- 
 man, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they ad- 
 dressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best 
 fellows in the whole world. Indeed, I could not but .notice the 
 more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coach- 
 man, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch 
 of Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole of his coat. He is 
 always a personage full of mighty care and business, but he is 
 particularly so during this season, having so many commissions 
 to execute in consequence of the great interchange of presents. 
 And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untravelled 
 readers to have a sketch that may serve as a general representa- 
 tion of this very numerous and important class of functionaries, 
 who have a dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to 
 themselves, and prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, 
 wherever an English stage coachman may be seen, he cannot be 
 mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery. 
 
 He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with 
 red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every 
 vessel of the skin ; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by fre- 
 quent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further in- 
 creased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a 
 cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a 
 broad-brimmed low-crowned hat ; a huge roll of coloured hand- 
 kerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the 
 bosom ; and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in 
 his button-hole ; the present, most probably, of some enamoured 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 185 
 
 country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright colour, 
 striped, and his small-clpthes extend far below the knees, to 
 meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half way up 
 his legs. 
 
 All this costume is maintained with much precision : he has 
 a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials; and notwith- 
 standing the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still 
 discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which is al- 
 most inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence 
 and consideration along the road ; has frequent conferences with 
 the village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great 
 trust and dependence ; and seems to have a good understanding 
 with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives 
 where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins 
 with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of 
 the hostler : his duty being merely to drive from one stage to 
 another. When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets 
 of his great coat, and he rolls about the inn-yard with an air of 
 the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded 
 by an admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and 
 those nameless hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run 
 errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of batten- 
 ing on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap- 
 room. These all look up to him as to an oracle ; treasure up his 
 cant phrases ; echo his opinions about horses and other topics of 
 jockey lore: and above all, endeavour to imitate his air and car- 
 riage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back thrusts his 
 hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an 
 embryo Coachey. 
 
 Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reign- 
 ed in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every 
 countenance throughout the journey. A Stage Coach, however, 
 carries animation always with it, and puts the world in motion 
 as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance of a 
 village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet 
 friends; some with bundles and band-boxes to secure places, 
 and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the 
 group that accompanies them. In the mean time, the coach- 
 
186 THE STAGE COACH. 
 
 man lias a world of small commissions to execute. Sometimes 
 he delivers a hare or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel 
 or newspaper to the door of a public house ; and sometimes, 
 with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to some half- 
 blushing half-laughing housemaid an odd shaped billet-doux 
 from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the 
 village, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on 
 every side of fresh country faces, and blooming giggling girls. 
 At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and wise 
 men, who take their stations there for the important purpose of 
 seeing company pass; but the sagest knot is generally at the 
 blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach is an event fruit- 
 ful of much speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in 
 his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by ; the cyclops round the 
 anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow 
 cool ; and the sooty spectre in brown paper cap, labouring at 
 the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and permits the 
 asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares 
 through the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the 
 smithy. 
 
 Perhaps the impending holyday might have given a more than 
 usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if every 
 body was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and 
 other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in the vil- 
 lages ; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were throng- 
 ed with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, 
 putting their dwellings in order ; and the glossy branches of holly, 
 with their bright red berries, began to appear at the windows. 
 The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas 
 preparations : — " Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, 
 and ducks, with beef and mutton— must all die — for in twelve 
 days a multitude of people will not be fed With a little. Now 
 plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and 
 broth. Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth 
 must dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by 
 the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and must 
 be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. 
 Great is the contention of Holly and Ivy, whether master or 
 
THE STAGE COACH. 187 
 
 dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler ; 
 and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 
 
 I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout 
 from my little travelling companions. They had been looking 
 out of the coach windows for the last few miles, recognising 
 every tree and cottage as they approached home, and now there 
 was a general burst of joy — " There's John ! and there's old 
 Carlo! and there's Bantam!" cried the happy little rogues, 
 clapping their hands. 
 
 At the end of a lane there was an old sober looking servant 
 in livery waiting for them ; he was accompanied by a super- 
 annuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat 
 of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood 
 dozing quietly by the road-side, little dreaming of the bustling 
 times that awaited him. 
 
 I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows 
 leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer; 
 who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great 
 object of interest ; all wanted to mount at once ; and it was with 
 some difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns, 
 and the eldest should ride first. 
 
 Off they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog bounding 
 and barking before him, and the others holding John's hands ; 
 both talking at once, and overpowering him with questions about 
 home, and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a 
 feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy 
 predominated ; for I was reminded of those days when, like 
 them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holyday was 
 the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments 
 afterwards to water the horses, and on resuming our route, a 
 turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat country seat. I 
 could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in 
 the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, 
 and old John, trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out oi 
 the coach window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, 
 but a grove of trees shut it from my sight. 
 
 In the evening we reached a village where 1 had determined 
 to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the 
 
IBS THE STAGE COACH. 
 
 inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing kitchen fire beam- 
 ing through a window. I entered, and admired, for the hun- 
 dredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad 
 honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of 
 spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels 
 highly polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas 
 green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon, were suspended 
 from the ceiling ; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside 
 the fireplace, and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured 
 deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold 
 round of beef, and other .hearty viands, upon it, over which 
 two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Tra- 
 vellers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout 
 repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on 
 two high-backed oaken seats beside the fire. Trim housemaids 
 were hurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of 
 a fresh bustling landlady ; but still seizing an occasional moment 
 to exchange a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with 
 the group round the fire. The scene completely realised Poor 
 Robin's humble idea of the comforts of mid-winter :— 
 
 Now trees their leafy hats do" bare 
 To reverence Winter's silver hair ; 
 A handsome hostess, merry host, 
 A pot of ale now and a toast, 
 Tobacco and a good coal fire, 
 Are things this season doth require.* 
 
 I had not been long at the inn when a postchaise drove up 
 to the door. A young gentleman stept out, and by the light of 
 the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought 
 I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye 
 caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it was Frank Bracebridge, 
 a sprightly goodhumoured young fellow, with whom I had once 
 travelled on the Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial ; 
 for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always brings up 
 the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, old adventures, 
 
 * Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684. 
 
THE STAGE COACfo. 189 
 
 and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient inter- 
 view at an inn was impossible; and finding that I was not pressed 
 for time, and was merely making a tour of observation, he 
 insisted that I should give him a day or two at his father's 
 country seat, to which he was going to pass the holydays, and 
 which lay a few miles' distance. "It is better than eating a 
 solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he ; "and I can 
 assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old 
 fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent ; and I must confess 
 the preparation I had seen for universal festivity and social 
 enjoyment had made me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. 
 I closed, therefore, at once with his invitation : the chaise drove 
 up to the door ; and in a few moments I was on my way to the 
 family mansion of the Braeebridges* 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE 
 
 Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
 Blesse this house from wicked wight; 
 From the night-mare and the goblin, 
 That is hight good fellow Robin ; 
 Keep it from all evil spirits, 
 Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets : 
 
 From curfew time 
 
 To the next prime. 
 
 Cartwright. 
 
 It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; our 
 chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground ; the post-boy 
 smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses 
 were on a gallop. " He knows where he is going," said my 
 companion, laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for some 
 of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. My fa- 
 ther, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and 
 prides himself upon keeping up something of old English hospi- 
 tality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely meet 
 with now-a-days in its purity, the old English country gentle- 
 man ; for our men of fortune spend so much of their time in 
 town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, that the 
 strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished 
 away. My father, however, from early years, took honest 
 Peacham* for his text book, instead of Chesterfield : he deter- 
 mined, in his own mind, that there was no condition more truly 
 honourable and enviable than that of a country gentleman on 
 his paternal lands, and, therefore, passes the whole of his time 
 on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of 
 
 Peacham's Complete Gentleman. 1622. 
 
192 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 the old rural games and holyday observances, and is deeply read 
 in the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on the 
 subject. Indeed, his favourite range of reading is among the 
 authors who flourished at least two centuries since ; who, he 
 insists, wrote and thought more like true Englishmen than any 
 of their successors. He even regrets sometimes that he had not 
 been born a few centuries earlier, when England was itself, and 
 had its peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at some dis- 
 tance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, 
 without any rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable of 
 all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging the 
 bent of his own humour without molestation. Being represen- 
 tative of the oldest family in the neighbourhood, and a" great 
 part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked up to, 
 and, in general, is known simply by the appellation of ' The 
 Squire ;' a title which has been accorded to the head of the family 
 since time immemorial. I think it best to give you these hints 
 about my worthy old father, to prepare you for any little eccen- 
 tricities that might otherwise appear absurd." 
 
 We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at 
 length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy magni- 
 ficent o4d style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into 
 flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns that support- 
 ed the gate were surmounted by the family crest. Close ad- 
 joining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir trees, 
 and almost buried in shrubbery. 
 
 The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
 through the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant 
 barking of dogs, with which the mansion house seemed garrison- 
 ed. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As the 
 moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a little pri- 
 mitive dame, dressed very much in the antique taste, with a 
 neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from 
 under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came courtesying forth, 
 with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her young master. 
 Her husband, it seems, was up at the house, keeping Christmas 
 eve in the servants' hall; they could not do without him, as 
 he was the best hand at a song and story in the household. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 193 
 
 My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through 
 the park to the hall, which was at no great distance, while the 
 chaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble 
 avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon 
 glittered as she rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. 
 The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, 
 which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a frosty 
 crystal ; and at a distance might be seen a thin transparent vapour, 
 stealing up from the low grounds, and threatening gradually to 
 shroud the landscape. 
 
 My companion looked round him with transport: — " How 
 often," said he, "have I scampered up this avenue, on return- 
 ing home on school vacations ! How often have I played under 
 these trees when a boy I I feel a degree of filial reverence for 
 them, as we look up to those who have cherished us in child- 
 hood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting our holy- 
 days, and having us around him on family festivals. He used to 
 direct and superintend our games with the strictness that some 
 parents do the studies of their children. He was very particular 
 that we should play the old English games according to their 
 original form ; and consulted old books for precedent and autho- 
 rity for every ' merrie disport ;' yet I assure you there never 
 was pedantry so delightful. It was the policy of the good old 
 gentleman to make his children feel that home was the happiest 
 place in the world ; and I value this delicious home-feeling as 
 one of the choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 
 
 We were interrupted by the clamour of a troop of dogs of all 
 sorts and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, and curs 
 of low degree," that, disturbed by the ringing of the porter's 
 bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding open-mouthed 
 across the lawn. % 
 
 « The little dogs and all, 
 
 Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me ! " 
 
 cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the 
 bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he 
 was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the 
 faithful animals. 
 
 13 
 
194 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, 
 partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold 
 moonshine. It was an irregular building of some magnitude, 
 and seemed to be of the architecture of different periods. One 
 wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow- 
 windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the fo- 
 liage of which the small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered 
 with the moon-beams. The rest of the house was in the French 
 taste of Charles the Second's time, having been repaired and 
 altered, as my friend told me, by one of his ancestors, who re- 
 turned with that monarch at the Restoration. The grounds 
 about the house were laid out in the old formal manner of 
 artificial flower beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and 
 heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden statue 
 or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I was told, 
 was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its 
 original state. He admired this fashion in gardening ; it had an 
 air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting good 
 old family style. The boasted imitation of nature in modern 
 gardening had sprung up with modern republican notions, but 
 did not suit a monarchical government ; it smacked of the level- 
 ling system. — I could not help smiling at this introduction of 
 politics into gardening, though I expressed some apprehension 
 that I should find the old gentleman rather intolerant in his 
 creed. — Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the 
 only instance in which he had ever heard his father meddle 
 with politics ; and he believed that he had got this notion from 
 a member of parliament who once passed a few weeks with him. 
 The Squire was glad of any argument to defend his clipped yew 
 trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally attacked 
 by modern landscape gardeners. 
 
 As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, 
 and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the 
 building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the ser- 
 vants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, and 
 even encouraged, by the Squire, throughout .the twelve days of 
 Christmas ; provided every thing was done conformably to an- 
 cient usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 193 
 
 blind, shoe the wild mare, hotcockles, steal the white loaf, bob 
 apple, and snapdragon : the Yule clog, and Christmas candle, 
 were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe, with its white berries, 
 hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids.* 
 
 So intent were the servants upon their sports, that we had to 
 ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On our 
 arrival being announced, the Squire came out to receive us, ac- 
 companied by his two other sons ; one a young officer in the 
 army, home on leave of absence; the other an Oxonian, just 
 from the university. The Squire was a fine healthy-looking 
 old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an open 
 florid countenance ; in which a physiognomist, with the advan- 
 tage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a 
 singular mixture of whim and benevolence. 
 
 The family meeting was warm and affectionate : as the evening 
 was far advanced, the Squire would not permit us to change 
 our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, 
 which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. It was 
 composed of different branches of a numerous family con- 
 nexion, where there were the usual proportion of old uncles 
 and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated spin- 
 sters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and 
 bright-eyed boarding school hoydens. They were variously oc- 
 cupied ; some at a round game of cards ; others conversing around 
 the fire-place ; at one end of the hall was a group of the young 
 folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender and 
 budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game ; and a profusion 
 of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, about 
 the floor, showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings, who, 
 having frolicked through a happy day, had been carried off to 
 slumber through a peaceful night. 
 
 While the mutual greetings were going on between Brace- 
 bridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. I 
 have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, 
 
 * The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-houses and kitchens at Christmas ; 
 and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking 
 each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the 
 privilege ceases. 
 
 13* 
 
190 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 and the Squire had evidently endeavoured to restore it to some- 
 thing in its primitive state. Over the heavy projecting fire- 
 place was suspended a picture of a warrior in armour, standing 
 by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, 
 buckler and lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers 
 were inserted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on 
 which to suspend hats, whips and spurs; and in the corners 
 of the apartment were fowling pieces, fishing-rods and other 
 sporting implements. The furniture was of the cumbrous work- 
 manship of former days, though some articles of modern con- 
 venience had been added, and the oaken floor had been 
 carpeted ; so that the whole presented an odd mixture of par- 
 lour and hall. 
 
 The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming 
 fire-place, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which 
 was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and sending forth a 
 vast volume of light and heat : this I understood was the Yule- 
 clog, which the Squire was particular in having brought in and 
 illumined on a Christmas eve, according to ancient custom. * 
 
 It was really delightful to see the old Squire seated in his 
 hereditary elbow-chair, by the hospitable fire-side of his an- 
 
 * The Yule-clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, 
 brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in the 
 fire-place, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it lasted there 
 was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it was accom- 
 panied by Christmas candles ; but in the cottages the only light was from 
 the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule-clog was to burn all night; 
 if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck. 
 
 Herrick mentions it in one of his songs: 
 
 Come, bring with a noise, 
 
 My merrie, merrie boyes, 
 The Christmas Log to the firing : 
 
 While my good dame, she 
 
 Bids ye all be free, 
 And drink to your hearts desiring 
 
 The Yule-clog is still burnt in many farm-houses and kitchens in England, 
 particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions connected with 
 it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it 
 is burning, or a person bare-footed, it is considered an ill omen. The brand 
 remaining from the Yule-clog is carefully put away to light the next year's 
 Christmas fire. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 197 
 
 ceslors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, beam- 
 ing warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the very dog 
 that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his position 
 and yawned, would look fondly up in his master's face, wag his 
 tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, confi- 
 dent of kindness and protection. There is an emanation from 
 the heart in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but 
 is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I 
 had not been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of 
 the worthy old cavalier, before I found myself as much at home 
 as if I had been one of the family. 
 
 Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served 
 up in a spacious oaken chamber, the pannels of which shone 
 with wax, and around which were several family portraits deco- 
 rated with holly and ivy. Beside the accustomed lights, two 
 great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed with 
 greens, were placed on a highly polished buffet among I he fa- 
 mily plate. The table was abundantly spread with substantial 
 fare ; but the Squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made 
 of wheat cakes boiled in milk with rich spices, being a standing 
 dish in old times for Chrismas eve. I was happy to find my 
 old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the feast; and finding 
 him to be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed 
 of my predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth where^ 
 with we usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance. 
 
 The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the hu- 
 mours of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge al~ 
 ways addressed with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. 
 He was a tight brisk little man, with the air of an arrant old 
 bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot ; his face 
 slightly pitted with the small-pox, with a dry perpetual bloom 
 on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of 
 great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking wag- 
 gery of expression that was irresistible. He was evidently the 
 wit of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and inuen- 
 does with the ladies, and making infinite merriment by harpings 
 upon old themes; which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the 
 family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to 
 
198 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 be his great delight during supper to keep a young girl next 
 him in a continual agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe 
 of the reproving looks of her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, 
 he was the idol of the younger part of the company, who laughed 
 at every thing he said or did, and at every turn of his counte- 
 nance. I could not wonder at it ; for he must have been a mi- 
 racle of accomplishments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch 
 and Judy ; make an old woman of his hand, with the assistance 
 of a burnt cork and pocket handkerchief ; and cut an orange into 
 such a ludicrous caricature, that the young folks were ready to 
 die with laughing. 
 
 I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He 
 was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, which, by 
 careful management, was sufficient for all his wants. He revolved 
 through the family system like a vagrant comet in its orbit ; 
 sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes another quite re- 
 mote ; as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive connex- 
 ions and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping buoyant 
 disposition, always enjoying the present moment ; and his fre- 
 quent change of scene and company prevented his acquiring 
 those rusty unaccommodating habits, with which old bachelors 
 are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete family chro- 
 nicle, being versed in the genealogy, and intermarriages of the 
 whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a great favourite 
 with the old folks; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and 
 superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually con- 
 sidered rather a young fellow, and he was a master of the revels 
 among the children ; so that there was not a more popular being 
 <in the sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. 
 Of late years, he had resided almost entirely with the Squire, 
 to whom he had become a factotum, and whom he particularly 
 delighted by jumping with his humour in respect to old times, 
 and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We 
 had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for no 
 sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and other beve- 
 rages peculiar to the season introduced, than Master Simon was 
 called on for a good old Christmas song. He bethought himself 
 for a moment, and then with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 10'J 
 
 that was by no means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into 
 a falsetto, like the notes of a split i^ed, he quavered forth a quaint 
 old ditty. 
 
 Now Christmas is come, 
 
 Let us beat up the drum, 
 And call all our neighbours together ; 
 
 And when they appear, 
 
 Let us make them such cheer, 
 As will keep out the wi nd and the weather, &c. 
 
 The supper had disposed every one to gaiety, andan old 
 harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had been 
 strumming all the evening, and to all appearance comforting him- 
 self with some of the Squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of 
 hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and though osten- 
 sibly a resident of the village, was oftener to be found in the 
 Squire's kitchen than his own home, the old gentleman being 
 fond of the sound of " Harp in hall." 
 
 The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one ; 
 some of the older folks joined in it, and the Squire himself 
 figured down several couple with a partner with whom he af- 
 firmed he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a cen- 
 tury. Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connecting 
 link between the old times and the new, and to be withal a little 
 antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, evidently piqued 
 himself on his dancing, and was endeavouring to gain credit by 
 the heel and toe, rigadoon, and. other graces of the ancient 
 school ; but he had unluckily assorted himself with a little romp- 
 ing girl from boarding school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept 
 him continually on the stretch, and defeated all his sober attempts 
 at elegance : — such are the ill sorted matches to which antique 
 gentlemen are unfortunately prone ! 
 
 The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his 
 maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little 
 knaveries with impunity ; he was full of practical jokes, and his 
 delight was to teaze his aunts and cousins ; yet, like all madcap 
 youngsters, he was a universal favourite among the women. The 
 most interesting couple in the dance was the young officer and a 
 ward of the Squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. 
 
200 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 From several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of 
 the evening, I suspected there*vasa little kindness growing up- 
 between them : and, indeed, the young soldier was just the 
 hero to captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and 
 handsome, and, like most young British officers of late years, 
 had picked up various small accomplishments on the Continent 
 — he could talk French and Italian — draw landscapes — sing 
 very tolerably — dance divinely; but, above all, he had been 
 wounded at Waterloo: — what girl of seventeen, well read in 
 poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and 
 perfection I 
 
 The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and 
 lolling against the old marble fire-place, in an attitude which I 
 am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the little French 
 air of the Troubadour. The Squire, however, exclaimed against 
 having any thing on Christmas eve but good-old English ; upon 
 which the young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as 
 if in an effort of memory, struck into another strain, and with a 
 charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's V Night Piece of 
 Julia:" 
 
 Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
 The shooting stars attend thee, 
 
 And the elves also, 
 
 Whose little eyes glow 
 Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 
 
 No Will o' th' Wisp raislight thee ; 
 Nor snake or glow-worm bite thee ; 
 
 But on, on thy way, 
 
 Not making a stay, 
 Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 
 
 Then let not the dark thee cumber ; 
 What though the moon does slumber, 
 
 The stars of the night 
 
 Will lend thee their light, 
 Like tapers clear without number. 
 
 Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
 Thus, thus to come unto me : 
 
 And when I shall meet 
 
 Thy silvery feet, 
 My soul I 'U pour into thee. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 201 
 
 The song might have heen intended in compliment to the fair 
 Julia, for so I found his partner was called, or it might not; she, 
 however, was certainly unconscious of any such application, 
 for she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon 
 the floor. Her face was suffused, it is true, with a beautiful 
 blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that 
 was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance ; indeed, so 
 great was her indifference, that she was amusing herself with 
 plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by 
 the time the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the 
 floor. 
 
 The party now broke up for the night, with the kind-hearted 
 old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall, on 
 the way to my chamber, the dying embers of the Yule-clog still 
 sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not been the season when 
 " no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have been half tempted 
 to steal from my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies 
 might not be at their revels about the hearth. 
 
 My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponderous 
 furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days of the 
 giants. The room was pannelled, with cornices of heavy carved 
 work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely in- 
 termingled ; and a row of black-looking portraits stared mourn- 
 fully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich though faded 
 damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow- 
 Window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music 
 seemed to break forth in the air just below the window. I 
 listened, and found it proceeded from a band, which I concluded 
 to be the waits from some neighbouring village. They went 
 round the house, playing under the windows. I drew aside the 
 curtains to hear them more distinctly. The moon-beams fell 
 through the upper part of the casement, partially lighting up 
 the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became 
 more soft and aerial, and seemed to accord with quiet and 
 moonlight. I listened and listened — they became more and 
 more tender and remote, and, as they gradually died away, my 
 head sunk upon the pillow, and I fell asleep. 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY 
 
 Dark and dull night flie hence away, 
 And give the honour to this day 
 That sees December turn'd to May. 
 
 * *■ * * * * 
 
 Why does the chilling winter's morne 
 Smile like a field beset with corn ? 
 Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
 Thus on the sudden ?— Come and see 
 The cause why things thus fragrant be. 
 
 Herrick. 
 
 When I awoke the next morning, it seemed as if all the 
 events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and nothing 
 but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced me of their 
 reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the sound 
 of little feet pattering outside of the door, and a whispering con- 
 sultation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth an 
 old Christmas carol, the burden of which was, 
 
 Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
 On Christmas day in the morning. 
 
 I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, 
 and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that 
 a painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, 
 the eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They 
 were going the rounds of the house, andsingingat every chamber 
 door ; but my sudden appearance frightened them into a mute 
 bashfulness. They remained for a moment playing on their 
 lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance, 
 from under their eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they 
 
201 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the gallery, I 
 heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. 
 
 Every thing conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in 
 this strong-hold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window of 
 my chamber looked] out upon what in summer would have 
 been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine 
 stream winding at the foot of it, and a track of park beyond, with 
 noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was 
 a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hang- 
 ing over it; and a church with its dark spire in strong relief 
 against the clear cold sky. The house was surrounded with 
 evergreens, according to the English custom, which would 
 have given almost an appearance of summer ; but the morning 
 was extremely frosty ; the light vapour of the preceding evening 
 had been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees and 
 every blade of grass with its fine crystallisations. The rays 
 of a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect among the glit- 
 tering foliage. A robin, perched upon the top of a mountain 
 ash that hung its clusters of red berries just before my window, 
 was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few querulous 
 notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his train, 
 and strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee 
 on the terrace walk below. 
 
 I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to 
 invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a 
 small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found the 
 principal part of the family already assembled in a kind of gal- 
 lery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer-books ; 
 the servants were seated on benches below. The old gentleman 
 read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master 
 Simon acted as clerk, and made the responses, and I must do 
 him the justice to say that he acquitted himself with great gravity 
 and decorum. 
 
 The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. 
 Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his fa- 
 vourite author, Herrick : and it had been adapted to an old 
 church melody by Master Simon. As there were several good 
 voices among Hhe household, the effect was extremely pleasing ; 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 205 
 
 but I was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, and 
 sudden sally of grateful feeling, with which the worthy Squire 
 delivered one stanza ; his eyes glistening and his voice rambling 
 out of all the bounds of time and tune : 
 
 " Tis thou that crown'st ray glittering hearth 
 
 With guiltlesse mirth, 
 And giv'st me Wassaile bowles to drink 
 
 Spic'd to the brink : 
 Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 
 
 That soiles my land ; 
 And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 
 
 Twice ten for one." 
 
 I afterwards understood that early morning service was read 
 on every Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, either by 
 Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of the family. It was 
 once almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and 
 gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom 
 is fallen into neglect ; for the dullest observer must be sensible 
 of the order and serenity prevalent in those households, where 
 the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the 
 morning gives, as it were, the key note to every temper for 
 the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony. 
 
 Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire denominated true 
 old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over 
 modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among 
 the causes of modern effeminacy and weak nerves, and the de- 
 cline of old English heartiness ; and though he admitted them to 
 his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave 
 display of cold meats, wine, and ale on the sideboard. 
 
 After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Brace- 
 bridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was called by 
 every body but the Squire. We were escorted by a number of 
 gentlemen-like dogs, that seemed loungers about the establish- 
 ment ; from the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-hound ; 
 the last of which was of a race that had been in the family time 
 out of mind : they were all obedient to a dog whistle which hung 
 to Master Simon's button-hole, and in the. midst of their gambols 
 would glance an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried 
 in his hand. 
 
S06 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow 
 sunshine than by pale moonlight; and I could not but feel the force 
 of the Squire's idea, that the formal terraces, heavily moulded 
 balustrades, and clipped yew trees, carried with them an air of 
 proud aristocracy. There appeared to be an unusual number of 
 peacocks about the place, and I was making some remarks upon 
 what I termed a flock of them, that were basking under a sunny 
 wall, when I was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master 
 Simon, who told me that, according to the most ancient and ap- 
 proved treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. 
 " In the same way, added he, with a slight air of pedantry, 
 ' ' we say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd 
 of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of 
 rooks." He went on to inform me that, according to Sir An- 
 thony Fitzherbert, we Ought to ascribe to this bird " both un- 
 derstanding and glory ; for being praised, he will presently set 
 up his tail chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the bet- 
 ter behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when 
 his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in corners, till 
 his tail come again as it was." 
 
 I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on 
 so whimsical a subject; but I found that the peacocks were birds 
 of some consequence at the hall, for Frank Bracebridge informed 
 me that they were great favourites with his father, who was ex- 
 tremely careful to keep up the breed ; partly because they belonged 
 to chivalry, and were in great request at the stately banquets of 
 the olden time ; and partly because they had a pomp and magni- 
 ficence about them, highly becoming an old family mansion. 
 Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an air of greater state and 
 dignity than a peacock perched upon an antique stone balustrade. 
 Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment 
 at the parish church with the village choristers, who were to per- 
 form some music of his selection. There was something extreme- 
 ly agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of the little 
 man ; and I confess I had been somewhat surprised at his apt 
 quotations from authors who certainly were not in the range of 
 e very-day reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to 
 Frank Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that. Master Si- 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 207 
 
 mon's whole stock of erudition was confined to some half a do- 
 zen old authors, which the Squire had put into his hands, and 
 whicti he read over and over, whenever he had a studious fit ; 
 as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winter evening. 
 Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Husbandry; Markham's 
 Country Contentments ; the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas 
 Cockaine, Knight ; Isaac Walton's Angler, and two or three 
 more such ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard au- 
 thorities ; and, like all men who know but a few books, he look- 
 ed up to them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all 
 occasions. As to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old 
 books in the Squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were 
 popular among the choice spirits of the last century. His prac- 
 tical application of scraps of literature, however, had caused 
 him to be looked upon as a prodigy of book knowledge by all 
 the grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 While we were talking we heard the distant roll of the village 
 bell , and I was told that the Squire was a little particular in hav- 
 ing his household at church on a Christmas morning; considering 
 it a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing; for, as old Tus- 
 ser observed, 
 
 " At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal. 
 And feast thy poor neighbours, the great with the small." 
 
 " If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Brace- 
 bridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's 
 musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, 
 he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and established 
 a musical club for their improvement ; he has also sorted a choir, 
 as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to the di- 
 rections of Jervaise Markham, in his Country Contentments; 
 for the bass he has sought out all the, " deep, solemn mouths," 
 and for the tenor the " loud ringing mouths," among the country 
 bumpkins ; and for " sweet mouths," he has culled with curious 
 taste among the prettiest lasses in the neighbourhood ; though 
 these last, he affirms, are the most difficult to keep in tune ; your 
 
208 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 pretty female singer being exceedingly wayward and capricious, 
 and very liable to accident." 
 
 As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, 
 the most of the family walked to the church, which was a very 
 old building of gray stone, and stood near a village about half 
 a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug par- 
 sonage, which seemed coeval with the church. The front of it 
 was perfectly matted with a yew tree, that had been trained 
 against its walls, through the dense foliage of which apertures 
 had been formed to admit light into the small antique lattices. 
 As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and 
 preceded us. 
 
 I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, such 
 as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich pa- 
 tron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, 
 meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too 
 wide, and stood off from each ear ; so that his head seemed to 
 have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert in its shell. He 
 wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets that would 
 have held the church bible and prayer-book; and his small 
 legs seemed still smaller, from being planted in large shoes, de- 
 corated with enormous buckles. 
 
 I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson had 
 been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this 
 living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was 
 a complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work 
 printed in the Roman character. The editions of Caxton and 
 Wynkin de Worde were his delight ; and he was indefatigable 
 in his researches after such old English writers as have fallen 
 into oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, 
 to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent inves- 
 tigations into the festive rites and holyday customs of former 
 times ; and had been as zealous in the inquiry, as if he had 
 been a boon companion ; but it was merely with that plodding 
 spirit with which men of adust temperament follow up any 
 track of study, merely because it is denominated learning ; in- 
 different to its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration 
 of the wisdom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 209 
 
 He had pored over these old volumes so intensely, that they 
 seemed to have been reflected into his countenance indeed; 
 which, if the face be an index of the mind, might be compared 
 to a title-page of black-letter. 
 
 On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuk- 
 ing the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among 
 the greens with which the church was decorated. It was, he 
 observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by 
 the Druids in their mystic ceremonies ; and though it might be 
 innocently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and 
 kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church 
 as unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tena- 
 cious was he on this point, that the poor sexton was obliged to 
 strip down a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, be- 
 fore the parson would consent to enter upon the service of 
 the day. 
 
 The interior of the church was venerable but simple ; on the 
 walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and 
 just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on 
 which lay the effigy of a warrior in armour, with his legs cross- 
 ed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it was 
 one of the family who had signalised himself in the Holy Land, 
 and the same whose picture hung over the fire-place in the hall. 
 
 During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and re- 
 peated the responses very audibly : evincing that kind of cere- 
 monious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of the 
 old school, and a man of old family connexions. I observed 
 too, that he turned over the leaves of a folio prayer-book with 
 something of a flourish ; possibly to show off an enormous seal- 
 ring which enriched one of his fingers, and which had the look 
 of a family relic. But he was evidently most solicitous about 
 the musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on 
 the choir, and beating time with much gesticulation and em- 
 phasis. 
 
 The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most 
 whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among 
 which I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fel- 
 low with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the cla- 
 
 U 
 
'ZlQ CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 rionet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point ; and there 
 was another, a short pursy man, stooping and labouring at a 
 bass viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head, 
 like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty 
 faces among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty 
 morning had given a bright rosy tint ; but the gentlemen choris- 
 ters had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more 
 for tone than looks ; and as several had to sing from the same 
 book, there were clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike 
 those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country tombstones. 
 
 The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, 
 the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, 
 and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time 
 by travelling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clear- 
 ing more bars than the keenest foxhunter to be in at the death. 
 But the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and 
 arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great 
 expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset ; 
 the musicians became flurried ; Master Simon was in a fever ; 
 every thing went on lamely and irregularly until they came to 
 a chorus beginning "Now let us sing with one accord," which 
 seemed to be a signal for parting company : all became discord 
 and confusion ; each shifted for himself, and got to the end as 
 well, or, rather, as soon as he could, excepting one old chorister in 
 a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long sonorous 
 nose ; who happening to stand a little apart, and being wrapped 
 up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling 
 his head, oggling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo 
 of at least three bars duration. 
 
 The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and 
 ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it not 
 merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing ; supporting the 
 correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages of the church, 
 and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, 
 St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more 
 of Saints and Fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. 
 I was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty 
 array of forces to maintain a point which no one present seemed 
 
CHRtSTMAS DAY. til 
 
 inclined to dispute ; but I soon found tbat the good man had a 
 legion of ideal adversaries to contend with ; having, in the course 
 of his researches on the subject of Christmas, got completely 
 embroiled in the sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when 
 the Puritans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of 
 the church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the land 
 by proclamation of Parliament.* The worthy parson lived but 
 with times past, and knew but a little of the present. 
 
 Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his 
 antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as the 
 gazettes of the day ; while the era of the Revolution was mere 
 modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed 
 since the fiery persecution of poor mincepie throughout the 
 land ; when plumporridge was denounced as " mere popery/' 
 and roast beef as anti-christian ; and that Christmas had been 
 brought in again triumphantly with the merry court of King 
 Charles at the Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the 
 ardour of his contest, and the host of imaginary foes with whom 
 he had to combat ; had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne and 
 two or three other forgotten champions of the Round Heads, on 
 the subject of Christmas festivity ; and concluded by urging his 
 hearers, in the most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to 
 the traditionary customs of their fathers, and feast and make 
 merry on this joyful anniversary of the church. 
 
 I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with 
 more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church the congrega- 
 tion seemed one and all possessed with the gaiety of spirit so 
 earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered in 
 
 * From the " Flying Eagle," a small Gazette, published December 24th, 
 1652 — " The House spent much time tbis day about the business of the Navy, 
 for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented with a 
 terrible remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded upon divine Scrip- 
 tures, 2 Cor. v. 16. 1 Cor. xv. 14. 17. ; and in honour of the Lord's Day, 
 grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. 1. Rev. i. 10. Psalm cxviii. 
 24. Lev. xxiii. 7. 11. Mark xvi. 8. Psalm lxxxiv. 10., in which Christ- 
 mas is called Anti-christ's masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists who 
 observe it, &c. In consequence of which Parliament spent some time in 
 consultation about the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to that 
 effect, and resolved to sit on the following day, which was commonly called 
 Christmas day/' 
 
 14* 
 
212 CHRISTMAS DAY 
 
 knois in (he churchyard, greeting and shaking hands ; and the 
 children ran about crying, ll!e ! Ule ! and repeating some uncouth 
 rhymes,* which the parson, who had joined us, informed me 
 had been handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed 
 iheir hats to the Squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes 
 of the season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and 
 were invited by him to the hall, to take something to keep out 
 the cold of the weather ; and I heard blessings ultered by several 
 of the poor, which convinced me that, in the midst of his en- 
 joyments, the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true 
 Christmas virtue of charity. 
 
 On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowing with 
 generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising ground 
 which commanded something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic 
 merriment now and then reached our ears; the Squire paused 
 for a few moments, and looked around With an air of inexpres- 
 sible benignity. The beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to 
 inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the morn- 
 ing, the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient 
 power to melt away the thin covering of snow from every southern 
 declivity, and to bring out the living green which adorns an En- 
 glish landscape even in mid-winter. Large tracts of smiling 
 verdure contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded 
 slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank, on which the broad 
 rays rested, yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glitter- 
 ing through the dripping grass ; and sent up slight exhalations 
 to contribute to the thin haze that hung just above the surface of 
 the earth. There was something truly cheering in this triumph 
 of warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter: it 
 was, as the Squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, 
 breaking through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and 
 thawing every heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to 
 the indications of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the 
 comfortable farm-houses, and low thatched cottages. " I 
 love," said he, " to see this day well kept by rich ana 1 poor; it 
 
 * " Ule ! Ule ! 
 
 Three puddings in a pule ; 
 Crack nuts and crv ule V 
 
CHRIST3IAS DAY 213 
 
 is a great thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you 
 are sure of t being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as 
 it were, the world all thrown open to you; and I am almost dis- 
 posed' to join with Poor Robin, in his malediction on every 
 churlish enemy to this honest festival : 
 
 Those who at Christmas do repine, 
 
 And would fain hence dispatch him, 
 May they with old Duke Humphry dine 
 
 Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em." 
 
 The Squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the 
 games and amusement which were once prevalent at this season 
 among the lower orders, and countenanced by the higher ; when 
 the old halls of castles and manor houses were thrown open at 
 daylight; when the tables were covered with brawn, and beef, 
 and humming ale ; when the harp and the carol resounded all day 
 long, and when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and 
 make merry.* " Our old games and local customs," said he, 
 " had a great effect in making the peasant fond of his home, anc( 
 the promotion of them by the gentry made him fond of his lord. 
 They made the times merrier, and kinder, and belter, and I can 
 truly say with one of our old poets ; 
 
 ' I like them well — the curious preciseness 
 And all-pretended gravity of those 
 That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
 Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' 
 
 ' The nation," continued he, " is altered; we have almost 
 lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken 
 asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their inte- 
 rests are separate. They have become too knowing, and begin 
 to read newspapers, listen to alehouse politicians, and talk of 
 
 * " An English gentleman at the opening of the great day, i. e. on Christ- 
 mas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbours entered his hall 
 by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, %nd the black jacks Mient 
 plentifully about with toast, sugar, nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The 
 Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else two young^ 
 nacu must take the maiden j. e. the cook by the anus and run her round 
 i he .market-place till she is ashamed of her huiucss.' 1 — -'" Round about our 
 $«a-GoalFire» 
 
214 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 reform. I think one mode to keep them in good humour in 
 these hard times would be for the nobility and gentry to pass 
 more time on their estates, mingle more among the country 
 people, and set the merry old English games going again." 
 
 Such was the good Squire's project for mitigating public dis- 
 content; and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine 
 in practice, and a few years before had kept open house during 
 the holydays in the old style. The country people, however, 
 did not understand how to play their parts in the scene of hospi- 
 tality ; many uncouth circumstances occurred ; the manor was 
 overrun by all the vagrants of the country, and more beggars 
 drawn into the neigbourhood in one week than the parish officers 
 could get rid of in a year. Since then, he had contented him- 
 self with inviting the decent part of the neighbouring peasantry 
 to call at the hall on Christmas day, and distributing beef, 
 and bread, and ale, among the poor, that they might make 
 merry in their own dwellings. 
 
 We had not been long home when the sound of music was 
 heard from a distance. A band of country lads without coats, 
 their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with ribands, their hats deco- 
 rated with greens, and clubs in their hands, were seen ad- 
 vancing up the avenue, followed by a large number of villagers 
 and peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, where the 
 music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads performed a cu- 
 rious and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, and striking 
 their clubs together, keeping exact time to the music; while one, 
 whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted 
 down his back, kept capering round the skirts of the dance, and 
 rattling a Christmas box with many antic gesticulations. 
 
 The Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest 
 and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he 
 traced to the times when the Romans held possession of the 
 island ; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the 
 swjord dance of the ancients. " It was now," he said, " nearly 
 extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it in the 
 neighbourhood, and had encouraged its revival; though, to tell 
 the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by rough cudgel play, 
 and broken heads in the evening." 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 215 
 
 After the dance was concluded, the whole party was enter- 
 tained with hrawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The 
 Squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received with 
 awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. It is true I 
 perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they were 
 raising their tankards to their mouths, when the Squire's back 
 was turned, making something of a grimace, and giving each 
 other the wink ; but the moment they caught my eye they pulled 
 graves faces, and were exceedingly demure, With Master Si- 
 mon, however, they all seemed more at their ease. His varied 
 occupations and amusements had made him well known through- 
 out the neighbourhood. He was a visitor at every farm-house 
 and cottage ; gossiped with the farmers and their wives ; romped 
 with their daughters ; and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, 
 the humble bee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the 
 country round. 
 
 The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good 
 cheer and affability. There is something genuine and affec- 
 tionate in the gaiety of the lower orders, when it is excited by 
 the bounty and familiarity of those above them ; the warm 
 glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word or 
 a small pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the 
 heart of the dependant more than oil and wine. When the 
 Squire had retired, the merriment increased, and there was 
 much joking and laughter, particularly between Master Simon 
 and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared 
 to be the wit of the village; for I observed all his companions 
 to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gra- 
 tuitous laugh before they could well understand them. 
 
 The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment. 
 As I passed to my room to dress for dinner I heard the sound 
 of music in a small court, and looking through a window that 
 commanded it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians, with 
 pandean pipes and tambourine; a pretty coquettish housemaid 
 was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several of the 
 other servants were looking on. In the mity. of her sport the 
 girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and colouring 
 up, ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 
 
 Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast ! 
 
 Let every man be jolly, 
 Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 
 
 And every post with holly. 
 Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke. 
 
 And Christmas blocks are burning ; 
 Their ovens they with bak't meats choke, 
 And all their spits are turning". 
 Without the door let sorrow lie, 
 And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
 Wee'le bury 't in a Christmas pye, 
 And evermore be merry. 
 
 Withers' Juvenilla. 
 
 I had finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Brace- 
 bridge in the library, when we heard a distant thwacking sound, 
 which he informed me was a signal for the serving up of the 
 dinner. The Squire kept up old customs in kitchen as well 
 as hall ; and the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser by the cook ; 
 summoned the servants to carry in the meats. 
 
 Just iu this nick the cook knockd thrice, 
 And all the waiters in a trice, 
 
 His summons did obey ; 
 Each serving man, with dish in hand, 
 March'd boldly up, like our train band, 
 
 Presented and away.* 
 
 The dinner was served up in the 'great hall, where the Squire 
 always held his Christmas banquet. . A blazing crackling fin* 
 
 * Sir John Suekliii" 
 
218 THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 
 
 of logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, 
 and the flame went sparkling and wreathing up the wide- 
 mouthed chimney. The great picture of the crusader and his 
 white horse had been profusely decorated with greens for the 
 occasion ; and holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed round 
 the helmet and weapons on the opposite wall, which I under- 
 stood were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, by the 
 by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the painting 
 and armour as having belonged to the crusader, they certainly 
 having the stamp of more recent days ; but I was told that the 
 painting had been so considered time out of mind ; and that, as 
 to the armour, it had been found in a lumber room, and elevated 
 to its present situation by the Squire, who at once determined it 
 to be the armour of the family hero ; and as he was absolute au- 
 thority on all such subjects in his own household, the matter had 
 passed into current acceptation. A sideboard was set out just 
 under this chivalric trophy, on which w 7 as a display of plate that 
 might have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade of 
 the vessels of the temple; "flagons, cans, cups, beakers, gob- 
 lets, basins, and ewers;" the gorgeous utensils of good compa- 
 nionship that had gradually accumulated through many gene- 
 rations of jovial housekeepers. Before these stood the two Yule 
 candles, beaming like two stars of the first magnitude ; other 
 lights were distributed in branches, and the whole array glit- 
 tered like a firmament of silver. 
 
 We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound 
 of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool beside the 
 fire-place, and twanging his monument with a vast deal more 
 power than melody. Never did Christmas board display a more 
 goodly and gracious assemblage of countenances; those who 
 were not handsome, were, at least, happy; and happiness is a 
 rare improver of your hard-favoured visage . I always consider an 
 old English family as well worth studying as a collection of Hol- 
 bein's portraits or Albert Durer's prints. There is much anti- 
 quarian lore to be acquired'; much knowledge of the physiog- 
 nomies of former times. Perhaps it may be from having con- 
 tinually before their eyes those rows of old family portraits, 
 with which the mansions of this country are stocked ; certain 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 210 
 
 it is, that the quaint features of antiquity are often most faith- 
 fully perpetuated in these ancient lines ; and I have traced an 
 old family nose through a whole picture gallery, legitimately 
 handed down from generation to generation, almost from the time 
 of the Conquest. Something of the kind was to be observed in 
 the worthy company around me. Many of their faces had evi- 
 dently originated in a gothic age, and been merely copied by 
 succeeding generations; and there was one little girl, in parti- 
 cular, of staid demeanour, with a high Roman nose, and an 
 antique vinegar aspect, who was a great favourite of the Squire's, 
 being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very coun- 
 terpart of one of his ancestors who figured in the court of 
 Henry VIII, 
 
 The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar one, 
 such as is a commonly addressed to the Deity, in these uncere- 
 monious days; but a long, courtly, well-worded one of the an- 
 cient school. There was now a pause, as if something was 
 expected ; when suddenly the butler entered the hall with some 
 degree of bustle : he was attended by a servant on each side 
 with a large wax light, and bore a silver dish, on which was 
 an enormous pig's head, decorated with rosemary, with a lemon 
 in its mouth, which was placed with great formality at the head 
 of the table. The moment this pageant made its appearance, 
 the harper struck up a flourish ; at the conclusion of which the 
 young Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the Squire, gave, with 
 an air of the most comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse 
 of which was as follows : 
 
 Caput apri def'ero 
 
 Reddens laudes Domino. 
 The boar's head in hand bring I, 
 With garlands gay and rosemary. 
 I pray you all synge merily 
 
 Qui estis in convivio. 
 
 Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentricities, 
 from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host ; yet, I 
 confess, the parade with which so odd a dish was introduced 
 somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered from the conversation 
 
880 THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 
 
 of the Squire and the parson, that it was meant to represent the 
 bringing in of the boar's head ; a dish formerly served up with 
 much ceremony, and the sound of minstrelsy and songs, at great 
 tables on Christmas day. "I like the old custom," said the 
 Squire, " not merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself, 
 but because it was observed at the Colleges at. Oxford, at which 
 I was educated. When I hear the old song chanted, it brings 
 to mind the time when I was young and gamesome— and the 
 noble old college hall — and my fellow students loitering about 
 in their black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are now in 
 their graves!" 
 
 The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such 
 associations, and who was always more taken up with the text 
 than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonians version of the 
 carol ; which he affirmed was different from that sung at college. 
 He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commentator, to 
 give the college reading, accompanied by sundry annotations ; 
 addressing himself at first to the company at large ; but finding 
 their attention gradually diverted to other talk, and other 
 subjects, he lowered his tone as his number of auditors dimi- 
 nished, until he concluded his remarks in an under voice, to a 
 fatheaded old gentleman next him, who was silently engaged 
 in the discussion of a huge plate-full of turkey.* 
 
 * The old ceremony of serving up the boards head on Christmas day is 
 Still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. 1 was favoured by the 
 parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable to 
 such of my readers as are curious in these grave and learned matters, I give 
 it entire. 
 
 The boar's head in hand bear I, 
 Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; 
 And I pray you, my masters, be merry, 
 Quot estis in convivio. 
 Caput apri defero 
 Reddens laudes Domino. 
 
 The boar's head, as I understand, 
 Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
 Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
 Let us servire cantico. 
 
 Caput apri defero, &c. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 221 
 
 The (able was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented 
 an epilOme of country abundance, in this season of overflowing 
 larders. A distinguished post was allotted to " ancient sirloin," 
 as mine host termed it ; being, as he added, " the standard of 
 old English hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full 
 of expectation. " There were several dishes quaintly decorated, 
 and which had evidently something traditionary in their em- 
 bellishments ; but about which, as I did not like to appear over 
 curious, I asked no questions. 
 
 I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently decora- 
 ted with peacocks' feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, 
 which overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. This, the 
 Squire confessed, with some little hesitation, was a pheasant 
 pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most authentical : 
 but there had been such a mortality among the peacocks this 
 season, that he could not prevail upon himself to have one 
 killed.* 
 
 It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may 
 not have that foolish fondnesses for odd and obsolete things to 
 which I am a little siven, were I to mention the other make- 
 
 Our steward hath provided this 
 In honour of the King of Bliss^ 
 Which on this day to be served is 
 In Reginensi Atrio. 
 Caput apri defero, 
 etc. etc. etc. 
 
 * The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertainments. 
 Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared 
 above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt; at the other end 
 the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets 
 of chivalry, when Knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake any pe- 
 rilous enterprise; whence came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, 
 - by cock and pie." 
 
 The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast; and Mas- 
 singer, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with which 
 this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the 
 olden times : 
 
 Men may talk of country Christmasses, 
 
 Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps 1 tongues : 
 Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris ; the carcases of three fat wether* 
 bruised for gravy, to malce sauce for a single peacock! 
 
-H-l THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 
 
 shifts of this worthy old humourist, by which he was endea- 
 vouring to follow up, though at humble distance, the quaint cus- 
 toms of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect 
 shown to his whims by his children and relatives, who, indeed, 
 entered readily into the full spirit of them, and seemed all well 
 versed in their parts ; having doubtless been present at many a 
 rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of profound gravity 
 with which the butler and other servants executed the duties 
 assigned them, however eccentric. They had an old-fashioned 
 look ; having, for the most part, been brought up in the house- 
 hold, and grown into keeping with the antiquated mansion and 
 the humours of its lord ; and most probably looked upon all his 
 whimsical regulations as the established laws of honourable 
 housekeeping. 
 
 When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge 
 silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed 
 before the Squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation ; 
 being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas festivity. 
 The contents had been prepared by the Squire himself; for it 
 was a beverage in the skilful mixture of which he particularly 
 prided himself : alleging that it was too abstruse aud complex 
 for the comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a pota- 
 tion, indeed, that might well make the heart of "a toper leap 
 within him ; being composed of the richest and raciest wines, 
 highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about 
 the surface.* 
 
 The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene 
 look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty bowl. 
 
 * The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine; with 
 nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs: in this way the nut brown 
 beverage is still prepared in some old families, and round the hearths of 
 substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and is ce- 
 lebrated by Herrick in his Twelfth Night : 
 
 Next crowne the bowle full 
 With gentle Lamb's Wooll, 
 Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, 
 With store of ale too ; 
 And thus ye must doe 
 To make the Wassaile a swinger, 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 883 
 
 Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry 
 Christmas to all present, he sent ithrimming round the board, 
 tor every one to follow his example, according to the primitive 
 style; pronouncing it "the ancient fountain of good feeling, 
 where all hearts met together." * 
 
 There was much laughing and rallying as the honest emblem 
 of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by 
 the ladies. When it reached Master Simon he raised it in both 
 hands, and with the air of a boon companion, struck up an 
 old Wassail chanson ; 
 
 The browne bowle, 
 The merry brown bowle, 
 As it goes round about-a, 
 
 Fill 
 
 Still, 
 Let the world say what it will, 
 And drink your fill all out-a. 
 
 The deep canne, „ 
 The merry deep canne, 
 As thou dost freely quaff- a, 
 
 Sing, 
 
 Fling, 
 Be as merry as a king, 
 And sound a lusty laugh-a f 
 
 Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family 
 topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great 
 deal of rallying of Master Simon about some gay widow, with 
 whom he was accused of having a flirtation. This attack was 
 commenced by the ladies ; but it was continued throughout the 
 dinner by the fatheaded old gentleman next the parson, with the 
 persevering assiduity of a slow hound ; being one of those long- 
 winded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, are 
 unrivalled for their talents in hunting it down. At every pause 
 in the general conversation, he renewed his bantering in pretty 
 
 * u The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having 
 his cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to 
 cry three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the Chappel (chaplain) 
 was to answer with a song." — Arch/eolocia. 
 
 t From Poor Robin's Almanack. 
 
Sfl THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 
 
 much the same terms ; winking hard at me with both eyes, 
 whenever he gave Master Simon what he considered a home 
 thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the 
 subject, as old bachelors are apt to be; and he took occasion to 
 inform me, in an under tone, that the lady in question was a 
 prodigiously fine woman, and drove her own curricle. 
 
 The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, 
 and though the old hall may have resounded in its time with 
 many a scene of broader route and revel, yet I doubt Whether it 
 ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy 
 it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him ; 
 and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making 
 every thing in its vicinity to freshen into smiles ! The joyous 
 disposition of the worthy Squire was perfectly contagious; he 
 was happy himself, and disposed to make all the world happy; 
 and the little eccentricities of his humour did but season, in a 
 manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. 
 
 When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, be- 
 came still more animated; many good things were broached 
 which had been thought of during dinner, but which would 
 not exactly do for a lady's ear; and though I cannot positively 
 affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly 
 heard many contests of rare wit produce much less laughter. 
 Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much 
 too acid for some stomachs : but honest good humour is the oil 
 and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial companion- 
 ship equal to that, where the jokes are rather small, and the 
 laughter abundant. 
 
 The Squire told several long stories of early college pranks 
 and adventures, in some of which the parson had been a sharer ; 
 though in looking at the latter, it required some effort of imagin- 
 ation to figure such a little dark anatomy of a man into the per- 
 petrator of a mad-cap gambol. Indeed, the two college chums 
 presented pictures of what men may be made by their different 
 lots in life : the Squire had left the University to live lustily on 
 his paternal domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of prosperity 
 and sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty and florid old 
 age; whilst the poor parson, on the contrary, had dried and 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 225 
 
 withered away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and shadows 
 of his study. Still there seemed to be a spark of almost extin- 
 guished fire, feebly glimmering in the bottom of his soul ; and as 
 the Squire hinted at a sly story of the parson and a pretty milk- 
 maid, whom they once met on the banks of the Isis, the old 
 gentleman made an " alphabet of faces, which, as far as I could 
 decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was indicative of 
 laughter ; — indeed, I have rarely met with an old gentleman that 
 took absolute offence at the imputed gallantries of his youth. 
 
 I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the 
 dry land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier and 
 louder as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as 
 chirping a humour as a grasshopper filled with dew ; his old 
 songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk 
 maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song about the 
 wooing of a widow, which he informed me he had gathered 
 from an excellent black-letter work, entitled, " Cupid's Solicitor 
 for Love," containing store of good advice for bachelors, and 
 which he promised to lend me. The first, verse was to this 
 effect : 
 
 He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
 He must make hay while the sun doth shine; 
 
 He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
 But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine. 
 
 This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made 
 several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of Joe Miller, 
 that was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck in the middle, 
 every body recollecting the latter part excepting himself. The 
 parson, too, began to show the effects of good cheer, having 
 gradually settled down into a doze, and his wig sitting most sus- 
 piciously on one side. Just at this juncture we were summoned 
 to the drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation 
 of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a 
 proper love of decorum. 
 
 After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given up to 
 the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind 
 of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made i(s old 
 
•226 THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 
 
 walls ring with their merriment, as they played at romping 
 games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of children, and 
 particularly at this happy holyday 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 occasions to fulfil the office of that ancient potentate, the 
 Lord of Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of the hall. The little 
 beings were as busy about him as the mock fairies about Falstaff; 
 pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling 
 him with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, 
 with her flaxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolick face 
 in a glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete 
 picture of a romp, was the chief tormentor ; and from the slyness 
 with which 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 firei listening to the parson, who was "deeply 
 esconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of some cunning 
 artificer of yore, which had been brought from the library for 
 his particular accommodation. From this venerable piece of 
 furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark weazen face 
 so admirably accorded, he was dealing forth strange accounts of 
 the popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, 
 with which he had become acquainted in the course of his an- 
 tiquarian 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 marvellous and supernatural. He 
 gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighbouring 
 
 * At Christmasse there was in the Kinges house, wheresoever hee was 
 lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, and the like had 
 ye in the house of every nohleman of honor, or good worshippe, were he 
 spirituall or temporall. — Stow. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 227 
 
 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 feelings of superstition by the good wives of the village. 
 It was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of the 
 churchyard 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 some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, 
 or some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of 
 trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried 
 in the tomb, over which the spectre kept watch ; and there was 
 a story current of a sexton in old times who endeavoured to break 
 his way to the coffin at night : but just as he reached it, received 
 a violent blow from the marble hand of the effigy, which stretched 
 him senseless on the 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 favourite 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, affirm- 
 ed, that in her young days she had often heard say, that on Mid- 
 summer eve, when it is well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, 
 and fairies become visible and walk abroad, the crusader used 
 to mount his horse, come down from his picture, ride about the 
 house, down the avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb ; 
 on which, occasion the church door most 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 (he dairy 
 
 15 » 
 
228 THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 
 
 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- 
 nanced by the Squire, who, though not superstitious himself, was 
 very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin tale 
 of the neighbouring gossips with infinite gravity, and held the 
 porter's wife in high favour on account of her talent for the mar- 
 vellous. He was himself a great reader of old legends and ro- 
 mances, and often lamented that he could not believe in them ; 
 for a superstitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of 
 fairyland. 
 
 Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our ears 
 were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds from 
 the hall, in which were mingled something like the clang of rude 
 minstrelsy, with the uproar of many small voices and girlish 
 laughter. The door suddenly flew open, and a train came 
 trooping into the room, that might almost have been mistaken 
 for the breaking up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable 
 spirit Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as lord 
 of misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas mummery, or 
 masquing ; 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 generations ; the younger part of the company had been 
 privately convened from the parlour and hall, and the whole had 
 been bedizened out, into a burlesque imitation of an antique 
 masque.* 
 
 Master Simon led the van, as " Ancient Christmas," quaintly 
 apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very much the 
 
 * Masquings or mummeries were favourite sports at Christmas in old 
 times; and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under 
 contribution to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly suspect 
 Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from lien Jonson's Masque of 
 Christmas. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 229 
 
 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 ac- 
 companied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as " Dame Mince 
 Pie," in the venerable magnificence of 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, na- 
 tural to a young gallant in presence of his mistress. The fair 
 Julia hung on his arm in a pretty, rustic dress, as " Maid 
 Marian." The rest of the train had been metamorphosed in 
 various ways ; the girls trussed up 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-bottomed wigs, to represent the characters of Roast Beef, 
 Plumb Pudding, and other worthies celebrated in ancient masqu- 
 ings. 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 
 merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory by the 
 stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a 
 minuet with the peerless, though giggling, Dame Mince Pie. It 
 was followed by a dance of all the characters, which, from its 
 medley of costumes, seemed as though the old family portraits 
 had skipped down from their frames to join in the sport. Dif- 
 ferent centuries were figuring at cross hands and right and left ; 
 the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons ; and the 
 days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle, through a 
 line of succeeding generations. 
 
 The worthy Squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and 
 
230 THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 
 
 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 of the Paon, or peacock, from which he conceived 
 the minuet to be derived.* For my part, I was in a continual ex- 
 citement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent gaiety 
 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 fleet- 
 ing customs were posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, 
 perhaps, the only family in England in which the whole of them 
 was still punctiliously observed. There was a quaintness, too, 
 mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest : it was 
 suited to the time and place ; and as the old Manor House almost 
 reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the jovi- 
 ality of long departed years. 
 
 But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time for me to 
 pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions asked by 
 my graver readers, "To what purpose is all this?— how is the 
 world to be made wiser by this talk?" Alas ! is there not wis- 
 dom enough extant for the instruction of the world ? And if not, 
 are there not thousands of abler pens labouring 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 deduc- 
 tions may be safe guides for the opinions of others? But in 
 writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is my own disappointment. 
 
 * Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pavo, 
 a peacock, says, " }t 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. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 231 
 
 tf, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, 
 rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy 
 heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then penetrate 
 through the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent 
 view of human nature, and make my reader more in good hu- 
 mour with his fellow beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall 
 not then have written entirely in vain. 
 
[The following modicum of local history was lately put into my hands by 
 an odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown wig and snuff-coloured coat, 
 with whom I became acquainted in the course of one of my tours of obser- 
 vation through the centre of that great wilderness the City. I confess that I 
 was a little dubious at first, whether it was not one of those apocryphal tales 
 often passed off upon inquiring travellers like myself; and which have 
 brought our general character for veracity into such unmerited reproach. 
 On making proper inquiries, however, I have received the most satisfac- 
 tory 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 I should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within the 
 hearing of Bowbell) would bee out of charity with me. 
 
 Nashe. 
 
 In the centre of the great City of London lies a small neigh- 
 bourhood, 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. Bartholo- 
 mew'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 Butchers' Hall 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 pro- 
 tection.* 
 
 This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in an- 
 cient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As London 
 increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and 
 trade, creeping on at their heels, took possession of their deserted 
 abodes. For some time Little Britain became the great mart 
 of learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolific race of 
 booksellers : these also gradually deserted it, and emigrating 
 beyond the great strait of Newgate Street, settled down in Pa- 
 
 * It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has in- 
 cluded in his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and 
 courts that belong immediately to Cloth Fair, 
 
234 LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 
 ternoster Row and St. Paul's Churchyard ; where they continue 
 to increase and multiply even at the present day. 
 
 But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears 
 traces of its former splendour. 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 na- 
 turalist to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, cer- 
 tain remains of what were once spacious and lordly family man- 
 sions, 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 apart- 
 ments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous 
 marble fire-places. The lanes and courts also contain many 
 smaller houses, not on so grand a scale, but, like your small 
 ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their claims to equal anti- 
 quity. These have their gable ends to the street ; great bow 
 windows, with diamond panes set in lead ; grotesque carvings ; 
 and low arched doorways. 
 
 In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed 
 several quiet years of existence ; comfortably lodged in the se- 
 cond floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices. My sitting 
 room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small panels, and set 
 off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular 
 respect for three or four high-backed claw-footed chairs, covered 
 with tarnished brocade ; which bear the marks of having seen 
 better days ; and have doubtless figured in some of the old pa- 
 laces of Little Britain. They seem tome to keep together, and 
 to look down with sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bot- 
 tomed neighbours ; as I have seen decayed gentry carry a high 
 head among the plebeian society with which they were reduced 
 to associate. The whole front of my sitting room is taken up 
 with a bow window ; on the panes of which are recorded the 
 names of previous occupants for many generations; mingled with 
 scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, written in cha- 
 racters which I can scarcely decipher ; and which extol the 
 charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has long, long 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 235 
 
 since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an idle per- 
 sonage, with no apparent occupation, and pay my bill regularly 
 every week, I am looked upon as the only independent gentle- 
 man of the neighbourhood ; and being curious to learn the in- 
 ternal state of a community so apparently shut up within itself, 
 I have managed to work my way into all the concerns and secrets 
 of the place. 
 
 Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the city; 
 the strong-hold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of Lon- 
 don as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and 
 fashions. Here flourish in great preservation many of the ho- 
 lyday games and customs of yore. The inhabitants most reli- 
 giously eat pan-cakes on Shrove Tuesday, hotcross-buns on 
 (iood Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas ; they send love- 
 letters on Valentine's Day, burn the Pope on the Fifth of No- 
 vember, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas, 
 Roast-beef and plum-pudding are also held in superstitious ve- 
 neration, and port and sherry maintain their grounds as the 
 only true English wines; all others being considered vile out- 
 landish beverages. 
 
 Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which its 
 inhabitants consider the wonders of the world ; such as the great 
 bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls ; the 
 figures that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock ; the Monu- 
 ment; the lions in the Tower; and the wooden giants in Guild- 
 hall. They still believe in dreams and fortunetelling, and an 
 old woman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tole- 
 rable subsistence by detecting stolen goods, and promising the 
 girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncomfor- 
 table 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 con- 
 cerning the old mansion-houses; in several of which it is said 
 strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the for- 
 mer 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 
 
236 LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 
 nights ; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient pro- 
 prietors 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 projec- 
 tions; with a brown circle round each eye, like a pair of horn 
 spectacles. He is much thought of by the old women, who 
 consider him as a kind of conjurer, because he has two or three 
 stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in 
 bottles. He is a great reader of almanacks and newspapers, 
 and is much given to pore over alarming accounts of plots, con- 
 spiracies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions ; which last 
 phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He has always 
 some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers, with 
 their doses ; and thus at the same time puis %oth soul and body 
 into an uproar. He is a great believer in omens and predic- 
 tions ; and has the prophecies of Robert Nixon and Mother Ship- 
 ton by heart. No man can make so much out of an eclipse, or 
 even an unusually dark day; and he shook the tail of the last 
 comet over the heads of his customers and disciples until they 
 were nearly frightened out of their wits. He has lately got 
 hold of a popular legend or prophecy, on which he has been unu- 
 sually 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 grass- 
 hopper actually lie, cheekjby 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." 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 237 
 
 Since these portentous weathercocks 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 Eng- 
 land ! All these sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme 
 with a mysterious look, and a dismal shake of the head ; and 
 being taken with his drugs, and associated in the minds of his 
 auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, bottled serpents, and his own 
 visage, which is a titlepage of tribulation, they have spread great 
 gloom through the minds of the people in Little Britain. They 
 shake their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, and ob- 
 serve, that they never expected any good to come of taking 
 down that steeple, which in old times told nothing but glad tid- 
 ings, as the history of Whittington and his Cat bears witness. 
 
 The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheesemonger, 
 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 stand- 
 ing and importance ; and his renown even extends through Hug- 
 gin Lane, and Lad Lane, and unto Aldermanbury, His opinion 
 is very much taken in affairs of slate, having read the Sunday 
 papers for the last half century, together with the Gentleman's 
 Magazine, Rapin's History of England, and the Naval Chronicle. 
 His head is stored with invaluable maxims which have borne the 
 lest of time and use for centuries. It is his firm opinion that 
 " il is amoral 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 
 Ihe greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little Britain, until 
 of late years, when, having become rich, and grown unto the 
 dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure and see 
 .{he world. He has therefore made several excursions to IJamp- 
 stead, Highgate, and other neighbouring towns, where he has 
 
238 LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 
 passed whole afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis 
 through a telescope, and endeavouring 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 Churchyard. His family have been very urgent for 
 him to make an expedition to Margate, but he has great doubts 
 of those new gimcracks the steam-boats, and indeed thinks 
 himself too advanced 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 
 4 ' Burial Societies" being set up in the place. One held its meet- 
 ing at the Swan and Horseshoe, and was patronised 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 du- 
 rability. The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily 
 died of late ; but they w r ere for a long time prevailing themes of 
 controversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely solici- 
 tous of funeral honours 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 humour 
 over the whole neighbourhood. It meets once a week at a little 
 old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly publican of the name of 
 Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half-moon, 
 with a most seductive bunch of grapes. The 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 most frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 239 
 
 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- 
 lurnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his 
 famous walking staff. This, however, is considered as rather a 
 dubious and vain-glorious 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 madcap 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 body, 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 variations, as he received it from his 
 father's lips; for it has been a standing favourite at the Half- 
 moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written : nay, he 
 affirms that his predecessors have often had the honour of sing- 
 ing 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 
 Little 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. 
 
240 
 
 LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 
 It would do one's heart good to hear on a club night the 
 shout of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then 
 the choral burst of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue 
 from this jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined with 
 listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into a con- 
 fectioner'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, 
 
 Chorus. Back 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 love no rost, but a nut browne toste, 
 
 And a crab laid in the fyre ; 
 A little breade shall do me steade, 
 
 Much breade I not desyre. 
 No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe, 
 
 Can hurte mee if I wolde, 
 I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 
 
 Of joly good ale and olde. 
 
 Cht 
 
 Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c. 
 
 And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 
 
 Loveth well good ale to seeke, 
 Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see, 
 
 The teares run downe her cheeke. 
 Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle, 
 
 Even as a mault-worme sholde, 
 And sayth, sweete harte, I tooke my parte 
 
 Of this joly good ale and olde. 
 
 Ck 
 
 Back and syde go bare , go bare, &c. 
 
 Now let them drynke, till they nod and winke, 
 
 Even as goode f ellowes 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. 
 
 Chorum. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c> 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 241 
 
 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 Little Britain are overrun with an irruption of strange 
 figures and faces ; every tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The 
 fiddle and the song are heard from the tap-room, morning, noon, 
 and night ; and at each window may be seen some group of 
 boon companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe 
 in mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling, and prozing, and 
 singing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even the sober de- 
 corum of private families, which I must say is rigidly kept up 
 at other times among my neighbours, is no proof against this 
 Saturnalia. There is no such thing as keeping maid servants 
 within doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding with 
 Punch and the Puppet Show; the Flying Horses; Signor Polito; 
 the Fire Eater ; the celebrated Mr. Paap ; and the Irish Giant. 
 The children too lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt 
 gingerbread, and fill the house with the Lilliputian din of drums, 
 trumpets and penny whistles. 
 
 But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The 
 Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain 
 as the greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach with six 
 horses as the summit of human splendour; 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 armour 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 as a pike staff — Od's blood! if he once draws 
 that sword, Majesty itself is not safe ! 
 
 Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the 
 good people of Little Britain sleep in peace, Temple Bar is an 
 
 16 
 
242 LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 
 effectual 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 Trainbands, 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 pre- 
 vailed throughout it ; for though there might now and then be a 
 few clashes of opinion between the adherents of the cheese- 
 monger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between the 
 burial societies, yet these were but transient clouds, and soon 
 passed away. The neighbours met with good-will, parted with 
 a shake of the hand, and never abused each other except behind 
 their backs. 
 
 I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at 
 which I have been present; where we played at All-Fours, Pope- 
 Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games; and 
 where we sometimes had a good old English country-dance to 
 the tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. Once a year also the 
 neighbours 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 en the 
 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 briars, 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 news- 
 paper 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 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 243 
 
 old umbrella-maker in a double chin, who never exactly com- 
 prehending the subject, managed somehow or other to decide 
 in favour of both parties. 
 
 All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, 
 are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innova- 
 tion creep in ; factions arise, and families now and then spring 
 up, whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into 
 confusion. Thus in latter days has the 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 neighbourhood : 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 honour of being a lady 
 in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, 
 on which occasion she wore three towering ostrich feathers on 
 her head. The family never got over it ; they were immediately 
 smitten with a passion for high life ; set up a one-horse carriage, 
 put a bit of gold lace round the errand boy's hat, and have been 
 the talk and detestation of the whole neighbourhood ever since. 
 They could no longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or Blind- 
 man's-buff; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which 
 nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain ; and they took to 
 reading novels, talking bad French, and playing upon the piano. 
 Their brother too, who had been articled to an attorney, setup 
 for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these 
 parts ; and he confounded the worthy folks exceedingly by 
 talking about Kean, the Opera, and the Edinbro' Review. 
 
 What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which 
 they neglected to invite any of their old neighbours ; 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 forgotten or for- 
 
244 LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 
 given. All Little Britain was in an uproar with the smacking 
 of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the rattling and 
 jingling of hackney coaches. The gossips of the neighbourhood 
 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 crones, that kept a look-out from a house just 
 opposite the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every 
 one that knocked at the door. 
 
 This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole 
 neighbourhood declared they would have nothing more to say 
 to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no 
 engagement with her quality acquaintance, would give little 
 humdrum tea junketings to some of her old crones, " quite,'' 
 as she would say, " in a friendly way ;" and it is equally true 
 that her invitations were always accepted, in spite of all previous 
 vows to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be 
 delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would con- 
 descend to strum an Irish melody for them on the piano ; and 
 they would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anec- 
 dotes of Alderman Plunket's family of Portsoken-ward, and the 
 Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars ; but 
 then they relieved their consciences, and averted the reproaches 
 of their confederates, by canvassing at the next gossiping con- 
 vocation 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 fashionable 
 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," ad- 
 dressed him as " papa,"- in tones of infinite softness, and endea- 
 voured to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers, and other 
 gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there was no keep- 
 ing down the butcher. His sturdy nature would break through 
 all their glozingS; He had a hearty vulgar good-humour that 
 was irrepressible. His very jokes made his sensitive daughters 
 shudder; and he persisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 245 
 
 morning, dining at two o'clock, and having a " bit of sausage 
 with his tea." 
 
 He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his 
 family. He found his old comrades gradually growing cold and 
 civil to him ; no longer laughing at his jokes, and now and then 
 throwing out a fling at V some people," and a hint about "quality 
 hinding." This both nettled and perplexed the honest butcher ; 
 and his wife and daughters, with the consummate policy of the 
 shrewder sex, taking advantage of the circumstance, at length 
 prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon's pipe and tankard at 
 Wagslaff'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 street 
 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- 
 bourhood ; 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 
 horror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent contempt they 
 were so vociferousin 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 neighbours, after con- 
 demning, 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 lessons 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. 
 
 I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die 
 away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neighbourhood ; 
 
246 LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 
 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 daughters. The young ladies had long been repining in 
 secret at the parsimony of a prudent father, which kept down all 
 their elegant as irings. 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 r 
 having had the first start, had naturally an advantage of them in 
 the fashionable career. They could speak a little bad French, 
 play the piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed high acquain- 
 tances; but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When the 
 Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trot- 
 ters mounted four, and of twice as fine colours. 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 fashion- 
 able factions, under the banners of these two families. The old 
 games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-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 
 mistletoe 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 Bri- 
 tain ; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, 
 and the Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. 
 
 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. 
 Being a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle 
 good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only 
 gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore in high 
 favour with both parties, and have to hear all their cabinet coun- 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 247 
 
 sels and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to agree with 
 the ladies on all occasions, I have committed myself most hor- 
 ribly with both parties, by abusing their opponents. I might 
 manage to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly ac- 
 commodating one, but I cannot to my apprehensions — if the 
 Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation and compare 
 notes, I am ruined ! 
 
 I am determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in lime, 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, drank, 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 sorrowful adieu to my pre- 
 sent abode, and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and the 
 Trotters to divide the distracted empire of Little Britain. 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 
 
 Or 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 parlour, of 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 parlour of the 
 Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 
 
 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, enquired, 
 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 
 
250 STRATFORD-ON-AVON.' 
 
 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 steal- 
 ing from the west, breathing the breath of life into nature, and 
 wooing every bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and 
 beauty. 
 
 I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first 
 visit was to the house where 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 
 language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from 
 the prince to the peasant ; and present a simple, but striking 
 instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind to 
 the great poet of nature. 
 
 The house is shown by a garrulous old lady in a frosty red 
 face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with 
 artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly 
 dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics 
 with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. 
 There was the shattered stock of the very matchlock with which 
 Shakspeare shot the deer, on his poaching exploit. There, too, 
 was his tobacco-box ; which proves that he was a rival smoker 
 of Sir Walter Raleigh ; the sword also with which he played 
 Hamlet ; and the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence 
 discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! There was an ample 
 supply also of Sha«kspeare's mulberry-tree, which seems to have 
 extraordinary powers of self multiplication. 
 
 The most favourite object of curiosity, however, is Shakspeare's 
 chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small gloomy cham- 
 ber, just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may many 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 251 
 
 a time have sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolving spit 
 with all the longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, listening to 
 the crones and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth churchyard 
 tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of Eng- 
 land. In this chair it is the custom for 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 
 jnerely 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 some- 
 thing of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the 
 flying chair of the Arabian enchanter ; for though sold some few 
 years since to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has 
 found its way back again to the old chimney corner. 
 
 I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing 
 to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. 
 I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anec- 
 dotes of goblins and great men ; and would advise all travellers 
 who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to 
 us, whether these stories be true or false, so long as Ave can per- 
 suade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm 
 of the reality ? There is nothing like resolute good humoured 
 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 birthplace 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 or- 
 namented. 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 mur- 
 muring at the foot of the churchyard, and the elms which grow 
 upon its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An 
 avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, 
 
•2V2 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 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 over- 
 grown with grass ; the grey tombstones, some of them nearly 
 sunk into the earth, are half covered with moss, which has 
 likewise tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have 
 built their nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls, 
 and keep up a continual flutter and chirping ; and rooks are 
 sailing and cawing about its lofty gray spire. ^ 
 
 In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed old 
 sexton, 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 neat- 
 ness, order, and comfort, which pervade the humblest dwellings 
 in this country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone floor 
 carefully scrubbed, served for parlour, kitchen, and hall. Rows 
 of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. On an 
 old oaken table, well 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 granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed 
 girl, — and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, 
 whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and w 7 ho, I 
 found, had been his companion from childhood. They had 
 played together in infancy ; they had worked together in man- 
 hood ; they were now tottering about and gossiping away the 
 evening of life ; and in a short time they will probably be buried 
 together in the neighbouring churchyard. It is not often that 
 we see two streams of existence running thus evenly and tran- 
 quilly side by side; it is only in such quiet "bosom scenes" of 
 life that they are to be met with. 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 253 
 
 1 had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard 
 from those ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing new to im- 
 part. The long interval during which Shakspeare's writings lay 
 in comparative neglect has spread its shadow over his history ; ' 
 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 car- 
 penters 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 
 sexton, was "a short punch man, very lively and bustling." 
 John Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakspeare's mul- 
 berry-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 va- 
 luable 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 visiters. Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, 
 and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge into different 
 channels even at the fountain head. 
 
 We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and 
 entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved 
 doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the archi- 
 tecture 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 ban- 
 ners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shak- 
 speare 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 himself, and which have in them something 
 
254 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 extremely awful. If Ihey are indeed his own, they show that 
 solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which seems natural to 
 fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds : 
 
 Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare 
 To dig the dust enclosed here. 
 Blessed he he that spares these stones, 
 And curst he he that moves my bones. 
 
 Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shak- 
 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 
 characterised among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his 
 genius. The inscription mentions his age at the time of his de- 
 cease — fifty-three years; an untimely death for the world; for 
 what fruit might not have been expected from the golden au- 
 tumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vi- 
 cissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular and 
 royal favour. 
 
 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 w r as at 
 one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some la- 
 bourers 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 col- 
 lector 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. 
 
 Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favourite daughter 
 Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, 
 is a full length effigy of his old friend John Combe, of usurious 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 255 
 
 memory ; on whom he is said lo 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 mau- 
 soleum. The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by 
 doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence : other traces of him 
 may be false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and ab- 
 solute 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 I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys at 
 Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shakspeare, in 
 company with some of the roysters of Stratford, committed his 
 youthful offence of deer-stealing. In this harebrained 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 treat- 
 ment 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.* 
 
 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 doer-stalker. 
 Shakspeare did not wait to brave the united puissance of a knight 
 
 The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : 
 
 A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
 At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
 If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscaile 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 miscall it, 
 Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it 
 
256 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 of the shire and a country attorney. He forthwith abandoned 
 the pleasant banks of the Avon and his paternal trade ; wandered 
 away to London ; became a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an 
 actor; and, finally, wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the 
 persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent 
 wool-comber, and the world gained an immortal poet. He re- 
 tained, however, for a long time a sense of the harsh treatment of 
 the Lord 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 slily 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 doubt- 
 less all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, 
 and undirected genius. The poetic temperament has naturally 
 something in it of 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, 
 whether 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 neighbourhood of Stratford, he was to 
 be found in the company of all kinds of odd anomalous cha- 
 racters ; 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 
 gallows. 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. f 
 
 * The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot. 
 t A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in his youthful 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 257 
 
 The old mansion of Charlccot 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 lei- 
 surely 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 sprout and the tender blade ; and the trees and shrubs, in 
 their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of re- 
 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 
 
 days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the 
 elder Ireland, and mentioned in his "Picturesque Views on the Avon." 
 
 About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market-town of 
 Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to 
 meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers 
 of good ale of the neighbouring villages to a contest of drinking. Among 
 others, the people of Stratford were called out to prove the strength of their 
 heads ; and in the number of the champions was Shakspeare, who, in spite 
 of the proverb, that "they who drink beer willthink beer," was as true to 
 his ale as Falstaflf to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the 
 first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to carry them off 
 the field. They had scarcely marched a mile, when, their legs failing them, 
 they were forced to lie down under a crab-tree, where they passed the 
 night. It is still standing, and goes by the name of Shakspear's tree. 
 
 In the morning his companions awakened the bard, and proposed re- 
 turning to Bedford ; but he declined, saying he had had enough ? having 
 drank with 
 
 Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
 
 Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
 
 Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
 
 Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 
 '■* The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, " still bear the epithets thus 
 given them : the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the 
 pipe and tabor ; Hillborough is now called Haunted Hillborough ; and Grafton 
 i.s famous for the poverty of its soil." 
 
 17 
 
258 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 blossoms in the 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 stilt 
 filled with his music, it called to mind Shakspeare's exquisite 
 little song in Cymbeline : 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
 
 And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 
 On chaliced flowers that lies. 
 
 And winking mary-buds begin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes ; 
 With every thing that pretty bin ; 
 
 My lady sweet, arise ! 
 Arise ! 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 resort of his boyhood, where 
 he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and 
 manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions 
 which he has woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For, in 
 his time, we are told it was a popular amusement in winter 
 evenings " to sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant 
 knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, 
 cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars."* 
 
 * Scot, in his " Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these 
 fireside fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, 
 witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with 
 the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, 
 nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin-goodfellow, 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 own shadowes." 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 259 
 
 My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
 which made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and wind- 
 ings through a wide and fertile valley; sometimes glittering 
 from among willows, which fringed its borders ; sometimes dis- 
 appearing among groves, or beneath green banks ; and some- 
 times rambling out into full view, and making an azure sweep 
 round a slope of meado>v land. This beautiful bosom of coun- 
 try is called the Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line of un- 
 dulating 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 ofT 
 into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields and under 
 hedge-rows to a private gate of the park;- there was a stile „ 
 however, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; there being a pub- 
 lic right of way through the grounds. I delight in these hos- 
 pitable 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 belter 
 lot of his neighbour, thus to have parks and pleasure grounds 
 thrown open for his recreation. He breathes the pure air as 
 freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as the lord of 
 the soil; and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he 
 sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of 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 
 for their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged 
 through long lessening vistas, with nothing to interrupt the 
 view but some distant statue; or 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 indepen- 
 
 17 * 
 
a60 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 dence of an ancient family ; and I have heard a worthy but aris- 
 tocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the sumptuous pa- 
 laces of modern gentry, that "money could do much with stone 
 and mortar, but, thank heaven, there was no such thing as 
 suddenly building up an avenue of oaks." 
 
 It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, 
 and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Ful- 
 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 Jacques, and the enchanting wood- 
 land pictures in "As you like it." It is in lonely wanderings 
 through such scenes that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts 
 of inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and 
 majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into reverie and 
 rapture; vague but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking 
 upon it; arid 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, 
 Gome hither, come hither, come hither, 
 
 Here shall he see 
 
 No enemy, 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large 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 
 country gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from 
 the park into a kind of court-yard in front of the house, orna- 
 mented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-buds. The gate- 
 way is in imitation of the ancient barbacan ; being a kind of 
 
STRATFORD-OPf-AVON. 261 
 
 outpost, and flanked by lowers; though evidently for mere orna- 
 ment, instead of defence. The front of the house is completely 
 in the old style ; with stone shafted casements, a great bow- 
 window of heavy stone-work, and a portal with armorial bear- 
 ings over it, carved in stone. At each corner of the building 
 is an octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. 
 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 re- 
 posing 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 here a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
 Shalloiv. 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 do- 
 mestic life that I met with was a white cat stealing with wary 
 look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefarious 
 expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass of a scoun- 
 drel 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 was the every-day entrance to the 
 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, 
 
i&62 STRATtfORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 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 coun- 
 try gentleman, have made way for family portraits. There is a 
 wide hospitable fireplace, calculated for an ample old-fashioned - 
 wood fire, formerly the rallying place of winter festivity. On 
 the opposite side of the hall is the huge gothic bow-window, with 
 stone shafts, which looks out upon the 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 quartering 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 
 matter of it ; if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert 
 Shallow, Esq. 
 
 Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. 
 
 Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 
 
 Slender. Ay, and 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 any time these three hundred 
 years. 
 
 Slender. All his successors gone before him have done 't, and all his 
 ancestors that come after him may ; they may give the dozen white luces in 
 their coat. ***** 
 
 Shallow. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 
 
 Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is no fear of 
 Got in a riot ; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, 
 and not to hear a riot ; take your vizaments in that. 
 
 Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end 
 it!" 
 
 Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir 
 Peter Lely of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the lime 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 263 
 
 01 onarles 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 vin- 
 dictive knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me that it 
 was his son ; the only likeness extant of the former being an 
 effigy upon his tomb in the church of the neighbouring hamlet 
 of Charlecot. The picture gives a lively idea of the costume 
 and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and 
 doublet ; white shoes with roses in them ; and has a peaked 
 yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, " a cane-coloured 
 beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side of the picture 
 in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children have a most 
 venerable stiffness and formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels 
 are mingled in the family group ; a hawk is seated on his perch 
 in the foreground, and one of the children holds a bow ; — all 
 intimating the knight's skill in hunting, 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 find the stately elbow-chair of 
 carved oak, in which the country Squire of former days was 
 
 * Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes, 
 '•' his housekeeping is seen much in the different families 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 no- 
 bility, and is exceedingly 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 run buck, fox, 
 hare, otter and badger ; and had hawks of all kinds, both long and short 
 winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrowbones, and full 
 of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved 
 with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds and spaniels." 
 
261 STRATFORD-ON-AVON, 
 
 wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural domains; and 
 in which it might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat 
 enthroned in awful state when the recreant Shakspeare was 
 brought before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my 
 entertainment, 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 potentate, surrounded by his body-guard of butler, pages, 
 and blue-coated serving-men with their badges; while the 
 luckless culprit w T as brought in, bedrooped and chapfallen, in 
 the custody of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and 
 followed by a rabble rout of country clowns. I faucied 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 youthful prisoner with that pity 
 " that dwells in womanhood." — Who would have thoughtthat 
 this poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority of a 
 country Squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to 
 become the delight of princes ; the theme of all tongues and 
 ages ; the dictator to the human mind ; and was to confer im- 
 mortalit yon his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! 
 
 I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and I felt 
 inclined to visit the orchard and arbour where the Justice treated 
 Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a last year's pippen of 
 his own grafting, with a dish of carraways ;" but I had already 
 spent so much of the day in my ramblings 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 housekeeper 
 and butler, that I would take some refreshment : an instance of 
 good old hospitality, which I grieve to^ay 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 pressing instances to Falstaff. 
 
 " By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not away to-night* *'**. I will not 
 excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted; there 
 is no excuse shall serve ; you shall not be excused.—* * * *. Some pigeons, 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 265 
 
 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 
 eyes ; and as the door of the dining-room opened, I almost ex- 
 pected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth 
 his favourite 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 necromancer, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, 
 but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard in- 
 fluence of Shakspeare 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 surrounded 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 Jacques soliloquise beneath 
 his oak ; had beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion ad- 
 venturing through the woodlands ; and, above all, had been once 
 more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff, and his contem- 
 poraries, from the august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle 
 Master Slender, and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand 
 honours and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull 
 realities of life with innocent 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, 
 
266 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 and could not but exult in the malediction, which has kept his 
 ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What 
 honour could his name have derived from being mingled in 
 dusty companionship with the epitaphs, and escutcheons, and 
 venal eulogiums of a titled multitude? What would a crowded 
 corner in Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this 
 reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as 
 his sole mausoleum ! The solicitude about the grave may be 
 but the offspring of an overwrought 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 renown about the world, and has reaped a 
 full harvest of worldly favour, will find, after all, that there is 
 no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that 
 which springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks 
 to be gathered in peace and honour among his kindred and his 
 early friends. And when the weary heart and failing head 
 begin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns 
 as fondly as does the infant to the mother's arms, to sink to sleep 
 in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. 
 
 How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, 
 when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he 
 cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have 
 foreseen that, before many years, he should return to it covered 
 with renown ; that his name should 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 ! 
 

 TRAITS 
 
 INDIAN CHARACTER 
 
 " 1 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 fo- 
 rests, majestic rivers and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, 
 wonderfully striking and sublime. He is formed for the wilder- 
 ness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, simple, 
 and enduring; fitted to grapple with difficulties, and to support 
 privations. There seems but little soil in his heart for the 
 growth 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 civilised life by 
 more of those sympathies and affections than are usually ascrib- 
 ed to him. 
 
 It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America, 
 in the early periods of colonisation, to be doubly wronged by 
 the white men. They have been dispossessed of their heredi- 
 tary possessions by mercenary and frequently wanton warfare ; 
 and their characters have been traduced by bigoted and interest- 
 ed writers. The colonist has often treated them like beasts of the 
 
268 TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 
 
 forest ; and the author has endeavoured to justify him in his 
 outrages. The former found it easier to exterminate than to 
 civilise ; 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 while 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 so- 
 cieties have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavoured to 
 investigate and record the real characters and manners of the 
 Indian tribes; 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 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 
 civilisation. 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 de- 
 based by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed 
 and daunted by the superior knowledge and power of their en- 
 
 * The American government has been indefatigable in its exertions to 
 ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them the arts 
 of civilisation, 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. 2(>0 
 
 lightened neighbours. Society has advanced upon them like 
 one of those withering airs that will sometimes breathe desolation 
 oyer 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 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, repin- 
 ing and hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in sa- 
 vage 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 com- 
 parative wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury spreads 
 its ample board before their eyes ; but they are excluded from 
 the banquet. Plenty revels over the fields; but they are starv- 
 ing 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 gratifi- 
 cation within their reach. They saw every one round them 
 sharing the same lot, enduring the same hardships, feeding on 
 the same aliments, arrayed in the same rude garments. No 
 roof then rose, but was open to the homeless stranger; no smoke 
 curled among the trees, but he was welcome to sit down by its 
 fire and join the hunter in his repast. " For," says an old his- 
 torian of New England, " 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 do they pass their time merrily, not regarding our pomp, 
 but are belter content with their own, which some men esteem 
 
270 TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 
 
 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 sufficiently 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 ac- 
 cording to some general maxims early implanted in his mind. 
 The moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, but few ; but 
 then he conforms to them all ; — the white man abounds in laws 
 of religion, morals, and manners ; but how many does he violate ! 
 A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their 
 disregard of treaties, and the treachery and 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 in- 
 sulting. They seldom treat them with that confidence and frank- 
 ness which are indispensable to real friendship ; nor is sufficient 
 caution observed not to offend against those feelings of pride or 
 superstition, which often prompt the Indian to hostility quicker 
 than mere considerations of interest. The solitary savage feels 
 silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are not diffused over so 
 wide a surface as those of the white man ; but they run in stea- 
 dier and deeper channels. His pride, his affections, his super- 
 stitions, 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 pa- 
 triarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an indivi- 
 dual is the injury of the whole ; and the sentiment of vengeance 
 is almost instantaneously diffused. One council fire is sufficient 
 for the discussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here 
 all the fighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and super- 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 1 271 
 
 Dillon combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The ora- 
 tor awakens their martial ardour, and they are wrought up to a 
 kind of religious desperation, by the visions of the prophet and 
 the dreamer. 
 
 An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising 
 from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in an 
 old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The plant- 
 ers of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead at Pas- 
 sonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the Sachem's mother 
 of some skins with which it had been decorated. The Indians 
 are remarkable for the reverence which they entertain for the 
 sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed genera- 
 tions exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when by chance 
 they have been travelling in the vicinity, have been known to 
 turn aside from the highway, and, guided by wonderfully ac- 
 curate tradition, have crossed the country for miles to some tu- 
 mulus, buried perhaps in woods, where the bones of their tribe 
 were anciently deposited ; and there have passed hours in si- 
 lent meditation. 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 beauti- 
 fully simple and pathetic 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 cus- 
 tom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, me- 
 thought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled ; 
 and, trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, M Be- 
 hold, 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 honourable customs? See, now, the Sa- 
 chem'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 ha- 
 
272 TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 
 
 bitation.' This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, 
 not able scarce to speak, began to get some strength, and re- 
 collect my spirits that were fled, and determined to demand 
 your counsel and assistance." 
 
 I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to 
 show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been at- 
 tributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and 
 generous motives, which our inattention to Indian character 
 and customs prevents our properly appreciating. 
 
 Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their 
 barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in 
 policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes 
 called nations, were never so formidable in their numbers, 
 but that the loss of several warriors was sensibly felt; this 
 was particularly the case when they had been frequently 
 engaged in warfare ; and many an instance occurs in Indian 
 history, where a tribe, that had long been formidable to its neigh- 
 bours, 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, fre- 
 quent among barbarous nations, and prevalent also among the 
 ancients, that the manes of their friends who had fallen in battle 
 were soothed by the blood of the captives. The prisoners, how- 
 ever, who are not thus sacrificed, are adopted into their fa- 
 milies in place of the slain, and are treated with the confidence 
 and affection of relatives and friends ; nay, so hospitable and 
 tender is their entertainment, that when the alternative is of- 
 fered them, they will often prefer to remain with their adopted 
 brethren, ralher than return to the home and the friends of 
 their youth. 
 
 The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been 
 heightened since the colonisation of the whites. What was for- 
 merly a compliance with policy and superstition, has been ex- 
 asperated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot but be 
 sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient do- 
 minion, the cause of their degradation , and the gradual de- 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 273 
 
 Mroyers 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-spread- 
 ing desolation, 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 mo- 
 deration and magnanimity towards those, who have left them 
 nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. 
 
 We stigmatise 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 
 honour. 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 
 subtility than open valour, owing to his physical weakness in 
 comparison with other animals. They are endowed with natu- 
 ral 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 stra- 
 tagem ; and when he perversely turns his hostility against his 
 fellow-man, he at first continues the same subtle mode of war- 
 fare. 
 
 The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to our 
 enemy with the least harm to ourselves ; and this of course is 
 to be effected by stratagem . That chivalrous courage which in- 
 duces us to despise the suggestions of prudence, and to rush in 
 the face of certain danger, is the offspring of society, and pro- 
 duced by education. It is honourable, because it is in fact the 
 triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance t,o 
 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 dread of an evil which exists but in 
 the imagination. It has been cherished and stimulated also by 
 various means. It has been the theme of spirit-stirring song 
 
 18 
 
•274 TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 
 
 and chivalrous story. The poet and minstrel have delighted to 
 shed round it the splendours of fiction ; and even the historian 
 has forgotten the sober gravity of narration, and broken forth 
 into enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs and gor- 
 geous 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. 
 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 
 singleness through the solitudes of ocean ; — as the bird mingles 
 among clouds, and storms, and wings its way, a mere specks 
 across the pathless fields of air;— so the Indian holds his 
 course, silent, solitary, but] undaunted, through the boundless 
 bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions may vie in distance 
 and danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade of 
 the knight-errant. He traverses vast forests, exposed to the 
 hazards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and 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 river. His very subsistence is snatched 
 from the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by the hard- 
 ships and dangers of the chase; he wraps himself in the spoils of 
 the bear, the panther, and the buffalo, and sleeps among the 
 thunders of the cataract. 
 No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian in 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 87$ 
 
 his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which h§ 
 sustains its cruellest infliction . Indeed we here behold him ris : 
 ing superior to the white man, in consequence of his peculiar 
 education. The latter rushes to glorious death at the cannon's 
 mouth; the former, calmly contemplates its approach, and 
 triumphantly endures it, amidst the varied torments of sur- 
 rounding foes and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes 
 a pride in taunting his persecutors, and provoking their inge- 
 nuity of torture; and as the devouring flames prey on his very 
 vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his last 
 song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an unconquered heart, 
 and invoking the spirits of his fathers 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, which throw a 
 degree of melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are occa- 
 sionally to be met with in the rude annals of the eastern pro- 
 vinces, which, though recorded with the colouring 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 early narratives of the Indian wars in New Eng- 
 land, 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 de- 
 spatched and ended in the course of an hour." After a series of 
 similar transactions, " our soldiers," as the historian piously ob- 
 serves, ''being resolved by God's assistance to make a final 
 destruction of them," the unhappy savages being hunted from 
 their homes and fortresses, and pursued with fire and sword, a 
 scanty but gallant band, the sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, 
 with their wives and children, took refuge in a swamp. 
 
 Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair, 
 with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe, 
 and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their de- 
 is * 
 
276 TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 
 
 teat, 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 
 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 dark- 
 ness 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-willed* 
 ness and madness, sit still and be shot through, or cut to pieces," 
 than implore for mercy. When the day broke upon this handful 
 of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering 
 the swamp, ' ' saw several heaps of them sitting close together, 
 upon whom they discharged their pieces, laden with ten or 
 twelve pistol bullets at a time; putting the muzzles of their 
 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-r 
 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 se- 
 nators clothed in their robes and seated with stern tranquillity in 
 their curule chairs; in this manner they suffered death without 
 resistance or even supplication. Such conduct was, in them, 
 applauded as noble and magnanimous ; in the hapless Indians 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 eastern 
 tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests that sheltered 
 them have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of them 
 in the thickly settled stales of New England, excepting here and 
 there the Indian name of a village or a stream. And such must 
 
TRAITS OP INDIAN CHARACTER. 217 
 
 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 Pa- 
 towmac and the Rappahanoc, and that peopled the forests of the 
 vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like a vapour 
 from the face of the earth; their very history will be lost in 
 forgelfulness ; and "the places that now know them will know 
 them no more for ever." Or if, perchance, some dubious me- 
 morial of them should survive the lapse of time, 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 anti- 
 quity. But should he venture upon the dark story of their wrongs 
 and wretchedness; should he tell how they were invaded, cor- 
 rupted, despoiled ; driven from their native abodes and the se- 
 pulchres of their fathers ; hunted like wild beasts about the earth ; 
 and sent down with violence and butchery to the grave ; posterity 
 will either turn with horror and incredulity from the tale, or 
 blush with indignation at the inhumanity of their forefathers. — 
 "We are driven back," said an old warrior, "until we can re- 
 treat no farther — our hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, 
 our fires are nearly extinguished — a little longer and the white 
 man will cease to persecute us— for we shall cease to exist ! " 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET, 
 
 AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 
 
 As monumental bronze unchanged his look : 
 A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook : 
 Train'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier, 
 The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
 Impassive— fearing but the shame of fear— 
 A stoic of the woods— a man without a tear. 
 
 Campbell 
 
 Ii is lo be regretted that those early writers, who treated of the 
 discovery 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 4 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 tracks of human nature ; in witness- 
 ing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment ; and per- 
 ceiving those generous and romantic qualities which have been 
 artificially cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardi- 
 hood and rude magnificence. 
 
 In civilised life, where the happiness, and indeed almost the 
 existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his fellow- 
 men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and pe- 
 culiar traits of native character are refined away, or softened 
 down by the levelling influence of what is termed good breeding; 
 and he practises so many petty deceptions, and affects so many 
 
280 PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 
 
 generous sentiments, for the purposes of popularity, that it i3 
 difficult to distinguish his real from his artificial character. The 
 Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints and refinements 
 of polished life, and, in a great degree, a solitary and independent 
 being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dictates of his 
 judgment ; and thus the attributes of his nature, being freely in- 
 dulged, 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 bit- 
 terness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the 
 settlers of New England. It is painful to perceive, even from 
 these partial narratives, how the 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 exterminating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks 
 at the idea, how many intellectual beings were hunted from the 
 earth ! how many brave and noble hearts, of nature's sterling 
 coinage, were broken down and trampled in the dust! 
 
 Such was the fate of Philip of Pokaeoket, an Indian warrior, 
 whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts and 
 Connecticut. He Was the most distinguished of a number of 
 contemporary Sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the 
 Narrhagansets, 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 Worlds 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 28* 
 
 from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation Was 
 to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in number, 
 and that number rapidly perishing away through sickness and 
 hardships; surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage 
 tribes ; exposed to the rigours of an almost arctic winter and the 
 vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate ; their minds were filled 
 with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved them from 
 sinking into despondency but the strong excitement of re- 
 ligious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited 
 by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful 
 chief, who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of 
 taking advantage of the scanty number of the strangers, and ex- 
 pelling them from his territories into which they had intruded, 
 he seemed at once to conceive for them a generous friendship, 
 and extended towards them the rites of primitive hospitality. 
 He came early in the spring to their settlement of New Plymouth, 
 attended by a mere handful of followers ; entered into a solemn 
 league of peace and amity; sold them a portion of the soil, and 
 promised to secure for them the good-will of his savage allies. 
 Whatever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the 
 integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been impreached. 
 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 in- 
 creasing 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 endeavoured 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 ob- 
 stinately 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 
 iove and amity which had existed between the white men and 
 
2S:> PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 
 
 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 hereditary 
 rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial conduct 
 of the strangers excited his indignation ; and he beheld with un- 
 easiness their exterminating wars with the neighbouring tribes. 
 He was doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of 
 plotting with the Narrhagansets 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 
 suspicions. It is evident, however, by the violent and overbear- 
 ing 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 
 despatched an armed force to seize at once upon Alexander, and 
 to bring him before their court. 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 sove- 
 reign 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-appearance ; but the blow he had received was fatal, and be- 
 fore he reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a 
 wounded spirit. 
 
 The successor of Alexander was Metamocet, or King Philip, 
 as he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty spirit and 
 ambitious temper. 5 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 alw r ays 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, 
 who had presumed upon indulgence, and were extending an in- 
 fluence baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race of his 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 283 
 
 countrymen melting before them from the face of the earth; 
 their territories slipping from their hands, and their tribes be- 
 coming 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 
 colonisation? The Europeans always made thrifty bargains 
 through their superior adroitness in traffic; and they gained vast 
 accessions of territory, by easily provoked hostilities. An un- 
 cultivated savage is never a nice enquirer into the refinements 
 of law, by which an injury may be gradually and legally in- 
 flicted. Leading facts are all by which he judges ; and it was 
 enough for Philip to know that before the intrusion of the Euro- 
 peans his countrymen were lords of the soil, and that now they 
 were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 
 
 But whatever may have been his feelings of general 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 years at Pokanoket, 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 sub- 
 stance ; and he was at length charged with attempting to instigate 
 the various eastern tribes to rise at once, and, by a simultaneous 
 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 proneness 
 to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence, on the part of the 
 whites, that gave weight and importance to every idle tale. In- 
 formers abounded where tale-bearing met with countenance and 
 reward ; and the sword was readily unsheathed when its success 
 was certain, and it carved out empire. 
 
 The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the 
 accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose 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 tin 
 
 * No* Bristol. Rhode Island. 
 
284 THIL1P OF POKANOKET. 
 
 looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as 
 Philip's confidential secretary and counsellor, and had enjoyed 
 his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the clouds of 
 adversity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his 
 service and went over to the whites ; and, in order to gain their 
 favour, charged his former benefactor with plotting against their 
 safety. A rigorous investigation took place. Philip and several 
 of his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing was proved 
 against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too far to 
 retract ; they had previously determined that Philip was a dan- 
 gerous neighbour ; they had publicly evinced their distrust ; 
 and had done enough to ensure his hostility ; according, there- 
 fore, to the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruc- 
 tion had become necessary to their security. Sausaman, the 
 treacherous informer, w r as shortly after found dead in a pond, 
 having fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. Three 
 Indians, one of whom was a friend and counsellor of Philip, were 
 apprehended and tried, and, on the testimony of one very 
 questionable witness, were condemned and executed as the 
 murderers. 
 
 This treatment of his subjects and ignominious punishment of 
 his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of 
 Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet awakened 
 him to the gathering storm, and he determined to trust himself no 
 longer in the power of the white men. The fate of his insulted 
 and broken-hearted brother still rankled in his mind ; and he 
 had a further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a 
 great Sachem of the Narrhagansets, who, after manfully facing 
 his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating him- 
 self from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assurances of 
 amity, had been perfidiously despatched at their instigation. 
 Philip, therefore, gathered his fighting men about him; per- 
 suaded all strangers that he could, to join his cause ; sent the 
 women and children to the Narrhagansets for safety ; and wher- 
 ever he appeared, was continually surrounded by armed war- 
 riors. 
 
 When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and 
 irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 285 
 
 The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous, 
 and committed various petty depredations. In one of their 
 maraudings a warrior was fired upon 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 
 disposed the colonists to superstitious fancies, and had filled their 
 imaginations with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and 
 spectrology. 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 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.' 5 At Hadley, 
 Northampton, and other towns in their neighbourhood, " was 
 heard the report of a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking of 
 the earth and a considerable echo."* Others were alarmed on 
 a still sunshine morning by the discharge of guns and muskets ; 
 bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the noise of drums 
 resounded in the air, seeming to pass away to the westward ; 
 others fancied that they heard the galloping of horses over their 
 heads ; and certain monstrous births which took place about the 
 time, filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful fore- 
 bodings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be 
 ascribed to natural phenomena : to the northern lights which 
 occur vividly in those latitudes ; the meteors which explode in 
 the air ; the casual rushing of a blast through the top branches of 
 the forest ; the crash of fallen trees or disruptured rocks ; and to 
 those other uncouth sounds and echoes which will sometimes 
 strike the ear so strangely amidst the profound stillness of wood- 
 land solitudes. These may have startled some melancholy 
 imaginations, may have been exaggerated by the love for the 
 
 * The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 
 
286 PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 
 
 marvellous, 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 between civilised men and savages. 
 On the part of the whites it was conducted with superior skill 
 and success; but with a wastefulness of the blood, and a dis- 
 regard 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 humi- 
 liation, dependence, 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 deliver his 
 native land from the oppression of usurping strangers. 
 
 The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had 
 really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and, had 
 it not been prematurely discovered, might have been over- 
 whelming in its consequences. The war that actually broke out 
 was but a war of detail ; a mere succession of casual exploits and 
 unconnected enterprises. Still it sets forth the military genius 
 and daring prowess of Philip ; and wherever, in the prejudiced 
 and passionate narrations that have been given of it, we can 
 arrive at simple facts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind ; 
 a fertility in expedients ; a contempt of suffering and hardship ; 
 and an unconquerable 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 were almost impervious to any thing 
 .but a wild beast, or an Indian. Here he gathered together his 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 887 
 
 forces, like the storm accumulating its stores of mischief in the 
 bosom of the thunder-cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a 
 time and place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into 
 the villages. There were now and then indications of these im- 
 pending 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 
 suddenly 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 
 settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from 
 their toils, and plunging into the wilderness would be lost to all 
 search or enquiry, 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, and overshadowed by 
 lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and the tangled 
 mazes of these shagged wilds, render 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 frightful recesses, where they might 
 perish in fens or miry pits, or be shot down by lurking foes. 
 They therefore invested the entrance to the neck, and began to 
 build a fort, with the thought of starving out the foe; but Philip 
 and his warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the 
 sea, in the dead of night, leaving the women and children behind; 
 and escaped away to the westward, kindling the flames of war 
 among the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country, 
 and threatening the colony of Connecticut. 
 
2S8 PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 
 
 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 
 on the alert. The whole country abounded with rumours 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 
 was said to deal in necromancy, and to be attended by an old 
 Indian witch or prophetess, whom he consulted, and who 
 assisted him by her charms and incantations. This indeed was 
 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 effected his escape from Pocasset, his 
 fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had been 
 thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the whole of 
 his resources. In this time of adversity he found a faithful 
 friend in Canonchet, chief Sachem of all the Narrhagansets. He 
 was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great Sachem, who, as 
 already mentioned, after an honourable acquittal of the charge 
 of conspiracy, had been privately put to death at the perfidious 
 instigations of the settlers. "He was the heir," says the old 
 chronicler, ' - of all his father's pride and insolence, as well as of 
 his malice towards the English :"~he certainly was the heir of 
 his insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his 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 sup- 
 port. This at once drew upon him the hostility of the English ; 
 and it was determined to strike a signal blow that should in- 
 volve both the Sachems in one common ruin. A great force 
 was, therefore, gathered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, 
 and Connecticut, and was sent into the Narrhaganset country in 
 the depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless. 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 2S9 
 
 could be traversed with comparative facility, and would no 
 longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians. 
 
 Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the greater 
 part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, the women 
 and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress; where he and 
 Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their forces. This 
 fortress, deemed by the Indians 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 judgment and skill 
 vastly superior to what is usually displayed in Indian fortification, 
 and indicative of the martial genius of these two chieftains. 
 
 Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated through 
 December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon the garrison 
 by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. The 
 assailants were repulsed in their first attack, and several of 
 their bravest officers were shot down in the act of storming the 
 fortress sword in hand. The assault was renewed with greater 
 success. A lodgment was effected. The Indians were driven 
 from one post to another. They disputed their ground inch by 
 inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most of their veterans 
 were cut to pieces; and after a long and bloody battle, Philip 
 and Cananchet, 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 neighbouring woods 
 resounded with the yells of rage and despair, uttered by the 
 fugitive warriors as they beheld the destruction of their dwell- 
 ings, and heard the agonising'cries of their wives and offspring. 
 " The burning of the wigwams," says a contemporary writer, 
 "the shrieks and cries of the women and children, and the 
 yelling of the 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 enquired, whether burning their ene- 
 
 19 
 
390 PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 
 
 mics alive could -be consistent with humanity, and the bene- 
 volent principles of the Gospel." * 
 
 The fate of the brave and generous Caiionchet 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 con- 
 dition of betraying Philip and his followers, and declared that 
 " he would fight it out to the last man, rather than become a 
 servant to the English." His home being destroyed ; his coun- 
 try harassed and laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors; 
 he was obliged to wander away to the banks of the Connecticut ; 
 where he formed a rallying point to the whole body of western 
 Indians, and laid waste several of the English settlements. 
 
 Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedition, 
 with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the 
 vicinity of Mount Hope, and 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 Narrhaganset, resting at some wigwams near 
 Pautucket river, when an alarm was given of an approaching 
 enemy. Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet 
 despatched two of them to the top of a neighbouring 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. Canon- 
 chet 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. Canon- 
 chet saw there was no choice but immediate flight. He at- 
 tempted to escape round the hill, but was perceived and hotly 
 pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest of the 
 English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he 
 
 * MS. oftheRev* W. Wruggles, 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 201 
 
 threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and belt 
 of peag, by which his enemies knew him to be Canonchel, and 
 redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 
 
 At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped 
 upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This 
 accident so struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards con- 
 fessed, "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 vigour'of body and bold- 
 ness of heart. But on being made prisoner, the whole pride 
 of his spirit arose within him ; and from that moment, we find, 
 in the anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but repeated 
 .flashes of elevated and princelike 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 re- 
 jected 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, nor the paring of a Wampanoag's nail ; and 
 his threat that he would burn the English alive in their houses, 
 he disdained to justify himself, haughtily answering that others 
 were as forward for the war as himself, * ■ and he desired to hear 
 no more thereof." 
 
 So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his cause 
 and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the generous 
 and the brave : but Canonchet was an Indian ; a being towards 
 whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no com- 
 passion — he was condemned to die. The last words of his 
 that are recorded are worthy the greatness of his soul. When 
 
 iu - 
 
292 [PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 
 
 sentence of death was passed upon him, he observed " that he 
 liked it well, for he should die before his heart was soft, or he 
 had spoken any thing unworthy of himself." His enemies 
 gave him the death of a soldier, for he was shot at Stonington, 
 by three young Sachems of his own rank. 
 
 The defeat at the Narrhaganset fortress, and the death of Ca- 
 nonchet, 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 na- 
 tive talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the su- 
 perior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror of their 
 warlike skill began to subdue the resolution of the neighbouring 
 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 of the enemy. " His ruin," says the historian, 
 * ' being thus gradually carried on, his misery was not prevented, 
 but augmented thereby; being himself made acquainted with 
 the sense and experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, 
 loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all 
 family relations, and being stripped of all outward comforts, 
 before his own life should be taken away." 
 
 To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers 
 began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they might 
 purchase dishonourable safety. Through treachery a number 
 of his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian 
 princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confederate of 
 Philip, were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. Wetamoe 
 was among them at the lime, and attempted to make her escape 
 by crossing a neighbouring river : either exhausted by swim- 
 ming, or starved with cold and hunger, she was found dead and 
 naked near the water side. But persecution ceased not at the 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 29:5 
 
 grave,. Even death, the refuge of the wretched, Where the 
 wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no proteclion to this 
 outcast female, whose great crime was affectionate fidelity to 
 her kinsman and her friend. Her corpse was the object of un- 
 manly 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 recognised 
 the features of their unfortunate queen, and were so affected 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 miseries 
 and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of his fol- 
 lowers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despondency. 
 It is said that "he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had success 
 in any of his designs." The spring of hope was broken — the 
 ardour 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 fol- 
 lowers, who still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the 
 unhappy Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, 
 the ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked about like 
 a spectre, among the desolated scenes of former power and pros- 
 perity, 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 unwa- 
 rily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favour of the hapless 
 warrior whom he reviles. " Philip," he says, " like a savage 
 wild beast, having been hunted by the English forces through 
 the woods, above a hundred miles backward and forward, at last 
 was driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired, 
 with a few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but 
 a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death came by 
 dixine permission to execute vengeance 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 
 
"^1 PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 
 
 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 expe- 
 rience a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. 
 Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune ; but great 
 minds rise above it. The very idea of submission awakened the 
 fury of Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers, who 
 proposed an expedient of peace. The brother of the victim 
 made his escape, and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his 
 chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were immediately 
 despatched to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, glaring 
 with fury and despair. Before he was aware of their approach 
 they had begun to surround him.. In a little while he saw five 
 of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet ; all resistance was 
 vain ; he rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong at- 
 tempt at 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 dishonoured 
 when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced 
 anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them 
 traces of an 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 tenderness, and to the generous sentiment of 
 friendship. The captivity of his " beloved wife and only son" 
 are mentioned with exultation as causing him poignant misery : 
 the death of any near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new 
 blow on his sensibilities ; but the treachery and desertion of 
 many of his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is 
 said to have desolated his heart, and to have bereaved him of all 
 further comfort. He was a patriot attached to his native soil 
 — a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their wrongs 
 — a soldier daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fatigue, 
 of hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to 
 perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, and with 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET, 295 
 
 an unlameable 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 qualities and bold 
 achievements that would have graced a civilised warrior, and 
 have rendered him the theme of the poet and the historian ; he 
 lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, and went 
 down, like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and tempest 
 — without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly hand to 
 record his struggle. 
 
JOHN BULL. 
 
 An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
 Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 
 That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 
 And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 
 
 With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, 
 With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, 
 With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
 And an old kitchen that maintain'd half-a-dozen old cooks. 
 
 Like an old courtier, &c. 
 
 Old Sun (j. 
 
 There is no species of humour in which the English more 
 excel, than that which consists in caricaturing and giving lu- 
 dicrous appellations, or nicknames. In this way they have 
 whimsically designated not merely individuals, but nations; 
 and in their fondness for pushing a joke, they have not spared 
 even themselves. One would think that, in personifying itself, 
 a nation would be apt to picture something grand, heroic, and 
 imposing; but it is characteristic of the peculiar humour of the 
 English, and of their love for what is blunt, comic and familiar, 
 that they have embodied their national oddities in the figure of a 
 sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered hat, red 
 waistcoat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they 
 have taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most private 
 foibles ina laughable point of view ; and have been so successful 
 in their delineations, that there is scarcely a being in actual exis- 
 tence more absolutely present to the public mind, than that ec- 
 centric personage, John Bull. 
 
 Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus 
 drawn of them, has contributed to fix it upon the nation; and 
 
208 JOHN BULL. 
 
 has thus given reality to what at first may have been painted in 
 a great measure from the imagination. Men are apt to acquire 
 peculiarities that are continually ascribed to them. The com- 
 mon orders of English seem wonderfully captivated with the 
 beau ideal which (hey have formed of John Bull, and endeavour 
 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 es- 
 pecially noticed among those truly home-bred and genuine sons 
 of the soil who have never migrated beyond the sound of Bow- 
 bells. If one of these should be a little uncouth in speech, and 
 apt to utter impertinent truths, he confesses that he is a real 
 John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If he now and then 
 flies into an unreasonable burst of passion about trifles, he ob- 
 serves that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his pas- 
 sion is over in a moment, and he bears no malice. If he betrays 
 a coarseness of taste, and an insensibility to foreign refinements, 
 he thanks Heaven for his ignorance— he is a plain John Bull, 
 and has no relish for frippery and nicknacks. His very prone- 
 ness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay extravagantly for ab- 
 surdities, is excused under the plea of munificence — for John is 
 always more generous than wise. 
 
 Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to argue 
 every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict 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 
 rather they 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 windows of the caricature-shops. 
 Still, however, he is one of those fertile humorists, that are con- 
 tinually throwing out new trails, and presenting different aspects 
 from different points of view; and, often as he has been de- 
 scribed, I cannot resist the temptation to give a slight sketch of 
 him, such as he has met my eye. 
 
 John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter-of- 
 fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich prose 
 
JOHN BULL. 299 
 
 There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong 
 natural feeling. He excels in humour 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 humour, and 
 to talk about himself; and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, 
 with life and purse, however soundly he may be cudgelled. 
 
 In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to be 
 somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, who 
 thinks not merely for himself and family, but for all the country 
 round, and is most generously disposed to be every body's 
 champion. He is continually volunteering his services to settle 
 his neighbour's affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they 
 engage in any matter of consequence without asking his advice ; 
 though he seldom engages in any friendly office of the kind 
 without finishing by getting into a squabble with all parties, 
 and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He unluckily 
 took lessons in his youth in the noble science of defence, and 
 having accomplished himself in the use of his limbs and his 
 weapons, and become a perfect master at boxing and cudgel 
 play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever since. He cannot 
 hear of a quarrel between the most distant of his neighbours, 
 but he begins incontinently to fumble with the head of his 
 cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honour 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 di- 
 rection, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old spider, who 
 has woven his web over a whole chamber, so that a fly cannot 
 buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling his repose, and caus- 
 ing him to sally forth wrathfully from his den. 
 
 Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at 
 bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of con- 
 tention. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he only 
 relishes the beginning of an affray; he always goes into a fight 
 
300 JOHN BULL. 
 
 with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling even when vic- 
 torious ; and though no one fights with more obstinacy to carry a 
 contested point, yet, when the battle is over, and he comes to the 
 reconciliation, he is so much taken up with the mere shaking of 
 hands, that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all they have 
 been quarrelling 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 
 humour, and you may bargain him out of all the money in his 
 pocket. He is like one of his own ships, which will weather 
 the roughest storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard in 
 the succeeding calm. 
 
 He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of pulling 
 out a long purse ; flinging his money bravely about at boxing 
 matches, horse races, cock fights, and carrying a high head 
 among " gentlemen of the fancy ;" but 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 
 desperately 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 and 
 discontented paymaster in the world ; drawing his coin out of 
 his breeches pocket with infinite reluctance; paying to the 
 uttermost farthing, but accompanying every guinea with a growl. 
 
 With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful 
 provider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a 
 whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how he may af- 
 ford 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 neighbours on the next. 
 
 His domestic establishment is enormously expensive : not so 
 much from any great outward parade, as from the great con- 
 sumption of solid beef and pudding ; the vast number of fol- 
 lowers 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 humour 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 perfcc- 
 
JOHN BULL. 301 
 
 lion. Everything that lives on him seems to thrive and grow 
 fat. His house servants are well paid, and pampered, and have 
 little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and prance slowly 
 before his state carriage; and his house dogs sleep quietly about 
 the door, and will hardly bark at a housebreaker. 
 
 His family 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 obcure 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 
 war and tumults; wings built in times of peace ; and outhouses, 
 lodges, and offices, run up according to the whim or convenience 
 of different generations, until it has become one of the most 
 spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. An entire wing is 
 taken up with the family chapel; a reverend pile, that must once 
 have been exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of hav- 
 ing been altered and simplified at various periods, has still a 
 look of solemn religious pomp. Its walls within are storied with 
 the monuments of John's ancestors; and it is snugly fitted up 
 with soft cushions and well-lined chairs, where such of his 
 family as are inclined to church services may doze comfortably 
 in the discharge of their duties. 
 
 To keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; but he is 
 staunch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the cir- 
 cumstance that many dissenting chapels have been erected in his 
 vicinity, and several of his neighbours, with whom he has had 
 quarrels, are strong papists. 
 
 To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large ex- 
 pense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most learn- 
 ed and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred ^Christian, 
 who always backs the old gentleman in his opinions, winks dis- 
 
302 JOHN BULL. 
 
 creelly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the children when re- 
 fractory, 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 
 turrets 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 tho- 
 roughly 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 ac- 
 customed to the inconveniences, and would not be comfortable 
 without them — that as to its unwieldy size and irregular con- 
 struction, these result from its being the growth of centuries, 
 and being improved by the wisdom of every generation — that an 
 old family like his, requires a large house to dwell in ; new 
 upstart families may live in modern cottages and snug boxes ; 
 but an old English family should inhabit an old English manor- 
 house. If you point out any part of the 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 honourable family, to be bounteous in 
 
JOHN BULL. 303 
 
 ils appointments, and lo be eaten up by dependents; and so, 
 partly from pride, and partly from kindhearledness, he makes 
 il a rule always to give shelter and maintenance to his superan- 
 nuated servants. 
 
 The consequence is, that, like many other venerable family 
 establishments, his manor is incumbered by old retainers whom 
 he cannot turn off, and old style which he cannot lay down. 
 His mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, and, with all its 
 magnitude, is not a whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a 
 nook or corner but is of use in housing some useless personage. 
 Groups of veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired he- 
 roes of the buttery and the larder, are seen lolling about its walls, 
 crawling over its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning them- 
 selves upon the benches at its doors. Every office and outhouse 
 is garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their families ; for 
 they are amazingly prolific, and when they die off, are sure to 
 leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. A 
 mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldering tumble- 
 down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or loop-hole, the 
 gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, who has lived at 
 John's expense all his life, and makes the most grievous outcry, 
 at their pulling down the roof from over the head of a worn-out 
 servant of the family. This is an appeal that John's honest heart 
 never can withstand ; so that a man, who has faithfully eaten his 
 beef and pudding all his life, is sure to be rewarded with a pipe 
 and tankard in his old days. 
 
 A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, where 
 his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze undisturbed 
 for the remainder of their existence — a worthy'example of grate- 
 ful recollection, which if some of his neighbours were to imi- 
 tate, 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 vain-glory, 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 
 
304 JOHN BULL. 
 
 lo be driven off, because Ihey 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 cor- 
 nice ; 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 but of their holes undauntedly in 
 broad daylight. In short, John has such a reverence for every 
 thing that has been long in the family, thathe will not hear even of 
 abuses being reformed, because they are good old family abuses. 
 All these whims and habits have concurred wofully to drain 
 the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself on punc- 
 tuality in money matters, and wishes to maintain his credit in 
 the neighbourhood, they have caused him great perplexity in 
 meeting his engagements. This, too, has been increased by the 
 altercations and heartburnings which are continually taking place 
 in his family. His children have been brought up to different 
 callings, and are of different ways of thinking; and as they have 
 always been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do not 
 fail to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the present pos- 
 ture of his affairs. Some stand up for the honour of the race, 
 and are clear that the old establishment should be kept up in all 
 its stale, whatever may be the cost; others, who are more pru- 
 dent and considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench his 
 expenses, and to put his old 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 alehouses — 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 
 
JOHN BULL. 305 
 
 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 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 le- 
 velled 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 alehouse when- 
 ever 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 thesegtavern 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 
 irritable, from repeated crossings, that the mere mention of re- 
 trenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl between him and 
 the tavern oracle. As the latter is too sturdy and refractory for 
 paternal discipline, having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, 
 they have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run 
 so high, that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an 
 officer who has served abroad, but is at present living at home, 
 on half-pay. This last is sure to stand by the old gentleman, 
 right or 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 neighbourhood. People begin 
 to look wise, and shake their heads, whenever his affairs are 
 mentioned. They all "hope that matters are not so bad with 
 him as represented ; but when a man's own children begin to 
 rail at his extravagance, things must be badly managed. They 
 understand he is mortgaged over head and ears, and is continually 
 dabbling with money-lenders. He is certainly an open-handed 
 old gentleman, but they fear he has lived loo fast ; indeed, they 
 never knew any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, 
 
 20 
 
308 JOHN BULL. 
 
 revelling 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 shri- 
 velled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. His scarlet gold-laced 
 waistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days 
 when he sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about him like 
 a mainsail in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and 
 wrinkles, and apparently^have much ado to hold up the boots 
 that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy legs. 
 
 Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-cornered 
 hat on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and 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 drinking song ; he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to 
 himself, with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under 
 his arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches 
 pockets, which are evidently empty. 
 
 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 
 in the country ; talks of laying out large sums to adorn his house 
 or to buy another estate ; and with a valiant swagger and grasp- 
 ing of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to have another bout at quar- 
 ter staff. 
 
 Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this, 
 yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation without strong 
 feelings of interest. With all his odd humours, and obstinate 
 prejudices, he is a sterling hearted old blade. He may not be 
 so wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks himself, but he is at 
 least twice as good as his neighbours represent him. His virtues 
 are all his own; all plain, homebred, and unaffected. His very 
 faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His extrava- 
 gance savours of his generosity ; his quarrelsomeness of his cou- 
 
JOHN BULL. 307 
 
 rage ; his credulity of his open failh ; his vanity of his pride ; and 
 his bluntness of his sincerity. They are all the redundancies of 
 a rich and liberal character. He is like his own oak ; rough 
 without, but sound and solid within ; whose bark abounds with 
 excrescences in proportion to the growth and grandeur of the 
 timber ; and whose branches make a fearful groaning and mur- 
 muring in the least storm, from their very magnitude and luxu- 
 riance. There is something, too, in the appearance of his old 
 family mansion that is extremely poetical and picturesque, and, 
 as long as it can be rendered comfortably habitable, I should 
 almost tremble to see it meddled with, during the present conflict 
 of tastes and opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good 
 architects, that might be of service ; but many, I fear, are mere 
 levellers, who, when they had once got to work with their mat 
 tocks on the venerable edifice, would never stop until they had 
 brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried themselves among 
 the ruins. All that I wish is, that John's present troubles may 
 teach him more prudence in future. That he may cease to dis- 
 tress his mind about other peoples' affairs ; that he may give up 
 the fruitless attempt to promote the good of his neighbours and 
 the peace and happiness of the w r orld by dint of the cudgel ; that 
 he may remain quietly at home ; gradually get his house into 
 repair; cultivate his rich estate according to his fancy ; husband 
 his income — if he thinks proper ; bring his unruly children into 
 order — if he can ; renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity ; 
 and long enjoy, on his* paternal lands, a green, an honourable, 
 and a merry old age. 
 
 •20* 
 
THE 
 
 PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 
 
 May no wolfe howle : no screech owle stir 
 
 A wing about thy sepulchre ! 
 
 No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 
 
 To starve or wither 
 Thy soft sweet earth ! but like a spring, 
 Love keep it ever flourishing. 
 
 Herrick. 
 
 In the course of an excursion through one of the remote coun- 
 ties of England, I had struck into one of those cross roads that 
 lead through the more secluded parts of the country, and stopped 
 one afternoon at a village, the situation of which was beautifully 
 rural and retired. There was an air of primitive simplicity 
 about its inhabitants, not to be found in the villages which lie 
 on the great coach roads. I determined to pass the night there, 
 and having taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the 
 neighbouring scenery. 
 
 My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led 
 me to the church, which stood at a little distance from the vil- 
 lage. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old tower 
 being completely overrun with ivy, so that only here and there 
 ^ jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fantastically carved 
 ornament, peered through the verdant covering. It was a 
 lovely evening. The early part of the day had been dark and 
 showery, but in the afternoon it had cleared up; and though 
 sullen clouds still hung over head, yet there was a broad tract 
 of golden sky in the west, from which the setting sun gleamed 
 through the dripping leaves, and lit up all nature into a me- 
 
310 THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 lancholy smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a good 
 Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, and 
 giving, in the serenity of his decline, an assurance that he will 
 rise again in glory. 
 
 I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was 
 musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on 
 past scenes and early friends — on those who were distant and 
 those who were dead — and indulging in that kind of melan- 
 choly fancying, which has in it something sweeter even than 
 pieasure. Every now and then the stroke of a bell from the 
 neighbouring tower fell on my ear; its tones were in unison 
 with the scene, and, instead of jarring chimed in with my feel- 
 ings; and it was some time before I recollected, that it must 
 be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the tomb. 
 
 Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village 
 green ; it wound slowly along a lane; was lost, and re-appeared 
 through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place where 
 I was sitting. The pall was supported by young girls, dressed 
 in white ; and another, about the age of seventeen, walked be- 
 fore, bearing a chaplet of white flowers; a token that the de- 
 ceased was a young and unmarried female. The corpse was 
 followed by the parents. They were a venerable couple of the 
 better order of peasantry. The father seemed to repress his 
 feelings ; but his fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply furrowed 
 face, showed the struggle that was passing within. His wife 
 hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive bursts 
 of a mother's sorrow. 
 
 I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed 
 in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, with a pair 
 of white gloves, were hung over the seat which the deceased 
 had occupied. 
 
 Everyone knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral ser- 
 vice : for who is so fortunate as never to have followed some one 
 he has loved to the tomb? but when performed over the remains 
 of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the bloom of existence 
 —what can be more affecting? At that simple, but most so- 
 lemn consignment of the body to the grave— "Earth to earth 
 —ashes to ashes— dust to dust!"— the tears of the youthful 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 311 
 
 companions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The father 
 still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort himself 
 with the assurance, that the dead are Messed which die in the 
 Lord ; but the mother only thought of her child as a flower of the 
 field cut down and withered in the midst of its sweetness : she 
 was like Rachel, "mourning over her children, and would not 
 be comforted." 
 
 On returning to the inn, I learnt the whole story of the de- 
 ceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been told. 
 She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Her father 
 had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in circum- 
 stances. This was an only child, and brought up entirely at 
 home, in the simplicity of rural life. She had been the pupil 
 of the village pastor, the favourite lamb of his little flock. The 
 good man watched over her education with paternal care; it 
 was limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she was to move ; 
 for he only sought to make her an ornament to her station in 
 life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness and indulgence 
 of her parents, and the exemption from all ordinary occupa- 
 tions, had fostered a natural grace and delicacy of character, 
 that accorded with the fragile loveliness of her form. She ap- 
 peared like some tender plant of the garden, blooming acciden- 
 tally amid the hardier natives of the fields. 
 
 The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged by 
 her companions, but without envy; for it was surpassed by the 
 unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her manners. 
 It might be truly said of her : 
 
 " This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
 
 Ran on the green sward : nothing she does or seems, 
 But smacks of something greater than herself; 
 Too noble for this place." 
 
 The village was one of those sequestered spols, which still re- 
 tain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural 
 festivals and holyday pastimes, and still kept up some faint 
 observance of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, 
 had been promoted by its present pastor ; who was a lover of 
 old customs, and one of those simple Christians that think their 
 
312 THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good-will among 
 mankind. Under his auspices, the May-pole stood from year 
 to year in the centre of the village green ; on May-day it was 
 decorated with garlands and streamers ; and a queen or lady of the 
 May was appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, 
 and distribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque situa- 
 tion of the village, and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes, would 
 often attract the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on one 
 May-day, was a young officer, whose regiment had been recently 
 quartered in the neighbourhood. He was charmed with the 
 native taste that pervaded this village pageant; but, above all, 
 with the dawning loveliness of the queen of May. It was the 
 village favourite, who was crowned with flowers, and blushing 
 and smiling in all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence 
 and delight. The artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily 
 to make her acquaintance; he gradually won his way into her 
 intimacy ; and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in 
 which young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. 
 There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He 
 never even talked of love : but there are modes of making it 
 more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely 
 and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of 
 voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every 
 word, and look, and action — these form the true eloquence 
 of love, and can always be felt and understood, but never 
 described. Can we wonder that they should readily win a 
 heart, young, guileless, and susceptible? As to her, she loved 
 almost unconsciously ; she scarcely enquired what was the 
 growing passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, 
 or what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked not 
 to the future. When present, his looks and words occupied her 
 whole attention ; when absent, she thought but of what had 
 passed at their recent interview. She would wander with him 
 through the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. He 
 taught her to see new beauties in nature ; he talked in the lan- 
 guage of polite and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear the 
 witcheries of romance and poetry. 
 Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between {he 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 313 
 
 ^exes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant figure 
 of her youthful admirer, and the splendour of his military attire, 
 might at first have charmed her eye ; hut it was not these that 
 had captivated her Iiearl. Her attachment had something in it 
 of idolatry. She looked up to him as to a being of a superior 
 order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm of a mind natu- 
 rally delicate and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen 
 perception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinc- 
 tions of rank and fortune, she thought nothing ; it was the diffe- 
 rence of intellect, of demeanour, of manners, from those of the 
 rustic society to which she had been accustomed, that elevated 
 him in. her opinion. She would listen to him with charmed ear 
 and downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek would mantle 
 with enthusiasm ; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid 
 admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh 
 and blush at the idea of her comparative unworthiness. 
 
 Her lover was equally impassioned; but his passion was 
 mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the 
 connection in levity ; for he had often heard his brother officers 
 boast of their village conquests, and thought some triumph of 
 the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But 
 he was too full of youthful fervour. His heart had not yet been 
 rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a wandering and a dis- 
 sipated life: it caught fire from the very flame it sought to 
 kindle ; and before he was aware of the nature of his situa- 
 tion, he became really in love. 
 
 What was he to do? There were the old obstacles which so 
 incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank in 
 life — the prejudices of titled connections — his dependence upon 
 a proud and unyielding father — all forbade him to think of ma- 
 trimony : — but when he looked down upon this innocent being, 
 so tender and confiding, there was a purity in her manners, a 
 blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching modesty in her looks, 
 that awed down every licentious feeling. In vain did he try to 
 fortify himself by a thousand heartless examples of men of 
 fashion ; and to chill the glow of generous sentiment, with 
 that cold derisive levity with which he had heard them talk of 
 female virtue ; whenever he came into her presence, she wa^ 
 
314 THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 still surrounded by that mysterious but impassive charm of virgin 
 purity, in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought can live. 
 
 The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to the 
 Continent completed the confusion of his mind. He remained 
 for a short lime in a state of the most painful irresolution ; he 
 hesitated to communicate the tidings, until the day for marching 
 was at hand ; when he gave her the intelligence in the course 
 of an evening ramble. 
 
 The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It 
 broke in at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked upon it 
 as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with the guileless 
 simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom, and kissed the 
 tears from her soft cheek ; nor did he meet with a repulse ; for 
 there are moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness, which hallow 
 the caresses of affection. He was naturally impetuous ; and the 
 sight of beauty, apparently yielding in his arms; the confidence 
 of his power over her ; and the dread of losing foer for ever; all 
 conspired to overwhelm his better feelings ; — he ventured to 
 propose that she should leave her home, and be the companion 1 
 of his fortunes. 
 
 He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and faltered 
 at his own baseness, but so innocent of mind was his intended 
 victim, that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his meaning ; 
 and why she should leave her native village, and the humble 
 roof of her parents. When at last the nature of his proposal 
 flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was withering. She did 
 not weep— she did not break forth into reproach — she said not 
 a word — but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper ; gave him 
 a look of anguish that pierced to his very soul ; and clasping her 
 hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's cottage. 
 
 The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant. 
 It is uncertain what might have been the result of the conflict of 
 his feelings, had not his thoughts been. diverted by the bustle of 
 departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new companions, 
 soon dissipated his self-reproach, and stifled his tenderness; yet, 
 amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of 
 armies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts would some- 
 times steal back to the scene of rural quiet and village simplicity 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 3i5 
 
 — the white cottage — the footpath along the silver brook and up 
 the hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid loitering along 
 it, leaning on his arm, and listening to him with eyes beaming 
 with unconscious affection. 
 
 The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruction 
 of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faintings and 
 hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were suc- 
 ceeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld 
 from her window the march of the departing troops. She had 
 seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in triumph, amidst 
 the sound of drum and trumpet, and the pomp of arms. She 
 strained a last aching gaze after him, as the morning sun glittered 
 about his figure, and his plume waved in the breeze : he passed 
 away like a bright vision from her sight, and left her all in 
 darkness. 
 
 It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after story. 
 It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She avoided society, 
 and wandered out alone in the walks she had most frequented 
 with her lover. She sought, like the stricken deer, to weep in 
 silence and loneliness, and brood over the barbed sorrow that 
 rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an 
 evening sitting in the porch of the village church ; and the milk- 
 maids, returning from the fields, would now and then overhear 
 her, singing some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk. She 
 became fervent in her devotions at church : and as the old 
 people saw her approach, so wasted away, yet with a hectic 
 bloom, and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses round 
 the form, they would make way for her, as for something spi- 
 ritual, and, looking after her, would shake their heads in gloomy 
 foreboding. 
 
 She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but 
 looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that had 
 bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no 
 more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had 
 entertained resentment against her lover, it was extinguished. 
 She was incapable of angry passions : and in a moment of sad- 
 dened tenderness, she penned him a farewell letter. It was 
 couched in the simplest language ; but touching from its very 
 
316 THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and did not con= 
 eeal from him that his conduct was the cause. She even de- 
 picted the sufferings which she had experienced ; but concluded 
 with saying, that she could not die in peace, until she had sent 
 him her forgiveness and her blessing. 
 
 By degrees her strength declined, that she could no longer leave 
 the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, propped 
 up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and look out 
 upon the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint, nor imparted 
 to any one the malady that was preying on her heart. She never 
 even mentioned her lover's name ; but would lay her head on 
 her mother's bosom, and weep in silence. Her poor parents 
 hung, in mute anxiety, over this fading blossom of their hopes, 
 still flattering themselves that it might again revive to freshness, 
 and that the bright unearthly bloom which sometimes flushed her 
 cheek might be the promise of returning health. 
 
 In this way she was seated between them one Sunday after- 
 noon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown 
 open, and the soft air that stole in, brought with it the fragrance 
 of the clustering honeysuckle which her own hands had trained 
 round the window. 
 
 Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible : it 
 spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of heaven ; 
 it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through her bo- 
 som. Her eye was fixed on the distant village church ; the bell 
 had tolled for the evening service ; the last villager was lagging 
 into the porch ; and every thing had sunk into that hallowed 
 stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing 
 on her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass 
 so roughly-over some faces, had given to hers the expression of 
 a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue eye. — Was she 
 thinking of her faithless lover? — or were her thoughts wander- 
 ing to that distant churchyard, into whose bosom she might 
 soon be gathered? 
 
 Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman galloped 
 to the cottage— he dismounted before the window— the poor girl 
 gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her chair : it was 
 her repentant lover ! He rushed into the house, and flew to 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 317 
 
 clasp her to his bosom ; bat her wasted form — her death-like 
 countenance — so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation, — smote 
 him to the soul, and he .threw himself in an agony at her feet. 
 She was too faint to rise — she attempted to extend her trembling 
 hand — her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was articu- 
 lated — she looked down upon him with a smile of unutterable 
 tenderness — and closed her eyes for ever! 
 
 Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village story. 
 They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little novelty to 
 recommend them. In the present rage also for strange incident and 
 high-seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and insignificant, 
 but they interested me strongly at the time ; and, taken in con- 
 nection with the affecting ceremony which I had just witnessed, 
 left a deeper impression on my mind than many circumstances 
 of a more striking nature. I have passed through the place since, 
 and visited the church again, from a better motive than mere 
 curiosity. It was a wintry evening ; the trees were stripped of 
 their foliage ; the churchyard looked naked and mournful , and 
 the wind rustled coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, 
 however, had been planted about the grave of the village fa- 
 vourite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. 
 
 The church door was open, and I stepped in. There hung 
 the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral : 
 the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have 
 been taken that no dust should soil their w r hiteness. I have 
 seen many monuments, where art has exhausted its powers to 
 awaken the sympathy of the spectator ; but I have met with 
 none that spoke more touchingly to my heart, than this simple 
 but delicate memento of departed innocence. 
 
THE ANGLER 
 
 This day dame Nature seemed in love, 
 
 The lusty sap began to move, 
 
 Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines, 
 
 And birds had drawn their valentines. 
 
 The jealous trout, that low did lie, 
 
 Rose at a well dissembled flie. 
 
 There stood my friend, with patient skill, 
 
 Attending of his trembling quill. 
 
 Sir H. Wotto: 
 
 It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run away 
 from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring life, from 
 reading the history of Robinson Crusoe; and I suspect that, in 
 like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen, who are given 
 to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle-rods in hand, 
 may trace the origin of their passion to the seductive pages of 
 honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studying his " Complete 
 Angler" several years since, in company with a knot of friends 
 in America, and moreover that we were all completely bitten 
 with the angling mania. It was early in the year; but as soon 
 as the weather was auspicious, and that the spring began to melt 
 into the verge of summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into 
 the country, as stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading 
 books of chivalry. 
 
 One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness of his 
 equipments; being attired cap-a-pee for the enterprise. He 
 wore a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred 
 pockets; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters; a basket 
 slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod ; a landing net, and a 
 score of other inconveniences, only to be found in the true 
 
no THE ANGLER. 
 
 angler's armoury. Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great 
 a mailer of stare and wonderment among the country folk, who 
 had never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of La 
 Mancha among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. 
 
 Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the high- 
 lands of the Hudson ; a most unfortunate place for the execution 
 of those piscatory tactics which had been invented along the 
 velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was one of those 
 wild streams that lavish, among our romantic solitudes, unheeded 
 beauties, enough to fill the sketch-book of a hunter of the pic- 
 turesque. Sometimes it would leap down rocky shelves, mak- 
 ing small cascades, over which the trees threw their broad ba- 
 lancing sprays, and long nameless weeds hung in fringes from 
 the impending banks, dripping with diamond drops. Sometimes 
 it would brawl and fret along a ravine in the matted shade of a 
 forest, filling it with murmurs ; and, after this termagant career, 
 would steal forth into open day with the most plaeid demure face 
 imaginable ; as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, 
 after filling her home with uproar and ill-humour, come dim- 
 pling out of doors, swimming and courtesying, and smiling upon 
 all the world. 
 
 How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such times, 
 through some bosom of green meadow land among the moun- 
 tains ; where the quiet was only interrupted by the occasional 
 tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among the clover, or the 
 sound of a woodcutter's axe from the neighbouring forest. 
 
 For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport that 
 required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled above 
 half an hour, before I had completely <l satisfied the sentiment," 
 and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, 
 that angling is something like poetry — a man must be born to it. 
 I hooked myself instead of the fish ; tangled my line in every 
 tree ; lost my bait; broke my rod ; until I gave up the attempt 
 in despair, and passed the day under the trees, reading old Izaak; 
 satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honest simplicity and 
 rural feeling that had bewitched me, and not the passion for 
 angling. My companions, however, were more persevering in 
 their delusion. I have them at this moment before my eyes 
 
THE ANGLER. 321 
 
 stealing along the border of the brook, where it lay open to the 
 day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the 
 bittern rising with hollow scream as they break in upon his 
 rarely invaded haunt ; the kingfisher watching them suspiciously 
 from his dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill-pond, in 
 the gorge of the hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways 
 from 08 the stone or log on which he is sunning himself ; and 
 (he panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and 
 spreading an alarm throughout the watery world around. 
 
 I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and creeping 
 about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any success, 
 in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly country urchin 
 came down from the hills with a rod made from a branch of a 
 tree ; a few yards of twine ; and, as heaven shall help me ! I 
 believe a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile earth-worm 
 — and in half an hour caught more fish than we had nibbles 
 throughout the day 1 
 
 But, above all, I recollect the "good, honest, wholesome, 
 hungry" repast, which we made under a beech tree just by a 
 spring of pure sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill ; 
 and how, when it was over, one of the party read old Izaak 
 Walton's scene with the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass 
 and built castles in a bright pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. 
 All this may appear like mere egotism ; yet I cannot refrain from 
 uttering these recollections, which are passing like a strain of 
 music over my mind, and have been called up by an agreeable 
 scene, which I witnessed not long since. 
 
 In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beautiful 
 little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills, and throws 
 itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a group seated 
 on the margin. On approaching, I found it to consist of a ve- 
 teran angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an old 
 fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very much, but very care- 
 fully, patched, betokening poverty, honestly come by, and de- 
 cently maintained. His face bore the marks of former storms, 
 but present fair weather ; its furrows had been worn into an 
 habitual smile ; his iron gray locks hung about his ears, and he 
 had altogether the good-humoured air of a constitutional philo- 
 
 •21 
 
322 THE ANGLER. 
 
 sopher who was disposed to take the world as it went. One of 
 his companions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of 
 an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to any 
 gentleman's fish-pond in the neighbourhood in the darkest night. 
 The other was a tall, awkward, country lad, with a lounging 
 gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man 
 was busy in examining the maw of a trout which he had just 
 killed, to discover by its contents what insects were seasonable 
 for bait ; and was lecturing on the subject to his companions, who 
 appeared to listen with infinite deference. I have a kind feeling 
 towards all " brothers of the angle," ever since I read Izaak 
 Walton. They are men, he affirms, of a "mild, sweet, and 
 peaceable spirit ; " and my esteem for them has been increased 
 since I met with an old " Tretyse of fishing with the Angle," 
 in which are set forth many of the maxims of their inoffensive 
 fraternity. " Take good hede," sayth this honest little tretyse, 
 " that in going about your disportes ye open ho man's gates but 
 that ye shet them again. Also ye shall not use this forsayd 
 crafti disport for no covetousness to the encreasing and sparing 
 of your money only, but principally for your solace and to cause 
 the helth of your body and specyally of your soule." * 
 
 I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before 
 me an exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a 
 cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards 
 him. I could not but remark the gallant manner in which he 
 stumped from one part of the brook to another ; waving his rod 
 in the air, to keep the line from dragging on the ground, or 
 catching among the bushes ; and the adroitness with which he 
 would throw his fly to any particular place ; sometimes skim- 
 ming it lightly along a little rapid ; sometimes casting it into one 
 of those dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank, 
 
 * From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more indus- 
 trious and devout employment than is generally considered :— " For when 
 ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye will not desyre greatlye 
 many persons with you, which might let you of your game. And that ye 
 may serve God devoutly in sayinge effectually your customable prayers. 
 And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydlenes, 
 which is principal! cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is right 
 well known." 
 
THE ANGLER. 323 
 
 in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the mean while he 
 was giving instructions to his two disciples ; showing them the 
 manner in which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, 
 and play them along the surface of the stream . The scene 
 brought to my mind the instructions of the sage Piscator to his 
 scholar. The country around was of that pastoral kind which 
 Walton is fond of describing. It was a part of the great plain of 
 Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where 
 the inferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from among fresh sweet- 
 smelling meadows. The day, too, like that recorded in his 
 work, was mild and sunshiny ; with now and then a soft drop- 
 ping shower, that sowed the whole earth with 'diamonds. 
 
 I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was so 
 much entertained, that, under pretext of receiving instructions 
 in his art, I kept company with him almost the whole day ; 
 wandering along the banks of the stream, and listening to his 
 talk. He was very communicative, having all the easy gar- 
 rulity of cheerful old age ; and I fancy was a little flattered by 
 having an opportunity of displaying his piscatory lore ; for who 
 does not like now and then to play the sage ? 
 
 He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed 
 some years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, 
 where he had entered into trade, and had been ruined by the 
 indiscretion of a partner. He had afterwards experienced many 
 ups and downs in life, until he got into the navy, where his leg 
 was carried away by a cannon-ball, at the battle of Camperdown. 
 This was the only stroke of real good fortune he had ever ex- 
 perienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with some 
 small paternal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly forty 
 pounds. On this he retired to his native village, where he lived 
 quietly and independently; and devoted the remainder of his 
 life to the " noble art of angling.'' 
 
 I found that he had read Izaac Walton attentively, and he 
 seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent 
 good humour. Though he had been sorely buffeted about the 
 world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, was good and 
 beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in different 
 countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and 
 
 21 » 
 
324 THE ANGLER. 
 
 thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candour and kindness, 
 appearing to look only on the good side of things ; and above all, 
 he was almost the only man I had ever met with who had been 
 an unfortunate adventurer in America, and had honesty and mag- 
 nanimity enough to take the fault to his own door, and not to 
 curse the country. The lad that was receiving his instructions 
 I learnt was the son and heir apparent of a fat old widow who 
 kept the village inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, 
 and much courted by the idle gentlemanlike personages of the 
 place. In taking him under his care, therefore, the old man 
 had probably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room, and 
 an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 
 
 There is certainly something in angling, if we could forget, 
 which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted 
 on worms and insects, that tends to produce a gentlenessof spirit, 
 and a pure serenity of mind. As the English are methodical 
 even in their recreations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, 
 it has been reduced among them to perfect rule and system, 
 indeed, it is an amusement peculiarly adapted to the mild and 
 and highly cultivated scenery of England, where every rough- 
 ness has been softened away from the landscape. It is delight- 
 ful to saunter along those limpid streams which wander, like 
 veins of silver, through the bosom of this beautiful country; lead- 
 ing one through a diversity of small home scenery : sometimes 
 winding through ornamented grounds ; sometimes brimming 
 along through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled 
 with sweet-smelling flowers; sometimes venturing in sight of 
 villages and hamlets; and then running capriciously away into 
 shady retirements. The sweetness and serenity of nature, and 
 the quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradually bring on pleasant 
 fits of musing ; which are now and then agreeably interrupted by 
 the song of a bird ; the distant whistleof the peasant; or perhaps the 
 vagary of some fish, leaping out of the still water, and skim- 
 ming transiently about its glassy surface. " When I would be- 
 get content," says Izaak Walton, " and increase confidence in 
 the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I will 
 walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contem- 
 plate the lilies that take ou care, and those very many olher 
 
THE ANGLEI1 IJ25 
 
 little living creatures that are not only created, but fed (man knows 
 not how) by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore 
 trust in him." 
 
 I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those 
 ancient champions of angling ; which breathes the same innocent 
 and happy spirit : — 
 
 Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 
 
 Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 
 Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, 
 
 With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace ; 
 And on the world and my Creator think : 
 
 Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace ; 
 And others spend their time in base excess 
 
 Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 
 
 Let them that will, those pastimes still pursue, 
 And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill ; 
 
 So I the fields and meadows green may view, 
 And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 
 
 Among the daisies and the violets blue, 
 Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.* 
 
 On parting with the old angler, I enquired after his place of 
 abode, and happening to be in the neighbourhood of the village 
 a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him out. 
 I found him living in a small cottage, containing only one room, 
 but a perfect curiosity in its method and arrangement. It was 
 on the skirts of the village, on a green bank, a little back from 
 the road, with a small garden in front, stocked with kitchen 
 herbs, and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front ot 
 the cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top was a 
 ship for a weathercock. The interior was fitted up in a truly 
 nautical style, his ideas of comfort and convenience having been 
 acquired on the birth-deck of a man-of-war. A hammock 
 was slung from the ceiling, which, in the daytime, was lashed 
 up so as to take but little room. From the centre of the cham- 
 ber hung a model of a ship of his own workmanship. Two or 
 three chairs, a table and a large sea chest, formed the principal 
 moveables. About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such 
 
 * J. Davors. 
 
320 THE ANGLER. 
 
 as Admiral Hosier's Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom Bow- 
 ling, intermingled with pictures of sea fights, among which 
 the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place. The 
 mantel-piece was decorated with sea-shells; over which hung a 
 quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of most bitter looking naval 
 commanders. His implements for angling were carefully dis- 
 posed on nails and hooks about the room. On a shelf was ar- 
 ranged his library, containing a work on angling, much worn ; 
 a Bible covered with canvass ; an odd volume or two of voyages ; 
 a nautical almanack; and a book of songs. 
 
 His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and a 
 parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated himself, 
 in the course of one of his voyages ; and which uttered a variety 
 of sea phrases with the hoarse brattling tone of a veteran boat- 
 swain. The establishment reminded me of that of the renown- 
 ed Robinson Crusoe; it was kept in neat order, every thing 
 being " stowed away" with the regularity of a ship of war ; and 
 he informed me that he ' ' scowered the deck every morning, and 
 swept it between meals!" 
 
 I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his 
 pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly 
 on the threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolu- 
 tions in an iron ring that swung in the centre of his cage. He 
 had been angling all day, and gave me a history of his sport 
 with as much minuteness as a general would talk over a cam- 
 paign ; being particularly animated in relating the manner in 
 which he had taken a large trout, which had completely tasked 
 ail his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to 
 mine hostess of the inn. 
 
 How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age ; 
 and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being tempest-tost 
 through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbour in the 
 evening of his days! His happiness, however, sprung from 
 within himself, and was independent of external circumstances ; 
 for he had that inexhaustible good-nature, which is the most 
 precious gift of Heaven ; spreading itself like oil over the trou- 
 bled sea of thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable 
 in the roughest of weather. 
 
THE ANGLER. 327 
 
 On enquiring further about him, I learnt that he was a uni- 
 versal favourite in the village, and the oracle of the tap-room ; 
 where he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sin- 
 bad, astonished them with his stories of strange lands, and ship- 
 wrecks, and sea-fights. He was much noticed, too, by gentle- 
 men sportsmen of the neighbourhood ; had taught several of them 
 the art of angling ; and was a privileged visiter to their kitchens. 
 The whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being prin- 
 cipally passed about the neighbouring streams when the weather 
 and 6eason were favourable ; and at other times he employed 
 himself at home, preparing his fishing tackle for the next cam- 
 paign, or manufacturing rods, nets, and flies for his patrons and 
 pupils among the gentry. 
 
 He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he 
 generally fell alseep during the sermon. He had made it his 
 particular request that when he died he should be buried in a 
 green spot, which he could see from his seat in church, and which 
 he had marked out ever since he was a boy, and had often 
 thought of when far from home on the raging sea, in danger of 
 being food for fishes — it was the spot where his father and mo- 
 ther had been buried. 
 
 I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ; but 
 I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy 
 " brother of the angle;" who has made me more than ever in 
 love with the theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in 
 the practice of his art : and I will conclude this rambling sketch, 
 in the words of honest Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing of 
 St. Peter's Master upon my reader, " and upon all that are 
 true lovers of virtue ; and dare trust in his providence ; and be 
 quiet; and go a angling." 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 
 
 (FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE D1EDRICH 
 KNICKERBOCKER.) 
 
 A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
 Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
 For ever flashing round a summer sky. 
 
 Castle of Indolence. 
 
 In the bosom of one of the spacious coves which indent the 
 eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river 
 denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappaan Zee, 
 and where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored 
 the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a 
 small market-town or rural port, which by some is called 
 Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known 
 by the name of Tarry Town . This name was given , we are told , 
 in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, 
 from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about 
 the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not 
 vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being 
 precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about 
 three miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among 
 high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. 
 A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull 
 one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping 
 of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in 
 upon the uniform tranquillity. 
 
330 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 1 recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel 
 shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that shades one side 
 of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, when all 
 nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own 
 gun, as it broke the sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged 
 and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish 
 for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its dis- 
 tractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled 
 life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. 
 
 From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar cha- 
 racter of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original 
 Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the 
 name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy 
 Hollow Boys throughout all the neighbouring country. A 
 drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to 
 pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was be- 
 witched by a high German doctor during the early days of the 
 settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or 
 wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country 
 was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the 
 place still continues under the sway of some witching power, 
 that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them 
 to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of 
 marvellous beliefs ; are subject to trances and visions ; and fre- 
 quently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. 
 The whole neighbourhood abounds with local tales, haunted 
 spots, and twilight superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors glare 
 oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country; 
 and the night-mare, with her whole nine-fold, seems to make it 
 the favourite scene of her gambols. 
 
 The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted 
 region, and seems to be commander in chief of all the powers of 
 the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. 
 It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose 
 head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless 
 battle during the revolutionary war ; and who is ever and anon 
 seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, 
 as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 331 
 
 the valley, but extend at limes to the adjacent roads, and espe- 
 cially to the vicinity of a church that is at no great distance. 
 Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, 
 who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts 
 concerning this spectre, allege that, the body of the trooper 
 having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to 
 the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head ; and that the 
 rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, 
 like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a 
 hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak. 
 
 Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, 
 which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that 
 region of shadows ; and the spectre is known, at all the country 
 firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy 
 Hollow. 
 
 It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have men- 
 tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but 
 is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a 
 time. However wide awake they may have been before they 
 entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to 
 inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow ima- 
 ginative — to dream dreams, and see apparitions. 
 
 I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; for it is in 
 such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embo- 
 somed in the great state of New York, that population, manners, 
 and customs, remain fixed ; while the great torrent of migration 
 and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in 
 other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. 
 They are like those little nooks of still water which border a rapid 
 stream; where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly 
 at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbour, undis- 
 turbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years 
 have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, 
 yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and 
 the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. 
 
 In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of 
 American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a 
 worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane; who sojourned, or, 
 
332 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 as he expressed it, " tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose 
 of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of 
 Connecticut ; a state which supplies the Union with pioneers for 
 the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its 
 legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The 
 cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was 
 tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms 
 and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that 
 might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely 
 hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge 
 ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it 
 looked like a weathercock, perched upon his spindle neck, to 
 tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the 
 profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and 
 fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius 
 of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped 
 from acorn-field. 
 
 His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely 
 constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly 
 patched with leaves of old copybooks. It was most ingeniously 
 secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the 
 door, and stakes set against the window-shutters ; so that, 
 though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some 
 embarrassment in getting out; an idea most probably borrowed 
 by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel- 
 pot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant 
 situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running 
 close by, and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. 
 From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over 
 their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day, like 
 the hum of a bee-hive ; interrupted now and then by the autho- 
 ritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command; 
 or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he 
 urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. 
 Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, that ever bore in mind 
 the golden maxim, " Spare the rod and spoil the child."— 
 Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 
 
 I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 333 
 
 those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of 
 their subjects ; on the contrary, he administered justice with 
 discrimination rather than severity ; taking the burden off the 
 backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your 
 mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, 
 was passed by with indulgence ; but the claims of justice were 
 satisfied, by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, 
 wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and 
 swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All 
 this he called " doing his duty by their parents ;" and he never 
 inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, 
 so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that "he would re- 
 member it and thank him for it the longest day he had to 
 live." 
 
 When- school hours were over, he was even the companion 
 and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holy day afternoons 
 would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened 
 to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for 
 the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behoved him to keep 
 on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his 
 school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to 
 furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and 
 though lank, had the dilating powers of an anacondo ; but to 
 help out his maintenance, he w 7 as, according to country custom 
 in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers, 
 whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively 
 a week at a time : thus going the rounds of the neighbourhood, 
 with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 
 
 That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his 
 rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a 
 grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had 
 various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. 
 He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labours of 
 their farms ; helped to make hay ; mended the fences ; took the 
 horses to water ; drove the cows from pasture; and cut wood 
 for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity 
 and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, 
 
334 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. 
 He found favour in the eyes of the mothers, by pelting the child- 
 ren, particularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold, which 
 whilome so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit 
 with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for 
 whole hours together. 
 
 In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master 
 of the neighbourhood, and picked up many bright shillings by 
 instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of 
 no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his station in front 
 of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers ; where, 
 in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from 
 the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far. above all the 
 rest of the congregation ; and there are peculiar quavers still to 
 be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile 
 off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday 
 morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the 
 nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus by divers little makeshifts, in 
 that ingenious way which is commonly denominated " by hook 
 and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, 
 and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labour 
 of headwork, to have a wonderful easy life of it. 
 
 The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in 
 the female circle of a rural neighbourhood ; being considered a 
 kind of idle gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior taste 
 and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, 
 inferior in learning only to the parson . His appearance, there- 
 fore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farm- 
 house, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or 
 sweatmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot. 
 Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles 
 of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them 
 in the curchyard, between services on Sundays ! gathering grapes 
 for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding 
 trees ; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the 
 tombstones ; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along 
 the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more bashful 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. m 
 
 eounlry bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior 
 elegance and address. 
 
 From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling 
 gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to 
 house ; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfac- 
 tion. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of 
 great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and 
 was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's History of New-England 
 Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently 
 believed. 
 
 He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and 
 simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers 
 of digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; and both had been 
 increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale 
 was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was 
 often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, 
 to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the little 
 brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over 
 old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of the evening 
 made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as 
 he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, 
 to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every 
 sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited ima- 
 gination ; the moan of the whip-poor-will * from the hill side ; 
 the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm ; the 
 dreary hooting of the screech-owl ; or the sudden rustling in the 
 thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fireflies, too, 
 which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then 
 startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across 
 his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came 
 winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was 
 ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with 
 a witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either to 
 drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm 
 tunes ; — and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by 
 
 * The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives 
 its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. 
 
336 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing 
 his nasal melody, " in linked sweetness long drawn out," floating 
 from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. 
 
 Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long 
 winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning 
 by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and sputtering along the 
 hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, 
 and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, 
 and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or 
 Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. 
 He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, 
 and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the 
 air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut ; and 
 would frighten them wofully with speculations upon comets and 
 shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world did 
 absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy- 
 turvy ! 
 
 But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling 
 in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow 
 from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spectre 
 dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of 
 his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and 
 shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a 
 snowy night ! With what wistful look did he eye every trem- 
 bling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some 
 distant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub 
 covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very 
 path ! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound 
 of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet ; and dread 
 to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth 
 being trampling close behind him!— and how often was he 
 thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling 
 among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian 
 on one of his nightly scourings ! 
 
 All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms 
 of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though he had seen 
 many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by 
 Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet day- 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 337 
 
 light put an end to all these evils ; and he would have passed a 
 pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his 
 path had not been crossed by a being that causes more per- 
 plexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race 
 of witches put together, and that was — a woman. 
 
 Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in 
 each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina 
 Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch 
 farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; plump as 
 a partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy cheeked as one of her 
 father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her 
 beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a 
 coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was 
 a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set 
 off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, 
 which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from 
 Saardam ; the tempting stomacher of the olden time ; and withal 
 a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and 
 ankle in the country round. 
 
 Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex; 
 and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon 
 found favour in his eyes ; more especially after he had visited 
 her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a 
 perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. 
 He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond 
 the boundaries of his own farm ; but within those every thing 
 was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with 
 his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the 
 hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. 
 His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of 
 those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers 
 are so fond of nestling. A great elm tree spread its broad 
 branches over it ; at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of 
 the softest and sweetest water, in a little well, formed of a barrel ; 
 and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neigh- 
 bouring brook, that babbled along among elders and dwarf 
 willows. Hard by the farm-house was a vast barn, that might 
 have served for a church; every window and crevice of which 
 
 22 
 
33H THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm ; the flail 
 was busily resounding within it from morning to night ; swallows 
 and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves ; and rows of 
 pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the 
 weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried in 
 their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about 
 their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek un- 
 wieldy .porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of 
 their pens; from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of 
 sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy 
 geese wery riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets 
 of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farm- 
 yard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered house- 
 wives, with their peevish discontented cry. Before the barn 
 door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a war- 
 rior, and a fine gentleman ; clapping his burnished wings, and 
 crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart — somelimes tear- 
 ing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his 
 ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich 
 morsel which he had discovered. 
 
 The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this 
 sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring 
 mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting pig running 
 about with a pudding in its belly, and an apple in its mouth; the 
 pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked 
 in with a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in their 
 own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug 
 married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In 
 the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, 
 and juicy relishing ham ; not a turkey, but he beheld daintily 
 trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, 
 a necklace of savoury sausages ; and even bright chanticleer him- 
 self lay sprawling^onhis back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, 
 as if craving that quarter, which his chivalrous spirit disdained 
 to ask w r hile living. 
 
 As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled 
 his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields of 
 wheat, of rye, of buck- wheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 330 
 
 burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tene- 
 ment of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was 
 to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with 
 the idea how they might be readily turned into cash, and the 
 money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle pa- 
 laces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his 
 hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole 
 family of children, mounted on the top of a waggon loaded with 
 household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath ; 
 and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at 
 her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord 
 knows where. 
 
 When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was 
 complete. It was one of those spacious farm-houses, with high 
 ridged, but lowly sloping roofs, built in the style handed down 
 from the first Dutch settlers. The low projecting eaves formed 
 a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad 
 weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils 
 of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighbouring river. 
 Benches were built along the sides for summer use ; and a great 
 spinning wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed 
 the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. 
 From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which 
 formed the centre of the mansion, and the place of usual resi- 
 dence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long 
 dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of 
 wool ready to be spun ; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey 
 just from the loom ; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried 
 apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled 
 with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left ajar gave him a 
 peep into the best parlour, where the claw-footed chairs, and 
 dark mahogany tables, shone like mirrors; andirons, with their 
 accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of 
 asparagus tops; mock oranges and conch shells decorated the 
 mantel-piece ; strings of various coloured birds' eggs were sus- 
 pended above it ; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of 
 the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed 
 immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china. 
 
 22* 
 
340 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions 
 of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only 
 study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter 
 of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real 
 difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of 
 yore, who seldom had any thing bat giants, enchanters, fiery 
 dragons, and such like easily conquered adversaries, to con- 
 tend with ; and had to make his way merely through gates of 
 iron and brass, and walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where 
 the lady of his heart was confined ; all which he achieved as 
 easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christ- 
 mas pie, and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of 
 course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the 
 heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims 
 and caprices, which were for ever presenting new difficulties 
 and impediments ; and he had to encounter a host of fearful 
 adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admi- 
 rers, who beset every portal to her heart ; keeping a watchful 
 and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the com- 
 mon cause against any new competitor. 
 
 Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roys- 
 tering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the 
 Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country 
 round, which rung with his feats of strength and hardihood. 
 He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly 
 black hair, and a bluff, but not unpleasant countenance, having 
 a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame 
 and great powers of limb, he had received the nickname of 
 Brom Bones, by which he was universally known. He was 
 famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as 
 dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all 
 races and cock-fights; and, with the ascendency which bodily 
 strength always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all 
 disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions 
 with an air and tone that admitted of no gainsay or appeal. 
 He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic ; had more 
 mischief than ill-will in his composition ; and with all his over- 
 bearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good hu- 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 3 J 1 
 
 niour at bottom. He had three or four boon companions of 
 his own stamp, who regarded him as their model, and at the 
 head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene 
 of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was 
 distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's 
 tail ; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this 
 well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad 
 of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes 
 his crew would be heard dashing along past the farm-houses 
 at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cos- 
 sacks ; 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 neighbours looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admi- 
 ration, and goodwill ; and when any madcap prank, or rustic 
 brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and 
 warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 
 
 This rantipole hero had for some lime singled out the bloom- 
 ing Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries ; and 
 though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle ca- 
 resses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she 
 did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his ad- 
 vances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no 
 inclination to cross a lion in his amours ; insomuch, that when 
 his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling, on a Sunday 
 night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is term- 
 ed, "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 
 ben t, he never broke ; and though he bowed beneath the 
 slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away— jerk ! — he 
 was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. 
 
 To have taken the field openly against his rival would have 
 
342 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his 
 amours any more than that stormy lover Achilles. Ichabod, 
 therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating 
 manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he 
 made frequent visits at the farm-house ; 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; beloved his daughter 
 better even than his pipe, and like a reasonable man and an ex- 
 cellent father, let her have her way in every thing. His notable 
 little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her house-keeping 
 and manage the poultry ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and 
 geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can 
 take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame bustled 
 about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the 
 piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the 
 other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior^ 
 who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly 
 fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean 
 time Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the 
 side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in 
 the twilight, that hour so favourable 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 ad- 
 miration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door 
 of access ; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be 
 captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph 
 of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of general- 
 ship to maintain possession of the latter, for a man must battle 
 for his fortress at every door and window. He that wins a 
 thousand common hearts, is therefore entitled to some renown ; 
 but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a co- 
 quette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with 
 the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment Ichabod 
 Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently 
 declined ; his horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on 
 Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him 
 and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 343 
 
 Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, 
 would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have settled 
 their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those most 
 concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore — by 
 single combat ; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior 
 might of his adversary to enter the lists against him : he had 
 overheard the boast of Bones, that he would " double the school- 
 master up, and put him on a shelf;" and he was too wary to give 
 him an opportunity. There was something 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 persecution to Bones, and his 
 gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful do- 
 mains; smoked out his singing school, by stopping up the chim- 
 ney ; broke into the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formi- 
 dable fastenings of white and window stakes, and turned every 
 thing topsy-turvy : so that the poor schoolmaster began to think 
 all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But 
 what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of 
 turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a 
 scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous 
 manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her 
 in psalmody. 
 
 In this way matters went on for some time, without 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 from 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 justice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, a constant 
 terror to evil doers ; while on the desk before him might be seen 
 sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected 
 upon the persons of idle urchins ; such as half-munched apples, 
 popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant 
 little paper game-cocks. Apparently there had been some 
 appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were 
 
314 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 all busily intent upon their books, or slily 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 de- 
 livered his message with that air of importance, and effort at 
 fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty em- 
 bassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen 
 scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and 
 hurry of his mission. 
 
 All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school-room. 
 The scholars were hurried through their lessons, without 
 stopping at trifles: those who were nimble, skipped over half 
 with impunity; and those who were tardy, had a smart appli- 
 cation 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 al 
 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 schooihouse. 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 anima! 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 345 
 
 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 
 main and tail were tangled and knotted with burs ; one eye had 
 lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral ; but the other had 
 the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire 
 and mettle in his day, if we may judge from his name, which 
 was Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favourite steed of his 
 master, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and 
 had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the 
 animal; for, old and broken down as he looked, there was 
 more lurking devilry in him than in any young .filly in the 
 country. 
 
 Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with 
 short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel 
 of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grashoppers' ; he 
 carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, 
 and, as the horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not 
 unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested 
 on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might 
 be called ; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to 
 the horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his 
 steed as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and 
 it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with 
 in broad daylight. 
 
 It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was 
 clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery 
 which we always associate with the idea of 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 squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech 
 and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at in- 
 tervals from the neighbouring stubble field. 
 
 The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the 
 fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking. 
 
346 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very 
 profusion and variety around them. There was the honest 
 cock-robin, the favourite game of stripling sportsmen, with its 
 loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in 
 sable clouds ; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his 
 crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; 
 and the cedar bird, with its red tipt wings and yellow tipt tail, 
 and its little monteiro cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that 
 noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white under 
 clothes ; screaming and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and 
 bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster 
 of the grove. 
 
 As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to 
 every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over 
 the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store 
 of apples ; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees ; 
 some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market; others 
 heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on, he 
 beheld great fields of Indian corn, with 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 odour of the 
 bee-hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over 
 his mind of dainty slapjacks, 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 ' 'sugared 
 suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills 
 which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty 
 Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into 
 the west. The wide bosom of the Tappaan Zee lay motionless 
 and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation 
 waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. 
 A few amber clouds floated in the sky without a breath of air to 
 move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing 
 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 347 
 
 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 leathern- 
 faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, 
 huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, 
 withered, little dames in close crimped caps, long-waisted short 
 gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and 
 gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, 
 almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw 
 hat, a fine riband, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of 
 city innovations. The sons in short square-skirted coats, with 
 rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally 
 queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could pro- 
 cure 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 favourite steed Daredevil, a creature like 
 himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but him- 
 self could manage. He was, iniact, noted for preferring vicious 
 animals, given to all kinds of tricks which kept the rider in 
 constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable well-broken 
 horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 
 
 Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that 
 burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the 
 state parlour 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 
 
348 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to ex- 
 perienced Dutch housewives ! There was the doughty dough- 
 nut, the tender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; 
 sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the 
 whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies and peach 
 pies and pumpkin pies ; besides slices of ham and smoked beef ; 
 and moreover 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 teapot sending up its clouds of vapour from 
 the midst — Heaven bless the mark ! I want breath and time to 
 discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on 
 with my story. Happily Ichabod Crane was not in so great 
 a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. 
 
 He was a kind and thankful toad, whose heart dilated in pro- 
 portion 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 chuck- 
 ling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this 
 scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendour. Then, he 
 thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old schoolhouse ; 
 snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other 
 niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors 
 that should dare to call him comrade ! 
 
 Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a 
 face dilated with content and good humour, round and jolly as 
 the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief but ex- 
 pressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the 
 shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to " fall to, and 
 help themselves." 
 
 And now the sound of the music from the common room, or 
 hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray- 
 headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neigh- 
 bourhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as 
 old and as battered as himself. The greater part of the time he 
 scraped away on two or three strings, accompanying every move- 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. U49 
 
 ment 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 Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was 
 figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all 
 the negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from 
 the farm and the neighbourhood, stood forming a pyramid of 
 shining black faces at every door and window ; gazing with de- 
 light at the scene; rolling their white eyeballs, and showing 
 grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger 
 of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous ? the lady of 
 his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiled graciously in 
 reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely 
 smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one 
 corner. 
 
 When the dance w r as at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a 
 knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking 
 at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times and draw- 
 ing out long stories about the war. 
 
 This neighbourhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was 
 one of those highly favoured places which abound with chronicle 
 and great men. The British and American line had run near it 
 during the war ; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding, 
 and infested with refugees, cow boys, and all kinds of border 
 chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story- 
 teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in 
 the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of 
 every exploit. 
 
 There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded 
 Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old 
 iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun 
 burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman 
 who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly 
 mentioned, who, in the battle of Whiteplains, being an excellent 
 
350 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 master of defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, in- 
 somuch 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 who had been equally great in the field, not one of 
 whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in 
 bringing the war to a happy termination. 
 
 But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions 
 that succeeded. The neighbourhood 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 scarce had time to take 
 their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their 
 surviving friends have travelled away from the neighbourhood ; 
 so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they 
 have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the 
 reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long es- 
 tablished 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 mournful cries 
 and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the un- 
 fortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood in the neigh- 
 bourhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white 
 that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was of(en 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 favourite Spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horse- 
 man, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the 
 country, and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the 
 graves in the churchyard. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 351 
 
 The sequestered situation of this church seems always to 
 have made it a favourite 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, bor- 
 dered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at 
 the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard 
 where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think 
 that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of 
 the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large 
 brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a 
 deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was for- 
 merly 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 favourite haunts 
 of the headless horseman, and the place where he was most fre- 
 quently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most 
 heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman re- 
 turning 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 horse- 
 man suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into 
 the brook, and sprang away over the tree tops with a clap of 
 thunder. 
 
 This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous 
 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 neighbouring village of Sing-Sing, he had been 
 overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race 
 with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for 
 Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came 
 to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash 
 of fire. 
 
 All these tales, told in that drowsy under-tone with which men 
 talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and 
 then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sunk 
 
352 THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with 
 large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and 
 added many marvellous events that had taken place in his native 
 state of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his 
 nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers ga- 
 thered together their families in their waggons, and were heard 
 for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the dis- 
 tant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind 
 their favourite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, min- 
 gling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, 
 sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually died away — 
 and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. 
 Ichabod only lingered behind, 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, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, 
 for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with 
 an air quite desolate and chopfallen. — Oh these women ! these 
 women ! Could that girl have been playing off any of her co- 
 quettish tricks? — Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue 
 all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival ? — Heaven 
 only knows, not I '.-—Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth 
 with the air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather 
 than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the right or left to 
 notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often 
 gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty 
 cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously from the 
 comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dream- 
 ing of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy 
 and clover. 
 
 It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy- 
 hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel 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 Tappaan Zee 
 spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW- 353 
 
 (here the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the 
 land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the 
 harking 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 dis- 
 tance 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 farm-house 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 
 neighbouring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning 
 suddenly in his bed. 
 
 All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the after- 
 noon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night 
 grew darker and darker ; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the 
 sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. 
 He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, 
 approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the 
 ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an 
 enormous tulip tree, which towered like a giant above all the 
 other trees of the neighbourhood, and formed a kind of land- 
 mark. Its limbs were knarled, and fantastic, large enough to 
 form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the 
 earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the 
 tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who had been taken 
 prisoner hard by ; and was universally known by the name of 
 Major Andre's tree. The common people regarded it with a 
 mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for 
 the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of 
 strange sights, and doleful lamentations told concerning it. 
 
 As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle : 
 he thought his whistle was answered ; it was but a blast 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 look- 
 ing more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree 
 had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. 
 
 23 
 
331 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW.] 
 
 Suddenly he heard a groan—his teelh 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 where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and 
 chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape vines, threw a cavern- 
 ous gloom over it. To pass this bridge, was the severest trial, 
 It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was cap™ 
 tured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were 
 the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever 
 since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feel- 
 ings 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 
 animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the 
 fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked 
 the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with 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 elder 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 Icha- 
 bod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the 
 brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and tower- 
 ing. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like 
 some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller. 
 
 The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with 
 terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 
 
 late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or 
 goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of Hie 
 wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he de- 
 manded in stammering accents — ' ' Who are you?" He received 
 no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. 
 Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides 
 of the inflexible Gunpowder, and shutting his eyes, broke forth 
 with involuntary fervour into a psalm tune. Just then the sha- 
 dowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble 
 and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though 
 the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown 
 might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a 
 horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of 
 powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, 
 but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind 
 side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and 
 waywardness. 
 
 Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight com- 
 panion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones 
 with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes 
 of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his 
 horse to an equal pace: Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, 
 thinking to lag behind — the other did the same. His heart began 
 to sink within him ; he endeavoured to resume his psalm tune, 
 but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he 
 could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and 
 dogged silence of this pertinacious companion, that was myste- 
 rious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On 
 mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow 
 traveller in relief against the sky, 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 the head, which should have rested on his 
 shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of the saddle ! 
 His terror rose to desperation ; he rained a shower of kicks and 
 blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give 
 his companion the slip — but the spectre started full jump with 
 him. Away then they dashed, through thick and thin; stones 
 
 23 ■ 
 
350 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 flying, and sparks flashing, at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy 
 garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body 
 away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 
 
 They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
 Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, 
 instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged 
 headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a 
 sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, 
 where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, and just 
 beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed 
 church. 
 
 As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an 
 apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got halfway 
 through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he 
 felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, 
 and endeavoured to hold it firm, but in vain ; and had just lime 
 to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, 
 when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under 
 foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van 
 Ripper's wrath passed across his mind — for it was his Sunday 
 saddle ; but this was no time for petty fears ; the goblin was hard 
 on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider that he was !) he had much 
 ado to maintain his seat ; sometimes slipping on one side, some- 
 times on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his 
 horse's back-bone, with a violence that he verily feared would 
 cleave him asunder. 
 
 An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes 
 that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering 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 safe." Just then he heard 
 the black steed panting and blowing close behind him ; he even 
 fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in 
 the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprung upon the bridge ; he thun- 
 dered over the resounding planks ; he gained the opposite side ; 
 and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 357 
 
 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 endeavoured 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 
 breakfast — dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys as- 
 sembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of 
 the brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began 
 to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod and his 
 saddle. An enquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investi-, 
 nation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road lead- 
 ing to the church, was found the saddle trampled in the dirt ; 
 the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evi- 
 dently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond 
 which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the 
 water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate, 
 Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. 
 
 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 ef- 
 fects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for 
 (he neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an'old pair of 
 corduroy small-clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of psalm tunes, 
 lull of dog's ears ; and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and 
 furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, 
 excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New England 
 Almanack, 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 honour of the 
 heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl 
 were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper ; who 
 from that time forward determined to send his children no more 
 to school ; observing, that he never knew any good come of this 
 
U58 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 
 
 same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster 
 possessed, and he had received his quarter's pay but a day or 
 two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his 
 disappearance. 
 
 The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on 
 the following Sunday . Knots of gazers and gossips were collected 
 in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and 
 pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and 
 a whole budget of others, were called to mind ; and when they 
 had diligently considered them all , and compared them with the 
 symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came 
 to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the gallop- 
 ing Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, no- 
 body troubled his head any more about him : the school was 
 removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another peda- 
 gogue 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 neigh- 
 bourhood partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Rip- 
 per, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dis- 
 missed 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 exceed- 
 ingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and 
 always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin ; 
 which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter 
 than he chose to tell. 
 
 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 favourite story, often 
 told about the neighbourhood round the winter evening fire. 
 The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe ; 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 359 
 
 and that may be the reason why the read has been altered of late 
 years, so at to approach the church by the border of the mill- 
 pond. The schoolhouse being deserted, soon fell to decay, and 
 was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pe- 
 dagogue; and the ploughboy, "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 OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 
 
 The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in which I heard 
 it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient city of the Manhattoes,* 
 at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The 
 narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt 
 clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and one whom I strongly suspected of 
 being poor, — he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was 
 concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two 
 or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. 
 There was, however, one tall, dry-looking, old gentleman, with beetling eye- 
 brows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout : now and 
 then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, 
 is if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who 
 never laugh, but upon good grounds — when, they have reason and the law 
 on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided, and 
 silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and stick- 
 ing 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. 
 
 The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips as a re- 
 freshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his enquirer with 
 an air of infinite deference, and lowering the glass slowly to the table, ob- 
 served, 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 ex- 
 planation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syliogism; while, 
 methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of a triura- 
 
 ' NeW York. 
 
362 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 pliant leer. At length, he observed, that all this was very well, but still he 
 thought the story a little on the extravagant— there were one or two points 
 on which he had his doubts. 
 
 " Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, " as to that matter, I don't believe 
 one half of it myself." 
 
 D. K. 
 
L'ENVOY. 
 
 Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
 And specially let this be thy prayere, 
 Unto them all that thee will read or hear, j 
 Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
 Thee to correct in any part or all. 
 
 Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Mercic. 
 
 In concluding a second volume of the Sketch Book,* the 
 Author cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with 
 which his first has been received, and of the liberal disposition 
 that lias 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 par- 
 ticularly 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 
 favour by not following the counsel that has been liberally be- 
 stowed upon him ; for where abundance of valuable advice is 
 given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if he should go 
 astray. He only can say, in his vindication, that he faithfully 
 determined, for a time, to govern himself in his second volume 
 by the opinions passed upon his first ; but he was soon brought 
 
 The present work was originally published in two volumes. 
 
364 lenvoy; 
 
 to a stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly 
 advised him to avoid the ludicrous; another to shun the pa- 
 thetic ; a third assured him that he was tolerable at description, 
 but cautioned him to leave narrative alone ; while a fourth de- 
 clared that he had a very pretty knack at turning a story, and was 
 really entertaining when in a pensive mood, but was grievously 
 mistaken if he imagined himself to possess a spark of humour. 
 
 Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in turn 
 closed some particular path, but left him all the world beside to 
 range in, he found that to follow all their counsels would, in 
 fact, be to stand still. He remained for a time sadly embar- 
 rassed; when, all at once, the thought struck him to ramble on 
 as he had begun ; that his work being miscellaneous, and written 
 for different humours, it could not be expected that any one 
 would be pleased with the whole; but that if it should contain 
 something to suit each reader, his end would be completely 
 answered. Few guests sit. down to a varied table with an equal 
 appetite for every dish. One has an elegant horror of a roasted 
 pig ; another holds a curry or a devil in utter abomination ; a 
 third cannot tolerate the ancient flavour of venison and wild fowl ; 
 and a fourth, of truly masculine stomach, looks with sovereign 
 contempt on those knickknacks here and there dished up for the, 
 ladies. Thus each article is condemned in its turn ; and yet, 
 amidst this variety of appetites, seldom does a dish go away 
 from the table without being tasted and relished by some one or 
 other of the guests. 
 
 With these consideration 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 dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those articles 
 which the author has been obliged to write for readers of a less 
 refined taste. 
 
 To be serious. — The author is conscious of the numerous faults 
 and imperfections of his work; and well aware how little he is 
 disciplined and accomplished in the arts of authorship. His 
 deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence arising from his 
 
L'ENVOY. 365 
 
 peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in a strange land, 
 and appearing before a public which he has been accustomed, 
 from childhood, to regard with the highest feelings of awe and 
 reverence. He is full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, 
 yet finds that very solicitude continually embarrassing his 
 powers, and depriving him of that ease and confidence which are 
 necessary to successful exertion. Still the kindness with which 
 he is treated encourages him to go on, hoping that in time he 
 may acquirea steadier footing ; and thus he proceeds, half ventur- 
 ing, half shrinking, surprised at his own good fortune, and won- 
 dering at his own temerity. 
 
 THE END, 
 
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