■ ...i .yy7^r^~/2^/ THE KAATERSKILL EDITION. THE WORKS WASHINGTON IRVING, EMBRACING THE FOLLOWING VOLUMES THE SKETCH-BOOK.— THE ALHAMBRA.— THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA. LEGENDS OF THE CONQUEST OF SPAIN.— TALES OF A TRAVELLER.— BRACEBRIDGE HALL.-KNICKERBOCKER'S HISTORY OF NEW YORK.— SALMAGUNDI.— VOYAGES AND DISCOVERIES OF THE COM- PANIONS OF COLUMBUS.— WOLFERTS ROOST; LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW; AND MISCELLANIES CONTRIB- UTED TO THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE. PRINTED FROM THE ORIGINAL AND EARLY ISSUES. COMPLETE AND UNABRIDGED. NEW YORK: POLLARD & MOSS, PUBLISHERS^ 47 JOHN STREET. iS8o. PS Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by POLLARD & MOSS, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. The paper has been manufactured Irom specially selected and prepared stock, ex- pressly for this edition, by the " Hart Lot. Paper Co." represented by John J. Murphy, CONTENTS. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. Angler, The 86 A Royal Poet 21 Art of Book-Making ig Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap 29 Broken Heart, The 18 Christmas 47 Christmas Day 54 Christmas Dinner, The ... 58 Christmas Eve 51 Country Church, The 25 English Writers on America. 13 John Bull 80 Little Britain 62 Mutability of Literature 32 Philip of Pokanoket 75 I Pride of the Village 83 Rip Van Winkle g Roscoe 4 Rural Funeral, The 36 Rural Life in England 16 Sleepy Hollow, The Legend of 89 Spectre Bridegroom, The 39 Stage-Coach, The 49 Stratford-on-Avon 67 The Inn Kitchen 39 The Wife 6 The Voyage 2 Traits of Indian Character 72 Westminster Abbey 44 Widow and her Son, The 27 THE ALHAMBRA. SERIES OF TALES AND SKETCHES OF THE MOORS AND SPANIARDS. Alhambra, The, by Moonlight Inhabitants of Interior of the . . . Finisher of the Founder of the Government of the Visitors to the A Ramble Among the Hills Boabdil El Chico Governor Manco and the Soldier Jusef Abul Hagias, the Finisher of the Alham- bra Legend of the Arabian Astrologer " of the Moor's Legacy " of the Page and the Ger-Falcon ' ' of Prince Ahmed El Kamel ... " of the Rose of the Alhambra " of the Three Beautiful Princesses 15a 170 124 136 152 143 152 1291 Legend of the Two Discreet Statues 163 Local Traditions 135 Mahamad Aben Alahmar, the Founder of the Al- hambra i63 Reflections on the Moslem Domination in Spain, no The Adventure of the Mason 117 The Author's Chamber 113 The Balcony 116 The Court of Lions 120 The Governor and the Notary 156 The House and the Weather-cock 124 The Household in The Journey loi The Pilgrim of Love 143 The Tower of Comares 108 The Tower of Las Infantas 124 The Truant 112 The Veteran 156 A CHRONICLE OF THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA. I. — Of the Kingdom of Granada, and the tribute which it paid to the Castil- ian crown - 173 II. — How the Catholic sovereigns sent to demand arrears of tribute of the Moor, and how the Moor replied. 174 III. — How the Moor determined to strike the first blow in the war I75 CHAPTER PAGE IV. — Expedition of Muley Abcn Hassan against the fortress of Zahara. ... 176 V. — Expedition of the Marques of Cadiz against Alhama 177 Yl. — How the people of Granada were af- fected on hearing of the capture of Alhama ; and how the Moorish King sallied forth to regain it 179 CONTENTS. CHAPTER VII. VIII. IX. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII.— XVIIL— XIX.— XX.— XXL— XXII.- XXIII.- XXIV. XXV. XXVI.- XXVII.- -How the Duke of Medina Sidonia, and the Chivalry of Andalusia, hastened to the relief of Alhama. . i8i -Sequel of the events at Alhama 182 -Events at Granada, and rise of the Moorish King Boabdil El Chico. . 184 -Ro3'al expedition against Loxa. ... 185 -How Muley Aben Hassan made a foray into the lands of Medina Sidonia, and how he was received. 187 -Foray of Spanish cavaliers among the mountains of Malaga. .' iSg Effects of the disasters among the mountains of Malaga 192 How King Boabdil El Chico marched over the borders 193 How the Count De Cabra sallied forth from his castle, in quest of King Boabdil 194. The battle of Lucena 195 Lamentations of the Moors for the battle of Lucena 197 How Muley Aben Hassan profited by the misfortunes of his son Boabdil 198 -Captivity of Boabdil El Chico 199 -Of the treatment of Boabdil by the Castilian sovereigns 200 Return of Boabdil from captivity.. 201 Foray of the Moorish Alcaydes and battle of Lopera 202 ■Retreat of Hamet El Zegri, Alcayde of Ronda ... 204 -Of the reception at court of the Count De Cambra and the Alcayde De Los Donzeles 205 -How the Marques of Cadiz con- certed to surprise Zahara, and the result of his enterprise 206 -Of the fortress of Alhama, and how wisely it was governed by the Count De Tendilla 208 •Foray of Christian knights into the territory of the Moors 209 CHAPTER XXVIII. XXIX. XXX. XXXI. XXXII. XXXIII. XXXIV.- XXXV.- XXX VI.- XXXVIL- XXXVIIL- XXXIX.- XL. XLI. XLII. XLIII. XLIV. XL V.- PAGE —Attempt of El Zagal to surprise Boabdil in Almeria 211 —How King Ferdinand commenced another campaign against tne Moors, and how he laid siege to Coin and Cartama 212 -Siege of Ronda 213 —How the people of Granada invited El Zagal to the throne, and how he marched to the capital 214 -How the Count De Cabra attempted to capture another King, and how he fared in his attempt 216 —Expedition against the castles of Cambil and Albahar 217 -Enterprise of the Knights of Cala- trava against Zalea 219 -Death of Muley Aben Hassan .... 220 -Of the Christian army which as- sembled at the city of Cordova. . 221 -How fresh commotions broke out in Granada, and how the people undertook to allay them 223 -How King Ferdinand held a council of war at the Rock of the Lovers. 224 -How the royal army appeared be- fore the city of Loxa, and how it was received ; and of the doughty achievements of the English Earl 225 -Conclusion of the siege of Loxa. . . . 226 -Capture of Illora 227 -Of the arrival of Queen Isabella at the camp before Moclin ; and of the pleasant sayings of the English Earl 227 -How King Ferdinand attacked Moc- lin, and of the strange events that attended its capture 229 -How King Ferdinand foraged the Vega ; and of the battle of the Bridge of Pinos, and the fate of the two Moorish brothers. ...... 23c -Attempt of El Zagal upon the life of Boabdil, and how the latter was roused to action 231 A CHRONICLE OF THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA. VOLUME SFXOND. CHAPTER PAGE L — How Boabdil returned secretly to Granada, and how he was received 232 II. — How King Ferdinand laid siege to Velez Malaga 233 in. — How King Ferdinand and his army were exposed to imminent peril be- fore Velez Malaga 235 IV.— Result of the stratagem of El Zagal to surprise King Ferdinand 237 v.— How the people of Granada rewarded the valor of El Zagal 23S VI.— Surrender of Velez Malaga and other places 23S VII.— Of the city of Malaga and its inhabit- ants 239 VIII. — Advance of King Ferdinand against Malaga 241 IX. — Siege of Malaga 242 X. — Siege of Malaga continued, obstinacy of Ilamet El Zcgn '. 242 XI. — .-Xttackof the Marques of Cadiz upon Gibralfaro 243 • XII. — Siege of Malaga continued, strata- gems of various kinds 244 CHAPTER XIII 246 247 Sufferings of the people of Malaga. . 245 How a Moorish Santon undertook to deliver the city of Malaga from the power of its enemies. . . . How Hamet El Zegri was hardened in his obstinacy by the arts of a Moorish astrologer Siege of Malaga continued, destruc- tion of a tower by Francisco Ra- mirez De Madrid 248 XVII. — How the people of Malaga expostu- lated with Hamet El Zegri 249 How Hamet El Zegri sallied forth with the sacred banner, to attack the Christian camp 249 How the city of Malaga capitulated 251 Fulfilment of the prophecy of the dervise — Fate of Hamet El Zegri 252 How the Castilian sovereigns took possession of the city of Malaga, and how King Ferdinand signal- ized himself by his skill in bargain- ing with the inhabitants for their ransom 252 XIV. XV.- XVI.- XVIII.- XIX. XX. XXI. CONTENTS. Vll CHAPTER PAGE XXII. — How King Ferdinand prepared to carry the war into a different part of the territories of the Moor^. . . . 254 XXIII. — How King Ferdinand invaded the eastern side of the kingdom of Granada, and how he was received by El Zagal 255 XXIV. — How the Moors made various enter- prises against the Christians 256 XXV. — How King Ferdinand prepared to be- siege the City of Baza, and how the city prepared for defence 257 XXVI.— The Battle of the Gardens before Baza 259 XXVII. — Siege of Baza — Embarrassments of the army 260 XXVIII. — Siege of Baza continued — How King Ferdinand completely invested the city 260 XXIX.— Exploit of Hernando Perez Del Pul- gar and other cavaliers 261 XXX. — Continuation of the siege of Baza. . . 262 XXXI. — Ho.v two friars arrived at the camp and how they came from the Holy Land 263 XXXII. — How Queen Isabella devised means to supply the army with provis- ions 264 XXXIII. — Of the disasters that befell the camp 265 XXXIV. — Encounters between the Christians and Moors before Baza ; and the devotion of the inhabitants to the defence of their city 266 XXXV. — How Queen Isabella arrived at the camp, and the consequences of her arrival 267 XXXVI.— Surrender of Baza 268 XXXVII. — Submission of El Zagal to the Cas- tilian sovereigns 269 XXXVIII. — Events at Granada subsequent to the submission of El Zagal 270 CHAPTER pAQj. XXXIX. — How King Ferdinand turned his hos- tilities against the city of Granada 272 XL. — The fate of the Castle of Roma. . . . 273 XLL— How Bobadil El Chico took the field ; and his expedition against Alhendin . ... 274 XLII. — Exploit of the Count De Tendilla. . 275 XLIIL— Expedition of Boabdil El Chico against Salobrena — Exploit of Hernando Perez Del Pulgar 276 XLIV. — How King Ferdinand treated the people of Guadix, and how El Za- gal finished his regal career 277 XLV. — Preparations of Granada for a des- perate defence 27S XLVI. — How King Ferdinand conducted the siege cautiously ; and how Queen Isabella arrived at the camp 280 XLVII. — Of the insolent defiance of Yarfe, the Moor, and the daring exploit of Hernando Perez Del Pulgar.. 280 XLVIII. — How Queen Isabella took a view of the city of Granada, and how her curiosity cost the lives of many Christians and Moors 281 XLIX. — Conflagration of the Christian camp 283 L. — The last ravage before Granada. . . . 283 LI.— Building of the City of Sante Fe— Despair of the Moors 284 LII. — Capitulation of Granada 285 LIII. — Commotions in Granada 286 LI V. — Surrender of Granada 287 LV. — How the Castilian sovereigns took possession of Granada 288 APPENDIX. Fate of Boabdil El Chico 289 Death of the Marques of Cadiz 290 The legend of the death of Don Alonzo De Aguiiar , 291 LEGENDS OF THE CONQUEST OF SPAIN. THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK. CHAPTER PAGE I. — Of the ancient inhabitants of Spain Of the misrule of Witiza the Wicked 295 II. — The rise of Don Roderick — His gov- ernment 297 III. — Of the loves of Don Roderick and the Princess Elyata 29S IV.— Of Count Julian 299 V. — The story of Florinda 299 VI. — Don Roderick receives an extraor- dinary embassy 301 VII. — Story of the marvellous and portent- ous tower 302 VIII. — Count Julian — His fortunes in Africa — He hears of the dishonor of his child — His conduct thereupon 304 IX.— Secret visit of Count Julian to the Arab camp — First expedition of Taric El Tuerto 305 X. — Letter of Muza to the Caliph — Sec- ond expedition of Taric El Tuerto 306 XI. — Measures of Don Roderick on hear- CHAPTER PAGE ing of the invasion — Expedition of Ataulpho — Vision of Taric 307 XII.— Battle of Calpe— Fate of Ataulpho. 308 XIII. — Terror of the country — Roderick rouses himself to arms 310 XIV. — March of the Gothic army — Encamp- ment on the banks of the Guada- lete — Mysterious predictions of a Palmer — Conduct of Pelistes there- upon 311 XV. — Skirmishing of the armies — Pelistes and his son — Pelistes and the bishop 312 XVI. — Traitorous message of Count Julian 313 XVII.— Last day of the battle 313 XVI II.— The field of battle after the defeat— The fate of Roderick 315 APPENDIX. Illustrations of the foregoing legend — The tomb of Roderick 316 The cave of Hercules 316 CONTENTS. LEGENDS OF THE SUBJUGATION OF SPAIN. CHAPTER PAGE I. — Consternation of Spain — Conduct of the Conquerors — Missives between Taric and Muza 3iS II. — Capture of Granada — Subjugation of the Alpuxarra Mountains 3^9 III. — Expedition of Magued against Cordova — Defence of the patriot Pelistes 320 IV. — Defence of the Convent of St. George by Pelistes 321 V. — Meeting between the patriot Pelistes and tlie traitor Julian 322 VI.— How Taric El Tucrto captured the city of Toledo through the aid of the Jews, and how he found the famous talis- manic table of Solomon 323 VII. — Muza Ben Nozier's entrance into Spain and capture of Carmona 324 VIII. — Muza marches against the city of Seville, 325 IX. — Muza besieges the city of Merida 325 CHAPTER PAGE X. — Expedition of Abdalasis against Seville and the "land of Tadmir" 327 XI. — Muza arrives at Toledo — Interview be- tween him and Taric 329 XII. — Muza prosecutes the scheme of conquest — Siege of Saragossa — Complete subju- gation of Spain 330 XIII. — Feud between the Arab Generals — They are summoned to appear before the Caliph at Damascus — Reception of Taric XIV. — Muza arrives at Damascus — His inter- view with the Caliph — The Table of Solomon — A rigorous sentence XV. — Conduct of Abdalasis as Emir of Spain. XVI. — Loves of Abdalasis and Exilona 333 j XVII.— Fate of Abdalasis and Exilona — Death of Muza 334 LEGEND OF COUNT JULIAN AND HIS 1 FAMILY 336 331 332 333 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. PART FIRST. STRANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN. A Hunting Dinner 341 The Adventure of my Aunt 346 The Adventure of the Mysterious Picture 350 The Adventure of the Mysterious Stranger 353 The Adventure of my Uncle 343 The Adventure of my Grandfather 348 The Bold Dragoon 348 The Story of the Young Italian 355 PART SECOND. BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS, A Literary Dinner 364 Buckthorne; or, the Young Man of Great Expec- tations 372 Grave Reflections of a Disappointed Man 385 Literary Life 363 The Booby Squire 386 The Club of Queer Fellows 365 The Poor Devil Author 367 The Strolling Manager 3S8 PART THIRD. THE ITALIAN BANDITTI The Adventure of the Little Antiquary The Adventure of the Popkins Family . The Inn at Terracina 395 397 392 The Painter's Adventure 399 The Story of the Bandit Chieftain 401 The Story of the Young Robber 405 PART FO U RT H. THE MONEY-DIGGERS. Hell Gate 410] The Adventure of Sam, the Black Fisherman, Kidd the Pirate 411 commonly denominated Mud Sam 423 The Devil and Tom Walker J12 | Wolfert Webber ; or Golden Dreams 416 CONTENTS. BRACEBRIDGE HALL; A Bachelor's Confessions 4SS i A Literary Antiquity 452 I 441 I 5021 An Old Soldier Annette Delarbre A Stage-Coach Romance 447 A Village Politician 4g6 Bachelors 445 Dolph Heyliger 518 English Country Gentleman 486 English Gravity 489 Falconry 456 Family Misfortunes 514 Family Reliques 440 Family Servants 436 Forest Trees 450 Fortune-Telling 462 Gentility 461 Gipsies 490 Hawking 457 Horsemanship 454 Love-Charms 463 Love Symptoms 455 Lover's Troubles 515 May-Day Customs 492 May-Day 499 Popular Superstitions 510 OR, THE HUMOURISTS. Ready-Money Jack 443 St. Mark's Eve 459 Story-Telling 447 The Author's Farewell 539 The Busy Man 435 The Culprit 512 The Farm-House ac-i The Hall '. 434 The Haunted House 517 The Historian 516 The Library 464 The Lovers 439 The Manuscript 501 The Rookery 497 The School 495 The Schoolmaster 493 The Storm-Ship 529 The Stout Gentleman 447 The Student of Salamanca 465 The Wedding 536 The Widow's Retinue 442 The Widow 438 Travelling 508 Wives 445 Village Worthies 493 KNICKERBOCKER'S HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. VOLUME ONE. Account of the Author 541 Address to the Public 544 BOOK L CONTAINING DIVERS INGENIOUS THEORIES AND PHILO- SOPHIC SPECULATIONS, CONCERNING THE CREATION AND POPULATION OF THE WORLD, AS CONNECTED AVITH THE HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. CHAPTER PAGE L — Description of the World 546 IL — Cosmogony, or Creation of the World ; with a multitude of excellent theories, by which the creation of a world is shown to be no such difficult matter as common folk would imagine 547 in. — How that famous navigator, Noah, was shamefully nicknamed ; and how he committed an unpardonable oversight, in not having four sons. With the great trouble of philosophers caused thereby, and the discovery of America. 549 IV. — Showing'the great difficulty philosophers have had in peopling America — and how the Aborigines came to be begot- ten by accident — to the great relief and satisfaction of the Author ... 551 V. — In which the Author puts a mighty ques- tion to the rout, by the assistance of the Man in the Moon — which not only delivers thousands of people from great embarrassment, but likewise concludes this introductory book 552 BOOK II. TREATING OF THE FIRST SETTLEMENT OF THE PROV- INCE OF NIEUW-NEDERLANDTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. — In which are contained divers reasons why a man should not write in a hurry. Also, of Master Hendrick Hudson, his CHAPTER . PAGE discovery of a strange country — and how he was magnificently rewarded by the munificence of their High Mighti- nesses 556 II. — Containing an account of a mighty Ark, which floated, under the protection of St. Nicholas, from Holland to Gibbet Island — the descent of the strange Ani- mals therefrom — a great victory, and a description of the ancient village of Communipaw 559 HI. — In which is set forth the true art of mak- ing a bargain — together with the mi- raculous escape of a great Metropolis in a fog — and the biography of certain Heroes of Communipaw 560 IV. — How the Heroes of Communipaw voyaged to Hell-Gate, and how they were re- ceived there 562 V. — How the Heroes of Communipaw re- turned somewhat wiser than they went — and how the sage Oloffe dreamed a dream — and the dream that he dreamed 565 VI. — Containing an attempt at etymology — and of the founding of the great city of New-Amsterdam 566 VII. — How the city of New-Amsterdam waxed great, under the protection of Oloffe the Dreamer 567 BOOK HI. IN WHICH IS RECORDED THE GOLDEN REIGN OF WOUTER VAN TWILLER. I. — Of the renowned Walter Van Twiller, his unparalleled virtues — and likewise his unutterable wisdom in the lawcase of AVandle Schoonhoven and Barent Bleecker — and the great admiration of the public thereat 569 CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE II. — Containing some account of the grand council of New-Amsterdam, as also divers especial good philosophical rea- sons why an alderman should be fat — with other particulars touching the state of the province 571 III. — How the town of New-Amsterdam arose out of mud, and came to be marvel- lously polished and polite — together with a picture of the manners of our great-great-grandfathers 573 IV. — Containing further particulars of the Golden Age, and what constituted a fine Lady and Gentleman in the days of Walter the Doubter 575 V. — In which the reader is beguiled into a de- lectable walk, which ends very differ- ently from what it commenced 576 VI. — Faithfully describing the ingenious peo- ple of Connecticut and thereabouts — Sh >wing, moreover, the true meaning of liberty of conscience, and a curious device among these sturdy barbarians, to keep up a harmony of intercourse, and promote population 577 VII. — How these singular barbarians turned out to be notorious squatters — how they built air castles, and attempted to initiate the Nederlanders in the mys- tery of bundling 579 VIII. — How the Fort Goed Hoop was fearfully beleaguered — how the renowned Wou- terfell into a profound doubt, and how he finally evaporated 580 BOOK IV. CONTAINING THE CHRONICLES OF THE REIGN OF WIL- LIAM THE TESTY. I. — Showing the nature of history in general; containing furthermore the universal CHAPTER PAGE acquirements of William the Testy, and how a man may learn so much as to render himself good for nothing. . . 581 II. — In which are recorded the sage projects of a ruler of universal genius — the art of fighting by proclamation — and how that the valiant Jacobus Van Curlet came to be foully dishonoured at Fort Goed Hoop 584 III. — Containing the fearful wrath of William the Testy, and the great dolour of the New-Amsterdammers, because of the affair of Fort Goed Hoop — and, more- over, how William the Testy did strong- ly fortify the city — together with the exploits of Stoffel Brinkerhoff 586 IV. — Philosophical refl'ections on the folly of being happy in times of prosperity — Sundry troubles on the southern fron- tiers — How William the Testy had well- nigh ruined the province through a cabalistic word — As also the secret ex- pedition of Jan Jansen Alpendam, and his astonishing reward 587 V. — How William the Testy enriched the province by a multitude of laws, and came to be the patron of lawyers and bum-bailiffs — and how the people be- came exceedingly enlightened and un- happy under his instructions 589 VI. — Of the great pipe plot — and of the dolor ous perplexities into which William the Testy was thrown, by reason of his having enlightened the multitude 591 VII. — Containing divers fearful accounts of Border Wars, and the flagrant outrages of the Mosstroopers of Connecticut — with the rise of the great Amphyctionic Council of the east, and the decline of William the Testy 593 KNICKERBOCKER'S HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. VOLUME TWO. BOOK- V. CONTAINING THE FIRST PART OF THE REIGN OF PETER STUYVESANT, AND HIS TROUBLES WITH THE AM- PHYCTIONIC COUNCIL. CHAPTER PAGE I. — In which the death of a great man i? shown to be no very inconsolable matter of sorrow — and how Peter Stuyvesant acquired a great name from the uncommon strength of his. head 595 II. — Showing how Peter the Headstrong bestirred himself among the rats and cobwebs on entering into office— and the perilous mistake he was guilty of in his dealings with the Amphyctions 597 III. — Containing divers speculations on war and negotiations — showing that a treaty of peace is a great national eril 598 IV, — How Peter Stuyvesant was greatly belied by his adversaries, the Moss- troopers — and his conduct there- upon 600 V. — How the New-Amsterdammers be- came great in arms, and of the CHAPTER PAGE direful catastrophe of a mighty army — together with Peter Stuves- ant's measures to fortify the city, and how he was the original founder of the Battery 602 VI. — How the people of the east country were suddenly afflicted with a dia- bolical evil, and their judicious measures for the extirpation there- of 603 VII. — Which records the rise and renown of a valiant commander, showing that a man, like a bladder, may be puffed up to greatness and impor- tance by mere wind 605 BOOK VI. CONTAINING THE SECOND PART OF THE REIGN OK PETER THE HEADSTRONG, AND HIS GALLANT ACHIEVE- MENTS ON THE DELAWARE. I. — In which is exhibited a warlike portrait of the great Peter — and how General Van Poffenburgh distinguished himself at Fort Casimir 607 II. — Showing how profound secrets are often brought to light ; with the proceedings of Peter the Headstrong when he heard CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE of the misfortunes of General Van Pof- fenburgh 609 III. — Containing Peter Stuyvesant's voyage up the Hudson, and the wonders and de- lights of that renowned river 611 IV. — Describing the powerful army that as- sembled at the City of New Amsterdam — together with the interview between Peter the Headstrong and General Van Poffenburgh, and Peter's sentiments touching unfortunate great men 613 V. — In which the author discourses very in- genuously of himself — after which is to be found much interesting history about Peter the Headstrong and his fol- lowers 615 VI. — Showing the great advantage that the author has over his reader in time of battle — together with divers portentous movements, which betoken that some- thing terrible is about to happen 617 VII. — Containing the most horrible battle ever recorded in poetry or prose — with the admirable exploits of Peter the Head- strong 618 VIII. — In which the author and the reader, while reposing after the battle, fall into a very grave discourse — after which is recorded the conduct of Peter Stuyves- ant after his victory 621 BOOK VII. CONTAINING THE THIRD PART OF THE REIGN OF PETER THE HEADSTRONG — HIS TROUBLES WITH THE BRITISH NATION, AND THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE DUTCH DYNASTY. I. — How Peter Stuyvesant relieved the sover- eign people from the burthen of taking CHAPTER p^cj. care of the nation — with sundry partic- ulars of his conduct in time of peace. 623 II- — How Peter Stuyvesant was much mo- lested by the Mosstroopers of the East, and the Giants of Merryland — and how a dark and horrid conspiracy was car- ried on in the British Cabinet against the prosperity of the Manhattoes 626 III- — Of Peter Stuyvesant's expedition into the East Country — showing that, though an old bird, he did not understand trap 628 IV. — How the people of New-Amsterdam were thrown into a great panic by the news of a threatened invasion, and the manner in which they fortified them- selves 630 V. — Showing how the grand Council of the New-Netherlands came to be miracu- lously gifted with long tongues — to- gether with a great triumph of Econ- omy 631 VI. — In which the troubles of New-Amsterdam appear to thicken — showing the bravery in time of peril of a people who de- fend themselves by resolutions 632 VII. — Containing a doleful disaster of Antony the Trumpeter — and how Peter Stuy- vesant, like a second Cromwell, sud- denly dissolved a rump Parliament... 634 VIII. — How Peter Stuyvesant defended the city of New-Amsterdam, for several days, by dint of the strength of his head .... 636 IX. — Containing the dignified retirement, and mortal surrender, of Peter the Head- strong 638 X. — The Author's reflections upon what h as been said 639 SALMAGUNDI; OR, THE WHIM-WHAMS AND OPINIONS OF LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, Esq., AND OTHERS. VOLUME ONE. i. — Editor's advertisement 641 Publisher's notice 641 Introduction to the work 042 Theatrics— by Will Wizard 643 New York Assembly— by A. Evergreen. 644 II.— Launcelot Langstaff's account of his friends ^45 Mr. Wilson's concert— by A. Evergreen 646 Pindar Cockloft to Launcelot Langstaff. 64S III.— Account of Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan -.649 Letter from Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan to Asem Hacchem 650 Fashions— bv A. Evergreen 651 Fashionable morning-dress for walkmg. . 651 The progress of Salmagundi • • • - • 652 Poetical proclamation from the mill of Pindar Cockloft, Esq • • 653 IV.— Some account of Jeremy Cockloft the younger ; • • • "53 Memorandums for a tour to be entitled "The Stranger in New Jersey; or. Cockney travelling "—by Jeremy Cock- loft the younger ^54 v.— Introduction to a letter from Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan 656 VI.- VII.- PAGE Letter from Mustapha to Abdallah Eb'n al Rahab 656 Account of Will Wizard's expedition to a modern ball — by A. Evergreen 658 Poetical epistle to the ladies— from the mill of Pindar Cockloft, Esq 660 -Account of the family of the Cocklofts. . 660 Theatrics — by William Wizard, Esq. . . . 663 -Letter from Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan to Asem Hacchem 665 Poetical account of ancient times — from the mill of Pindar Cockloft, Esq 668 Notes on the above, by W. Wizard, Esq. 663 VIII. — Anthony Evergreen's account of his friend Langstaff 669 On style — by William Wizard, Esq 671 The editors and the public 673 -Account of Miss Charity Cockloft 674 From the elbow-chair of the author 675 Letter from Rub-a-dub Keli Khan to Asem Hacchem 676 Poetry, from the mill of Pindar Cock- loft, Esq 678 -Introduction to the number 679 Letter from Demi Semiquaver to Launce- lot Langstaff, Esq 679 Note by the publisher 68t. IX. X.— 1 CONTENTS. SALMAGUNDI; OR, THE WHIM-WHAMS AND OPINIONS OF LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFF, Esq., AND OTHERS. VOLUME TWO. NO. PAOE XI.— Letter from Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan to Asem Hacchem 682 Account of " mine uncle John " 684 XII. — Christopher Cockloft's company 686 The Stranger at Home ; or, a tour in Broadway — by Jeremy Cockloft the younger 689 Introduction to Pindar Cockloft's poem . . 691 A poem, from the mill of Pindar Cock- loft, Esq 691 XIII. — Introduction to Will Wizard's plan for defending our harbor 692 "Plans for defending our Harbor," by William Wizard, Esq 693 A Retrospect ; or, " What yon unll" 695 To readers and correspondents 697 XIV. — Letter from Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan to Asem Hacchem 698 Cockloft Hall— by L. Langstaff 700 Theatrical Intelligence — by William Wiz- ard, Esq 702 XV. — Sketches from Nature — by A. Evergreen, gent 704 On Greatness — by L. Langstaff, Esq. . . . 705 XVII. NO. PAGE XVI.— Style at Ballston— by W. Wizard, Esq.. 708 From Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan to Asem Hacchem 709 Autumnal Reflections — by Launcelot Langstaff, Esq 712 Description of the library at Cockloft Hall— by L. Langstaff 713 Chap. CIX. of the Chronicles of the re- nowned and ancient City of Gotham. . 714 XVIII— The little man in black — by Launcelot Langstaff, Esq 716 Letter from Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan to Asem Hacchem 718 Introduction to the number 720 Letter from Rub-a-dub Keli Khan to Muley Helim al Raggi 720 Anthony Evergreen's introduction to the " winter campaign " 723 Tea, a poem, from the mill of Pindar Cockloft, Esq 724 On the new year 725 To the ladies — from A. Evergreen, gent 727 Farewell address 729 XIX. XX. VOYAGES AND DISCOVERIES COMPANIONS OF COLUMBUS. ALONZO DE OJEDA. HIS FIRST VOYAGE, IN WHICH HE WAS .\CCOMPANIED BY AMERIGO VESPUCCI. CHAPTER PAGE I. — Some account of Ojeda — of Juan De La Cosa — of Amerigo Vespucci. — Prep- arations for the voyage (1499) 732 II. — Departure from Spain — Arrival on the coast of Paria — Customs of the natives 733 III. — Coasting off Terra Firma — Military ex- pedition of Ojeda 734 IV. — Discovery of the Gulf of Venezuela — Transactions there— Ojeda explores the Gulf — Penetrates to Maracaibo 735 V. — Prosecution of the voyage and return to Spain '. 736 Pedro Alonzo Nino (1499) 736 Christoval Guerra (1499) 736 Vicente Yanez Pinzon (1499) 737 Diego De Lepe (1500) 73g Rodrigo De Bastides (1500) 739 Second voyage of Alonzo De Ojeda (1502) 740 THIRD VOYAGE OF ALONZO DE OJEDA. I. — Ojeda applies for a command — Has a rival candidate in Diego De Nicuesa — His success 741 CHAPTER PAGE II. — Feud between the rival governors, Ojeda and Nicuesa — A challenge (1509) 743 III. — Exploits and disasters of Ojeda on the coast of Carthagena — Fate of the vete- ran Juan De La Cosa (1509) 744 IV. — Arrival of Nicuesa — Vengeance taken on the Indians 745 V. — Ojeda founds the colony of San Sebastian — Beleaguered by the Indians 746 VI. — Ojeda supposed by the savages to have a charmed life — Their experiment to try the fact 747 VII. — Arrival of a strange ship at San Sebastian . 747 VIII. — Factions in the colony — A convention made 748 IX. — Disastrous voyage of Ojeda in the pirate ship : 749 X. — Toilsome march of Ojeda and his com- panions through the morasses of Cuba 749 XL — Ojeda performs his vow to the Virgin . . 750 XII. — Arrival of Ojeda at Jamaica — His recep- tion by Juan De Esquibel 750 XIII. — Arrival of Ojeda at San Domingo — Con- clusion of his story 751 CONTENTS. THE VOYAGE OF DIEGO DE NICUESA. I. — Nicuesa sails to the westward ; his ship- wreck and subsequent disasters 752 II. — Nicuesa and his men on a desolate island III. — Arrival of a boat — Conduct of Lope Dl Olano yc2 IV. — Nicuesa rejoins his crews 7^4 V. — Sufferings of Nicuesa and his men on the coast of the Isthmus Vi. — Expedition of the Bachelor Enciso in search of the seat of government of Ojeda (1510) 755 753 754 VII. VIII. -The Bachelor hears unwelcome tidings of his destined jurisdiction 756 -Crusade of the Bachelor Enciso against the sepulchres of Zenu 756 IX. — The Bachelor arrives at San Sebastian — his disasters there, and subsequent ex- ploits at Darien 757 X. — The Bachelor Enciso undertakes the command — His downfall 75S XL — Perplexities at the colony — Arrival of Colmenares 758 XII. — Colmenares goes in quest of Nicuesa. . . 758 XIII. — Catastrophe of the unfortunate Nicuesa. 759 VASCO NUNEZ DE BALBOA, DISCOVERER OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN. CHAPTER PAGE I. — Factions at Darien — Vasco Nunez elected to t!ie command ... 760 II. — Expedition to Coyba — Vasco Nunez re- ceives the daughter of a Cacique as hostage 761 III. — Vasco Nuiiez hears of a sea beyond the mountains 762 IV. — Expedition of Vasco Nunez in quest of the golden temple of Dobayba (15 12). 763 V. — Disaster on the Black River — Indian plot against Darien 765 VI. — Further factions in the colony — Arro- gance of Alonzo Perez and the Bachelor Corral ( 1 5 1 2) 765 VII. — Vasco Nunez determines to seek the sea beyond the mountains (1513) 766 VIII. — Expedition in quest of the Southern Sea 767 IX — Discovery of the Pacific Ocean 768 X. — Vasco Nufiez marches to the shores of the South Sea 769 XL — Adventures of Vasco Nunez on the borders of the Pacific Ocean 770 XII. — The same continued 771 XIII. — Vasco Nunez sets out on his return across the mountains — His contests with the savages 772 XIV. — Enterprise against Tubanama, the war- like Cacique of the mountains — Re- turn to Darien 773 XV. — Transactions in Spain — Pedrarias Da- vila appointed to the command of Da- rien — Tidings received in Spain of the discovery of the Pacific Ocean 774 CHAPTER P.A.GK XVI. — Arrival and grand entry of Don Pedra- rias Davila into Darien 776 XVII. — Perfidious conduct of Don Pedrarias towards Vasco Nunez 777 XVIII. — Calamities of the Spanish cavaliers at Darien 77y XIX. — Fruitless expedition of Pedrarias 778 XX. — Second Expedition of Vasco Nufiez in quest of the Gold Temple of Dobayba 779 XXI. — Letters from the king in favor of Vasco Nufiez — Arrival of Garabito — Arrest of Vasco Nunez (151 5) 779 XXII. — Expedition of Morales and Pizarro to the shores of the Pacific Ocean — Their visit to the Pearl Islands — Their disastrous return across the mountains XXIII. — Unfortunate enterprises of the officers of Pedrarias — M.itrimonial compact between the Governor and Vasco Nufiez 782 XXIV. — Vasco Nufiez transports ships across the mountains to the Pacific Ocean. . 783 XXV. — Cruise of Vasco Nufiez in the Southern Sea — Rumors from Ada 784 XXVI. — Stratagem of Pedrarias to entrap Vasco Nufiez 784 XXVII. — Vasco Nunez and the astrologer — His return to Ada. 785 XXVIIL— Trial of Vasco Nufiez 786 XXIX.— -Execution of Vasco Nunez (15 17) 787 The Fortunes of Valdivia and his companions . . . 787 Micer Codro, the Astrologer 790 JUAN PONCE DE LEON, CONQUEROR OF PORTO RICO AND DISCOVERER OF FLORIDA. CHAPTER PAGE I. — Reconnoitering Expedition to the Island of Boriquen (1508) 79i II. — Juan Ponce aspires to the government of Porto Rico (1509^ 791 III. — Exasperation of the Indians — Their ex- periment to prove whether the Span- iards were mortal 79^ IV. — Conspiracy of the Caciques — The fate of Sotomayor 793 V. — War of Juan Ponce with the Cacique Agueybana 793 CHAPTER PAGE VI. — Juan Ponce hears of a wonderful country and Miraculous Fountain 795 VII. — Cruise of Juan Ponce in search of the Fountain of Youth (1512) 795 VIII. — Expedition of Juan Ponce against the Caribs— His death (15 14) 79^ APPENDIX. A Visit to Palos 797 Manifesto of Alonzo De Ojeda 802 CONTENTS. MISCELLANIES, CONTRIBUTED TO THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE BY GEOFFREY CRAYON. A Chronicle of Wolfert's Roost 805 A Legend of Communipaw 836 A Legend of St. Brandan 821 A Shaksperian Research 840 Birds of Spring 815 Communipaw 832 Conspiracy of the Cocked Hats 834 Desultory Thoughts on Criticism 82S Enchanted Island 821 Guests from Gibbet-Island 836 Legend of Don Munio Sancho De Hinojosa 830 Legend of the Engulphed Con\"ent. . . 851 National Nomenclature 826 Pelayo and the Merchant's Daughter 843 Recollections of the Alhambra 816 Sleepy Hollow 811 Spanish Romance 829 The Abencerrage. A Spanish Tale 817 The Adelantado of the Seven Cities ... 821 The Bermudas 840 The Count Van Horn 852 The Grand Prior of Minorca. A veritable ghost story 847 The Knight of Malta 846 The Three Kings of Bermuda 842 Wolfert's Roost 805 The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. ' I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how they play their parts ; which, methinks, are diversely presented unto me, as from a common theatre or scene."— Bl'rton. Sir WALTER SCOTT, B.\rt., THIS WORK IS DEDICATED, IN TESTIMONY OF THE ADMIRATION AND AFFECTION OF THE AUTHOR. 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. Ffbniarv, 1820. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST AMERICAN EDITION. The following writings are published on experi- ment; should they please, they may be followed by others. The writer will have to contend with some disadvantages. He is unsettled in his abode, subject to interruptions, and has his share of cares and vicis- situdes. He cannot, therefore, promise a regular plan, nor regular periods of publication. Should he be encouraged to proceed, much time may elapse be- tween the appearance of his numbers; and their size will depend on the materials he may have on hand. His writings will partake of the fluctuations of his own thoughts and feelings ; sometimes treating of scenes before him, sometimes of others purely imaginary, and sometimes wandering back with his recollections to his native country. He will not be able to give them that tranquil attention necessary to finished composi- tion ; and as they must be transmitted across the At- lantic for publication, he will have to trust to others to correct the frequent errors of the press. Should his writings, however, with all their imperfections, be well received, he cannot conceal that it would be a source of the purest gratification ; for though he does not as- pire to those high honours which are the rewards of loftier intellects ; yet it is the dearest wish of his heart to have a secure and cherished, though humble corner in the good opinions and kind feelings of his country- men. London, 1819. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST ENGLISH EDITION. 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 Brit- ish critics; he is conscious, too, thai much of the con- tents 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 under- stood, 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 THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her shel was turned eftsoones into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would.— Zj^/j/V Euphues. I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and ob- serving strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I began ni}' travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and unknown regions of my native cit}', to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town crier. As I grew into bo}'hood, I extended the range of m}' observations. My holiday afternoons were spent in rambles about the surrounding country. I made m3'self familiar with all its places famous in history or fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robber)^ had been committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighbouring villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by not- ing 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 vo3'ages and travels became my passion, and in devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exercises of the school. How wistfully would I 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 lessen- ing 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 va- rious parts of my own country ; 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 prod- igally lavished. Her mighiy 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 verd- ure ; 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 sun- shine : — 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 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. poetical association. There were to be seen the mas- terpieces of art, the refinements of higlily cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My native country was full of youthful promise ; Europe was rich in the accumulated treas- ures 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 the footsteps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle — to medi- tate on the falling tower — to escape, in short, from the commonplace realities of the present, and lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. I had, beside 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 ol 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 man as the shade 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 phi- losophers, that all animals degenerated in America, and man among the number. A great man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as superior to a great man of America, as a peak of the Alps to a highland of the Hudson; and in this idea I was confirmed, by observing the comparative importance and swelling magnitude of many English travellers among us, who, I was assured, were very little people in their own countrj'. 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 through difTercnt 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 saun- tering gaze with which humble lovers of the pictur- esque stroll from the window of one printsliop to another; caught sometimes b}' the delineations of beauty, sometimes 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 bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the enter- tainment of m)' 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 ob- jects studied by every regular traveller who would make a book. I fear I shall give equal disappoint- ment 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 accord- ingly crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and ob- scure 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 employ- ments produces a state of mind peculiarly 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 tran- sition by which, as in Europe, the features and pop- ulation of one country blend almost 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 pilgrim- age ; but the chain is unbroken ; we can trace it back link by link ; and we feel that the last of them still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It inakes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes 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 precarious. 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 horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time 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 occur 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 exist- ence ; or when he may return ; or whether it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? I said, that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the expression. 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 to- gether 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 iny 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 secu- rity and awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the monsters 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 reacl 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 of the earth, and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. Soinetimes a distant sail, gliding alon^ the edge of the ocean, would be another theme of idle specula- tion. How interesting this fragment of a world, THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument of human invention ; that has thus triumphed over wind and tvave ; has brought the ends of the world into communion ; has established an interchange of blessings, pouring into the steril regions of the north all the luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of knowledge, and the charities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. We one day descried some shapeless object drift- ing at a distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts at- tention. 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 long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought 1, 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 de- serted 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, gave rise to many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threaten- ing, and gave indications of one of those sudden storms that will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer vovage. 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 dis- aster. I was particularly struck with a short one related by the captain : " As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine, stout ship, across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs that prevail in those parts rendered it im possible tor us to see far a-head, even in the daytime ; 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 v;atch 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 ! '—it was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with a broadside toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just a-mid-ships. The force, the size, the 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 cr>' 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 lashed into tremendous confu- sion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds overhead 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 impend- ing surge appeared ready to ovenvhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm pre- served her from the shock. When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still follov/ed me. The whistling of the wind through the i"'&S''"2' sounded like funereal wailings. The creak- ing 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 starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favour- ing breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening in- fluence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, 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 experienced 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 nair.e. It is the land of promise, teeming with everything of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious j'ears 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 tele- scope. 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 characteris- tic of England. The tide and wind were so favourable, that the ship was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people ; some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants of friends or relatives. 1 could dis- tinguish the merchant to whom the ship was con- signed. I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his pockets ; WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded liim by the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There were repeated cheerings and salutations in- terchanged between the shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognize each other. I particularly noticed one young woman of humble dress, but in- teresting 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 coun- tenance. She seemed disappointed 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 recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features ; it read, at 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 acquaintances— the greetings of friends — the consul- tations of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers — but felt that 1 was a stranger in the land. R08C0E. 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 grovellin;^ heid, And make us shine for ever— that is life. Thomson. One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liverpool, is the Athenceum. It is established on a liberal and judicious plan ; it contains a good li- brary, 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 advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once have been commanding, 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 something in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a different order from the bustling race around him. I inquired his name, and was informed that it was ROSCOE. I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, then, was an author of celeb- rity ; this was one of those men whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth ; with whose minds I have communed even in the solitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, to know European writers only by their works, we cannot conceive of them, as of other men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling with 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 Me- dici 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 Mr. Roscoe derives his highest claims to admiration. It is interesting to notice how some minds seem almost to create themselves ; springing up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary but irresistible way through a thousand ob- stacles. Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear legit- imate dulness to maturity ; and to glory in the vigour and luxuriance ol her chance productions. She scat- ters 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 bram- bles of early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, strugg'e bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their steril birth-place all the beauties of vegetation. Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place apparently ungenial to the growth of liter- ary talent ; in the very market-place of trade ; with- out 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 tal- ents and influence to advance and embellish his na- tive 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 coun- trymen. 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 commonplace of busy existence ; to indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease ; and to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoyment. Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the accorded privileges of talent. He has shut him- self up in no garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth into the highways 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 knowl- edge. 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, ex- ample of excellence ; but presents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, which are within every man's reach, but which, unfortunately, are not exercised by many, or this world would be a para- dise. But his private life is peculiarly worthy the atten- tion 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 exclu- sive 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 individuals. He has shown how much may be done for a place THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 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 Liverpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth tiowing merely in the chan- nels of traffic ; he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh the gardens of literature. By his own example and constant 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 may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. The noble institutions for literary and scientific pur- poses, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse to the public mind, have mostly been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, by Mr. 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 benefit to the cause of British literature. In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — in Liverpool, he is spoken of as the banker; and I was told of his having been unfortunate in busi- ness. 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 ad- versity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by the reverses 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 aspirings after future re- nown. The solitude of such a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited by those ele- vated 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 Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. After riding a short distance, we came to a spacious man- sion of freestone, built in the Grecian style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was 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 land- scapes. The Mersey was seen winding a broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green meadow land ; while the Welsh mountains, blending with clouds, and melting into distance, bordered the horizon. This was Roscoe's favourite residence during the days of his prosperity. It had been the seat of ele- gant hospitality and literary refinement. 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 * Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution. were loitering about the place, whom my fancy pict- ured into retainers of the law. It was like visiting some classic fountain that had once welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and the toad brooding over the shat- tered marbles. I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. It had passed under the ham- mer 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 associations, we might imagine some- thing whimsical in this strange irruption into the re- gions 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, debat- ing with calculating brow over the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete author ; or the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with which some successful purchaser attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain he had secured. It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Ros- coe's misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to in- terest the studious mind, that the parting with his books seems to have touched upon his tenderest feel- ings, and to have been the only circumstance that could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, com- panions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the season of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the con- verse of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived hope, nor de- serted sorrow. I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the peo- ple of Liverpool had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe and to themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat with others that might seem merely fanciful ; but it certainly appears to me such an opportunity 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 becomes mingled and confounded with other men. His great qualities lose their novelty, and we become too familiar with the common mate- rials which form the basis even of the loftiest char- acter. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a man of business ; others as a poli- tician ; all find him engaged like themselves in ordi- nary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by them- selves on some points of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity of character, which gives the name less 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 resi- dence of Roscoe. — The intelligent traveller who vis- its it, inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating its ex- istence to the distant scholar. — He is like Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic dignity. 6 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books, on parting- with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. If any thing can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction, that the whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the writer's heart : TO MY BOOKS. 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 treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the concealed 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 ! MiDDLETON. I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while threading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and sup- porter of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sun- shine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependant and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sud- den calamity ; winding herself into the rugged re- cesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the droop- ing head, and binding up the broken heart. I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. " I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "than to have a wife and children. If 3'ou are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have ol)served that a married man falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one ; partly, because he is more stimulated to exertion by the ne- cessities of the helpless and beloved beings who de- pend upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly, because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic en- dearments, 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, ofj which he is the monarch. Whereas, a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy him- self lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an in- habitant. These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accom- plished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. — " Her life," said he, " shall be like a fairy tale.' The very difference in their characters produced a harmonious 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 flush of tri- umphant 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 pros- pect of felicity. It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations ; and he had not been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters it was sw^ept from him, and he found himself reduced to almost 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 wile ; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the cjuick 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 miseries of the world. At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard him through, I inquired, " Does your wife know all this.' " At the question he burst into an agony of tears. "For God's sake !" cried he, "if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife ; It is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness ! " "And why not?" said I. "She must know it sooner or later : you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bood that can keep hearts THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. tog-ether — an unreserved community of thought and feeling-. She will soon perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love will not brook reserve : it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are con- cealed from it." " Oh, but my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! — that she is to forego 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 pov- erty.? She has been brought up in all the refine- ments of opulence. How can she bear neglect ? She has been the idol of society. Oh, it will break her heart — it will break her heart ! " 1 saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, 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 alteration of your circumstances. You must change 3'our style of hving — nay," observ- ing 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 splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary—" " I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, " in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty and the dust ! — 1 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 sympa- thies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows 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 imagination 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 unburthen his sad heart to his wife. I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasures ? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward path of low humility, suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifications, 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 privation : she suffers no loss of ac- customed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." " But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then it is a single misery, and soon over ; whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty, so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to ap- pear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly pre- pared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. Some days afterwards, he called upon me in the evening. He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself; it be- longed 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 doating husband. He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day, superintending its arrange- ment. 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, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. " Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. " And what of her," asked I, " has any thing hap- pened 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 afmost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation ? " " Has she then repined at the change ? " " Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humour. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her ; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort ! " " Admirable girl ! " exclaimed I. "You call your- self poor, my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew the boundless 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 comfort- able. But this is her first day of real experience : she has been introduced into an humble dwelling — she has been employed all day in arranging its mis- erable equipments — she has for the first time known the fatigues of domestic employment — she has for the first time looked around her on a home destitute of ever}' thing elegant — almost of every thing con- 8 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. venient ; and may now be silting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty." There was a degree of probability in this picture , that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence, j After turning from the main road, up a narrow j lane, so thickly shaded by 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 j lor the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing i rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a j profusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their branches . gracefully over it ; and I observed several pots of riowers tastefully disposed about the door, 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 j sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm ; we paused j and listened. It was .Mary's voice, singing, in a style ' of the most touching simi)licity. a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He step- ped forward, to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel-walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window, and vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look so lovely. " .My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come ; I have been watching and watching for you ; and running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a ber.utiful 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 I " I'oor 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 prosper- ously with him, and his life has indeed been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity. [The followinR Tale was found among the papers of ihf late (Jii'drich Knickerbocker, an old gentie- inan of New- York, who was very curious in the Dutch History of tlic province, and die ninuners of the de- scendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much amonj; books as amonn nien ; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favourite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more, their wives, rich in thai le- gendary lore, so invaluable to true historv. Wlien- evcr. therefore, he happened upon a Reniiine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farm-house, under a spreadinjf sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it ■with the zeal of a bookworm. The result of all these researches was .t Iiistory of 'the provmce, during the reign of the Duicli governors, which he published some years since. 1 here have been various opinions as to the literarv character of .his work. and. to tell the truth, it is not' a whit belter than it should be. h-i chief merit is its scrupulous ;accuracy. which, indeed, was a little questioned, on lits first appearance, but has since been completely established ; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. The old gentleman died shortly after the publica- tion of his work, and now, th.it he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory, to say, that his time mi^'ht have been much better employed in weiphiier labours. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own w.ay ; and il'ough it did now and then kick up the dust a'littlc 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 an- j;er,"*and it begins to be suspected, that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his mem- ory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear among many folk, whose good opinion is well worth having: particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes, and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a (jueon Anne's farthing.] RIP VAN WINKLE. A POSTHU.MOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKER BOCKER. By Woden, Ood of S.ixons, From whence comes Wcnsday. th.it is Wodensday, Trulh is a thing that ever 1 will keep Unto thyike day in which I creep into My sepulchre — Cartwkicut. Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson, must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains; and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect ba- rometers. 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 some- times, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapours about their summits, which, in the List rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. At the foot of ihese 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 early times of the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace !) and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly lime-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was )et a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip \'an Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the • Vide the excellent discourse of G. C. Verplanck, Esq 1 the New-York Historical Society. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accom- panied him to the siege of fort Christina. He in- herited, however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple good-natured man ; he was moreover a kind neighbour, and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such uni- versal popularity ; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline 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. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he ap- proached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot mar- bles, 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 hang- ing on his skirts, clambering on his back, and play- ing a thousand tricks on him with impunity ; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neigh- bourhood. The great error in Rip's composition was an in- superable aversion to all kinds of profitable labour. Tt could not be from the want of assiduity or perse- verance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged 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 neigh- bour 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 hus- bands 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 ; eveiy 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 cab- bages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than any where else ; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do ; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm in the neighbourhood. His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galli- gaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away, in perfect contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his careless- ness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was inces- santly 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 with- stand 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 pre- cipitation. Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Win- kle, as years of matrimony rolled on : a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only e(]ge tool that grow> keener with constant use. For a long v»'hile he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle per- sonages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade, of 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 pro- found discussions which 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 Der- rick 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 con- trolled by Nicholas 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 suffi- ciently 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,) perfectly under- stood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When any thing that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs ; 10 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tramiuillv. and emit it in li}jht and placid clouds, and sometimes lakin;,' the pipe from his mouth, and ieltinp the Iraijrant vapour curl about his nose, would gravel V nod his head in token of perfect approbation. From even this strontf holil the unlucky Rip was at Icnvjth routed b\ his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assem- blage, and call the members all to nought ; nor was that augiist personage. Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her hus- band in habits of idleness. Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair, anil his only alternative to escape from the labour of the farm and the clamour of his wife, was to take gun in hand, and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes scat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom hesynjpathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecu- tion. " I'oor Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dug's life of it ; but never mind, my lad. whilst 1 live thou shalt never want a 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 Kaalskill mountains. He was after his favourite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the re- ports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late m the afternoon, on a green knoll cov- ered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees, he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, lar below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. On the other side he locked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending clifts, 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 heavv sigh when he thought ol encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle, As he was about to descend he heard a voire from a distance hallooing, •' Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Wmkle ! " He looked around, but rnuld see noth- ing but a crow wingin« its solitary flight across the mountam. He thought his f.incv must have de- ceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cr\' ring through the still evening air, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! "—at the same tmic Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fear- fully down into the glen. Rip now felt a v.ague ap- prehension stealing over him : he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his b.uk. He was surprised to see anv human being in this lonely and unlre- ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him ! " It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neigh- bours, who used to keep about the tavern. " Well — who arc they? — name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, •• Where's Nicholas Vedder ? " There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, " Nicholas Ved- der .' why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden tomb-slone in the church-yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." " Where's Brom Dutcher .' " "Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stonv-Point— others say he was drowned in the 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 him- self thus alone in the world. Ever)- answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and ol matters which he could not understand : war— Congress— Stony-Point!— he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle? " " Oh. Rip \'.in Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three. "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van" Wrinkle 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 fcMow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name? " God knows," exclaimed he at his wit's end ; " 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 foreiieads. There was a whisper., also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fello-.v from doing mischief; at the ver)^ suggestion of which, the self-important man with the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely woman passed 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 him- self, or was carried away by tiie Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with a faltering voice : " Where's your mother ? " Oh, she too had died but a short time since : she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New- England pedlar. There was a drop of comfort, at least, in tliis in- telligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caughc 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 I 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 neigh- bours stared when they heard it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their checks; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter \'an(lerdonk, who was seen slowly ad- vancing 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 an- cient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighbour- hood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 13 his story in the inost satisfactory manner. He as- sured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange be- ings. 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 returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cherry farmer for a husband, whom Rip rec- ollected 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 a 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 genera- tion, 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 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 countiy had thrown off the yoke of old England — and that, in- stead 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 govern- ment. Happily, that was at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrug- ged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. He used to tell his story to every stranger that ar- rived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points cveiy 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 al- ways pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on w-hich he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day, they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins ; and it is a com- mon wish of all henpecked husbands in the neigh- bourhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. Note. — The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been sug- gested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart and the Kypphauser moun- tain; 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 nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice, and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt." ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. " Methinks I see in my mind a noble 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 voluines of travels through the Republic ; but they seem intended to diffuse error rather than knowledge ; and so success- ful have they been, that, notwithstanding the con- stant intercourse between the nations, there is no people concerning whom the great mass of the Brit- ish 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 them for profound and philosophical views of societj^.or faithful and graph- ical 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 op- posite extreme, and forget their usual probity and candour, in the indulgence of splenetic remark, and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the more remote the country described. ^ I would place implicit confidence in an Englishman's descrip- tion of the regions beyond the cataracts of the Nile ; of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea; of the inte- rior of India; or of any other tract which other travellers might be apt to picture out with the illu- sions of their fancies. But I would cautiously receive his account of his immediate neighbours, and of those nations with w-hich 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 philosophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from England to ransack the poles, to penetrate the 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 trades- man, the scheming adventurer, the wandering me- chanic, the Manchester and Birmingham agent, to be her oracles respecting America. From such sources she is content to receive her information re- specting a country in a singular state of moral and physical developement; a country in which one of the greatest political experiments ia the history of the world is now performing, and which presents the 14 WORKS OF WASHINOTON IRVING. most profound and momentous studies to the states- man and the philosopher. That such men should give prejudiced accounts of America, is not a matter of surprise. The themes it ofTers for contemplation, are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The national character is yet in a state ol fermentation: it may have its frothiness and sediment, but its ingredients are sound and wholesome: it has already fpven proofs of powerful and generous qualities : 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, arc all lost upon these purblind obscners ; who are only affected by the little asperities incident to its present situation.' They are capable of judging only of the surface of things ;'of those matters which come in contact with their private interests and per- sonal gratifications. They miss some of the snug conveniences and petty comforts which belong to an old, highly-finished, and over-populous state of so- ciety ; where the ranks of useful labour are crowded, and' many earn a painful and servile subsistence, by studying'the ver>' caprices of appetite and self-indul- gence. These minor comforts, however, are all-im- portant in the estimation of narrow minds ; which either do not perceive, or will not acknowledge, that they are more than counterbalanced among us, by great and gen-rally diffused blessings. They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in 5ome unreasonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have pictured America to themselves an El Do- rado, where gold and silver abounded, and the na- tives 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 disappointment. Such persons become embittered against the countr)' on finding that there, as ever)- 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 shrewdness of an intelligent and enterpris- ing people. Ferhajjs, through mistaken or ill-directed hospi- tality, or from the prompt disposition to cheer and counten ince the stranger, prevalent among my coun- tr)'mcn, they may have been treated with unwonted respect in America; and, having been accustomed all their lives to consider themselves below the sur- face of good society, and brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant on the common boon of ci'vility '; they attribute to the low- liness of others their own elevation ; and underrate a society where there are no artificial distinctions, and where by any chance, such individuals as them- selves can rise to consequence. One would supjiose, 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 mrn, the'r veracity, their opportunities of inquirj'and obscnation, and their capacities for judging correctly, would be rigorously scrutinized, before their evidence was admitted, in such sweeping extent, against a kindrecl nation. The very reverse, however, is the case, anrl it furnishes a striking instance of human inconsistenry. Nothing can surpass the vigilance with which Knglish critics will examine the credibil- ity of the traveller who publishes an account of some distant, and comparatively unimportant, countr)-. How warily will they compare the measurements of a pyramid, or the description of a ruin; and how sternly will they censure any inaccuracy in these con- tributions 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 interest apparently taken in it by my countn,men, and certain injurious effects which I apprehend it might produce upon the national feel- ing. We attach too much consequence to these at- tacks. They cannot do us any essential injury. The tissue of misrepresentations attempted to be woven round us, are like cobwebs 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 sup- pose 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 phys- ical and local, but also to moral causes ; — to the po- litical liberty, the general diffusion of knowledge, the prevalence of sound, moral, and religious prin- ciples, which give force and sustained energy to the character of a people ; and which, in fact, have been the acknowledged and wonderful supporters of their own national power and glory. But why are we so exquisitely alive to the asper- sions of England ? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by the contumely she has endeavoured to cast upon us? It is not in the opinion of En- gland alone that honour lives, and reputation has its being. The world at large is the arbiter of a na- tion's fame: with its thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, and from their collective testimony is national glory or national disgrace established. For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little importance whether England does us justice or not ; it is, perhaps, of far more importance to her- self. 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 Ammca, 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 litera- ture at the present day, and how much the opinions and passions of mankind are under its control. The mere contests of the sword are temporary ; their wounds are but in the flesh, and it is the'pride of the generous to forgive and forget them ; but the slanders of the pen pierce to the heart ; they rankle longest in the noblest spirits ; they dwell ever pres- ent 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 na- tions ; there exists, most commonly, a previous jeal- ousy and ill-will, a predisposition to take offence. Trace these to their cause, and how often will they be found to originate in the mischievous effusions of tnercenary 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 ajiplies most emphatically to our particular case. Over no nation does the press hold a more absolute control than over the people of America ; for the universal education of the poorest classes 1 THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 15 makes every individual a reader. There is nothing published in England on the subject of our coun- try, that does 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, that does not go to blight good-will, and add to the mass of latent resentment. Possessing, then, as England does, the fountain-head from whence the literature of the language flows, how completely is it in her power, and how truly is it her duty, to make it the medium of amiable and mag- nanimous feeling — a stream where the two nations might meet together, and drink in peace and kind- ness. Should she, however, persist in turning it to waters of bitterness, the time may come when she may repent her folly. The present friendship of America may be of but little moment to her ; but the future destinies of that country do not admit of a doubt : over those of England, there lower some shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive — should' those reverses overtake her, from which the proudest empires have not been ex- empt — she may look back with regret at her infatu- ation, in repulsing from her side a nation she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying her only chance for real friendship beyond the boundaries of her own dominions. There is a general impression in England, that the people of the United States are inimical to the parent country. It is one of the errors which has been diligently propagated by designing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberality of the En- glish press ; but, collectively speaking, the prepos- sessions of the people are strongly in favour of En- gland. 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. Throughout 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 forefathers — the august repositor)' 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 to- ward which our hearts yearned with such throbbings of warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, whenever there was the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring forth, it was the delight of the generous spirits of our country to show, that in the midst of hostilities, they still kept alive the sparks of future friendship. Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden band of kindred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken forever.? — Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an allusion which might have kept us in mental vassalage ; which might have interfered oc- casionally with our true interests, and prevented the growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give up the kindred tie !— and there are feelings dearer than interest — closer to the heart than pride — that will still make us cast back a look of regret as we wander farther and farther from the paternal roof, and lament the waywardness of the parent that would repel the affections of the child. Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of England may be in this system of asper- sion, recrimination on our part would be equally ill- judged. 1 speak not of a prompt and spirited vin- dication of our country, or the keenest castigation of her slanderers— but I allude to a disposition to retaliate in kind, to retort sarcasm and inspire pre- judice, which seems to be spreading widely among our writers. Let us guard particularly against such a temper ; for it would double the evil, instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy and in- viting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and unprofitable contest. It is the alterna- tive of a morbid mind, fretted into petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. If England is will- ing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or the rancorous animosities of politics, to deprave the in- tegrity of her press, and poison the fountain of public opinion, let us beware of her example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse error, and en- gender antipathy, for the purpose of checking emi- gration ; we have no purpose of the kind to serve. Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to gratify ; for as yet, in all our rivalships with England, we are the rising and the gaining party. There can be no end to answer, therefore, but the gratification of resentment — a mere spirit of retaliation ; and even that is impotent. Our retorts are never repub- lished in England ; they fall short, therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a querulous 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 national prejudices. This last is the evil most especially to be deprecated. Gov- erned, 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 propa- gates 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, in- dividually, portions of the sovereign mind and sov- ereign 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 difficult 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 ultimately be determined by popular sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all latent passion or prepossession. Opening too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every portion of the earth, we should receive all with impartiality. It should be our pride to ex- hibit 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 courtesies 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 ignorant 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 ex- istence in an enlightened and philosophic age, when the different parts of the habitable world, and the various branches of the human family, have been indcfatigably 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 per- ception of what is really excellent and amiable in IG the English character. We are a young people, necessarily an imitative one, and must take our ex- amples and models, in a great degree, from the ex- isting nations of Euro|)e. There is no countiy more worthy of our study than England. The spirit ol 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 subjects which concern the dearest inter- ests and most sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to the American character; and, in fact, are ail intrinsically excellent : for it is in the moral feelmg of the people that the deep foundations of British prosperity are laid ; and however the super- structure m.iy be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, there must be something solid in the basis, admira- ble 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, dis- carding all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the illiberality ol' British authors, to speak of the English nation without prejudice, and with determined candour. While they rebuke the indis- criminating bigotry with which some of our country- men admire and imitate ever)- thing- English, merely because it is English, let them frankly point out what is really worthy of approbation. We may thus place England before us as a perpetual volume of ref- erence, wherein are recorded sound deductions 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. WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. Oh ! rriendly to the best pursuits of man. Friendly to ihoiight, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! CowrER. The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the English character, must not confine his ob- ser\ations to the metropolis. He must go forth into the countr>' ; he must sojourn in villages and ham- lets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cot- t.igvs ; he must wander through parks and gardens ; alonj; hedges and green lanes ; he must loiter about country churches ; attend wakes and fairs, and other rural fesliv.ils ; and cope with the jieople in all their conditions, and all their habits and humours. In some countries, the large cities absorb the wealth and f.ashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish peasantry-. In England, on the contrary, the metrop- olis is a mere gathering pLace, or general rendez- vous, of the polite classes, where they devote a small jwrlion of the year to a hurry of gayety and dissipa- tion, and having indulged this kind of carnival, re- turn again to the app.irently more congenial habits of rural life. The various orders ol societv are therefore diffused over the whole surface of thc'king- dom. and the most retired neighbourhoods afford specimens of the dilTerenl ranks. The En>;lish, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of n.ilure, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the countr)-. This passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabit- ants of cities, born and brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occupation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower-garden, and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the con- duct of his business, and the success of a commer- cial enterprise. Even those less fortunate indi- viduals, who are doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to have something that shall remind tiiem 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 picturesque taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. Those who see the Englishman only in town, are apt to form an unfavoural)le opinion of his social character. He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand engagements that dis- sipate time, thought, and feeling, in this huge me- tropolis. He has, therefore, too commonly, a look of hurrj' and abstraction. 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 economize 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 commonplaces. 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 natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formalities and negative civili- ties of town ; throws off his habits of shy resen'e, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to collect round him all the conveniencies and ele- gancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country-seat abounds with every requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint, either upon his guests or himself, but, in the true spirit of hospitality, pro- vides 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 un- rivalled. They have studied Nature intently, and discovered 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 fur- tive graces, and spread them, like witchery, about their rural al)odes. Nothing can be more imposing than the magnifi- cence of English i)ark scenery. Vast lawns that ex- tend 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 hare, hounding away to the covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing. The brook, taught to wind in natural meanderings, or expand into a glassy lake— the sequestered pool, re- flecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming fear- lessly about its limpid waters : while some rustic temple, or sylvan statue, grown green and dank THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 17 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 un- promising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The steril spot grows into loveli- ness under his hand ; and yet the operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees ; the 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 silver glearti of water — all these are managed with a deli- cate tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with which a painter tinishes up a favourite picture. The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country, has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy, that descends to the low- est class. The very labourer, with his thatched cot- tage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their embellishment. 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 to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside : — all these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cot- tage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant. The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the English, has had a great and salutary effect upon the national character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which char- acterize the men of rank in most countries, they ex- hibit an union of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which 1 am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country. The hardy exercises produce also a healthlul tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipations of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different orders of society seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate 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 noblemen, through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial farmers, down to the labouring peasantry ; and while it has thus banded the extremes of society to- gether, has infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it was tormerly ; 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 2 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 can- not be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casu- ually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heart-felt enjoyments of common life. In- deed, the very amusements of the country bring men more and more together ; and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in En- gland, than they are in any other country ; and why the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society, may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; the frequent use of illus- trations from rural life ; those incomparable descrip- tions 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 stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy un- fold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate ob- servers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to ru- ral occupations, has been wonderful on the f:ice of the country. A great part of the island is rather 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 cottag;e is a picture ; and as the roads are continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succession of small landscapes of captivating loveliness. The great charm, however, of English scenery, is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is as- sociated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-established principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Eveiy thing seem.s 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 tra- cery and painted glass, in scrupulous preservation — its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil — its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough tho same fields, and kneel at the same altar— the parson- age, a quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, but re- paired 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 hedp-e-rows, according to an immemorable right of ]8 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING, way— the neighbouring village, with its venerable cot- tages, its public green, sheltered by trees, under which the forefathers of the present race have sported —the anticjue family mansion, standing apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with a protect- ing air on the surrounding scene— all these common features of English landscape evince a calm and settled security, a hereditary transmission of home- bred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character ot the nation. It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning, when the bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet ticKIs, tJ behold the pcasantn,- in their best finery, with ruddy faces, and modest cheerfulness, throng- ing tranqmlly 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 crowned with shade, Hut chief from modest mansions numberless, In toun or hamlet, shcll'ring middle life, l>o» n to the cottagcd vale, and straw-roord shed, Thi« western isle has long been famed for scenes Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place : Pi mcstic bliss, that like a harmless dove, (Hi.nour and sweet endearment keeping guard,) Can ctnire 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 itsown sharers, and approvine Heaven. Th.it, like a flower deep hid in roclcy cleft, Smiles, though 't i< looking only .11 the sky.* THE BROKEN HEART. I never heard Of any tnie affection, but 't was nipt With c«re, that, like the caterpillar, cats The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. MiDDLETO.V. It is a common practice with those who have out- lived the susctptibility 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 j>oets. My observations on human nature have inducfd me to think otherwise. They have con- vinced mc. 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 »K)som, which, when once enkindled, be- come 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 doctrines. Shall I confess it.'-I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love ! I do not. however, consider it a maladv often fatal to my own sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave. Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle Fc'verd'RrnrK^nnldy.'A'N'}.''' ""= ''""^«* ^'^"'°"'' ^'^ ''^^ 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 affec- tions. The heart is her world ; it is there her ambi- tion strives for empire— it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympa- thies 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 occa- sion some bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it blasts some prospects of felicity; hut he is an active being; he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of disappoint- ment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking, as it were, the wings of the morning, can " fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest." But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and a meditative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation .' Her lot is to be wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals — so is it the nature of woman, to hide from the world the pangs of wound- ed 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 bur- ies it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of hei' peace. With her, the desire of her 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 health- ful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by mel- ancholy dreams — " dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury'. Look for her, after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but lately glow- ed with all the radiance of health and beauty,' should so speedily be brought down to "darkness and the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition, that laid her low— but no one knows the mental malady that previously sapped her str<.-ngth, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove : graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf; until, wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the for- est ; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay. I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied, that I could trace their deaths through the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disappointed THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 19 love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known in the coun- try 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 j young E , the Irish patriot : it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ire- land 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 intelli- gent — so generous — so brave — so every thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The no- ble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country— the eloquent vindica- tion of his name — and his pathetic appeal to posteri- ty, in the hopeless hour of condemnation — all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beau- tiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late cele- brated Irish barrister. She loved him with the dis- interested fervour of a woman's tirst and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and dan- ger 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 be- tween them and the being they hiost 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 fright- ful, so dishonoured ! There was nothing for mem- ory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of sepa- ration — none of those tender, though melancholy circumstances, that endear the parting scene — noth- ing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her un- fortunate attachment, and was an exile from the pa- ternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind oflices 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 cher- ishing 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 never objected 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, appa- rently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward wo 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 masquerade. 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 for- getfulness 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 en- thusiasm. 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 af- fectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrecoverably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and de- pendent situation, for she was existing on the kind- ness of friends. In* a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assur- ance, that her heart was unalterably another's. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melan- choly that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, composed 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 song of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking- Hc they think, who delight in her strains, the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! He had lived for his love — for his countrj' he died, They were all that to life had entwined him— Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him ! Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow ; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west. From her own loved island of sorrow ! THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING- " If that severe doom of Synesius be true — 'it is a greater offence to steal de.ad men's labours than their clothes,'— what shall become of most writers ? " Burton's A natomy 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 pro- ductions. As a man travels on, however, in the jour- ney 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 me- tropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, and at once put an end to my astonishment. 20 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 1 was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons of the British Museum, with that listlcssriess with wluch one is apt to saunter atxiut a room in warm weather ; sometimes lolling over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and' sometimes tr)ing, with nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. While I was gazing about in this idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant tloor, at the end of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but even,- 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 ob- jects. There was an air of mystery about this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined to at- tempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown regions that lay beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with all that facility with which the por- tals of enchanted castles yield to the adventurous knight-errant. 1 found myself in a spacious chamber, surrounded with great cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged a great number of quaint black-looking jwrtraits of ancient authors. About the room were placed long tables, with stands for reading and writ- ing, at which sat many pale, cadaverous personages, poring intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their contents. The most hushed stillness reigned through this mysterious apartment, except- ing 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 olil folio; doubtless arising from that hollowness and flatulency incident to learned re- search. Now and then one of these personages would write something on a small slip ot paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar would appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of the room, and return shortly luaded 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 okl 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 matle the spirits of the place obey his commands, and l)ring him books of all kinds oi" 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 abovj the heads of the multi- tude, and to control the powers of Nature. My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one ol the fannliars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged an interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose :— I found that these mysterious person- ages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were princi- |)ally authors, and were in the very .ict of manufac- turing books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room ol the great Hritish Library, an immense collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of which arc now forgotten, and most of which are .seldom rcid. To these sequestered |)ools of obsolete litera- ture, therefore, do many modem authors repair and draw buckets full of classic lore, or " pure English umlctiletl." wherewith to swell their own scanty rills ot thought. ' Ueing now in possession of the secret, I sat down m a comer, and watched the process of this book ! manufactor)-. I noticed one lean, bilious-looking I wight, who sought none but the most worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently ' constructing some w^ork of profound erudition, that ' would be purchased by eveiy man who wished to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open upon his table — but never read. I observed him, now and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw; whether it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavouring to keep off that exhaustion of the stomach, produced by much pondering over dry- works, I leave to harder students than myself to determine. There was one dapper little gentleman in bright coloured clothes, with a chirping gossiping expres- sion of countenance, who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with his bookseller. 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' cauldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a thumb, toe of frog and blind worm's sting, with his own gossip poured in like " baboon's blood," to make the medley " slab and good." After all, thought I, may not this pilfering dispo- sition be implanted in authors for wise purposes? may it not be the way in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in spite of the inevita- ble decay of the works in which they were first pro- duced ? 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 bet- ter than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunder- ers of the orchard and the corn-tield, are, in fact. Nature's carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties ar>d fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete writers are caught up by these flights of predatory authors, 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 ponder- ous history, revives in the shape of a romance — an old legend changes into a motlern play — and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clearing of our American woodlands ; where we burn down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in their place ; and we never see the prostrate trunk of a tree, mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe of fungi. Let us not, then, lament over the decay and ob- livion into which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit to the great law of Nature, which de- clares that all sublunary shapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, but which decrees, also, that their elements shall never perish. Generation after generation, both in animal and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital principle is transmitted to posterity, and the species continue to flourish. Thus. also, do authors beget authors, and having produced 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 1 was indulging in these rambling fancies. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 21 I had leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether it was owing to the soporific emanations from these works ; or to the profound quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude arising from much wander- ing ; or to an unlucky habit of napping at improper times and places, with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, however, my imagination continued busy, and indeed the same scene remained before my mind's eye, only a little changed in some of the details. I dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with the portraits of an- cient authors, but the number was increased. The long tables had disappeared, and in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying about the great repository 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 gar- ment of foreign or antique fashion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, 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 him- self out piecemeal, while some of his original rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the old fathers, and having purloined the gray beard of another, endea- voured to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking commonplace of his countenance set at nought all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly-looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of several old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated manu- script, 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 heacl, 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 sev- eral 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 eclips- ing them. Some, too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit; but I grieve to say, that too many were apt to array themselves, from top to toe, in the patch-work man- ner I have mentioned. I should 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 con- fined 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 pas- toral poets, and hanging his head on one side, went about with a fantastical, lack-a-daisical air, "bab- bling 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 wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and swept majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly resounded from every side, of " thieves ! thieves ! " I looked, and lo ! the portraits about the walls became animated ! The old authors thrust out first a head, then a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously, for an instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended, with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The scene of scam- pering and hubbub that ensued baffles all description. The unhappy culprits endeavoured in vain to escape with their plunder. On one side might be seen half- a-dozen old monks, stripping a modern professor ; on another, there was sad devastation carried into the ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field like Cas- tor 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, whom I had been ac- customed to look upon with awe and reverence, fain to steal off with scarce a rag to cover their naked- ness. Just then my eye was caught by the pragmati- cal old gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore affright with half a score of authors in full cry after him. They were close upon his haunches ; in a twinkling off went his wig ; at every turn some strip of raiment was peeled away ; until in a few moments, from his domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little pursy, " chopp'd bald shot," and made his exit with only a few tags and rags flut- tering at his back. There was something so ludicrous in the catastro- phe of this learned Theban, that I burst into an im- moderate fit of laughter, which broke the whole illu- sion. 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 m shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage of bookworms 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 de- manded whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him, but I soon found that the library was a kmd of literary " preserve," subject to game laws, and that no one must presume to hunt there without special license and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of being an arrant poacher, and was glad to 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. Vet the beauty of your mind Neither cheelc 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 place full of storied and poetical associations. The very external aspect of the proud old pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its irregular walls 22 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. and massive towers, like a mural crown around the brow of a loftv ridge, waves its royal banner in the clouds, and looks down with a lordly air upon the surroundinj^ world. On this morninjj, the weather was of this voluptu- ous vernal kind which calls forth all the latent ro- mance of a man's temperament, tlllinjj his mind with music, and disi)Osinij him to (juote poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through the magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle, I passed with indiflerence by whole rows of portraits of warriors and statesmen, but lingered in the cham- ber 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 |K-ncil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus enal)led me to bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In traversing also the " large green courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls and glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and his account of his loiterings about them in his stripling days, when enamoured of the Lady Geraldine — " With eyes cast up unto the m.iiden's tower. With casie sighs, such as men draw in love." In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I vis ited the ancient keep of ihe castle, where James the First of Scotland, the pride and theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for many years of his youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large gray tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good presen'ation. 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 amiourv', which is a Gothic hall, furnished with weapons of various kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armour h inging against the wall, which I was told had once belonged to James. From hence I was conducted up a stair-case to a suite of apart- ments of taded magnificence, hung with storied tap- estr\-. which formed his prison, and the scene of that passionate and fanciful amour, which has woven into the web of his story the m.igical hues of poetry and fiction. The whole histor)- of this amiable but unfortunate prince is highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven, he was sent from his home by his father, Rol)ert III., and destined for the French court, to be re.ired under the eye of the French monarch, se- cure Irom the treachen,- 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 a 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 unhajjpy father. "The news," we are told, "was brought to him while at supper, and did so overwhelm him with ^rief, that he was almost ready to give up the ghost into the hands of the servants that alteniled him. Hut beinjj carried to his berl-chamher, he abstained from all lood, and in three days died of hunger and grief, at Rothesay."* James was detained in captivity above eighteen years; but. though deprived of personal lil)ertv, he was treated with the respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all the branches of use- ful knowledge cultivated at that period, and to give • Bi.chan.-iD. him those mental and personal accomplishments deemed proper for a prince. Perhaps in this re- spect, his imprisonment was an advantage, as it en- abled him to apply himself the more e.xclusively 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 mem- ory. The picture drawn of him in early life, by the Scottish hi-storians. is highly captivating, and seems rather the description of a hero of romance, than of a character in real histoiy. He was well learnt, we are told, " to fight with the sword, to Joust, to tour- nay, to wrestle, to sing and dance ; he was an expert medicincr, 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 ac- complishments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and" calculated to give him an in- tense 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, how- ever, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and to be visited in his prison by the choicest inspira- tions 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 He pilgrim coop'd into a cage, V doth she chant her wonted tale, In that her lonely hermitage ! Even there her charming melody doth prove That all her boughs arc trees, her cage a grove, t Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagina- tion, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is shut out, it can create a world for itself, and, with necromantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, to make solitude populous, and 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 conceive the " King's Quair,"J 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 his poem is his love for the lady Jane Beaufort, daugliter 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. VV^hat gives it peculiar value, is, that it may be con- sidered 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 gratilying to the pride of a com- mon 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 l)roof of the honest ec|uality of intellectual competition, which strips ofT all the trappings of factitious dignity, brings the c.indidate down to a level with his fellow- men, and obliges him to depend on his own native powers for distinction. It is curious, too, to get at the history of a monarch's heart, and to find the simple affections of hum.nn nature throbbing under the ermine. But James had learnt to be a poet be- • Ballcnden's translation of Hector Boyce. t Roger L'Estrang;c. $ Quair, an old terra for Book. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 23 fore he was a king ; he was schooled in adversity, and reared in the company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their hearts, or to meditate their minds into poetry ; and had James been brought up amidst the adulation and gayety of a court, we should never, in all proba- bilitv, have had such a poem as the Ouair. I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation, or which are connected with the apartment in the Tower. They have thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such circumstantial truth, as to make the reader present with the captive in his prison, and the companion of his meditations. Such is the account which he gives of his weari- ness 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 Boetius' 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 favour- ite volumes while in prison ; and indeed, it is an ad- mirable text-book for meditation under adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing to its success- ors in calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and the trains of eloquent but simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear up against the various ills of life. It is a talisman which the unfortunate may treasure up in his bosom, or, like the good King James, lay upon his nightly pillow. After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own hfe, 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 bene- diction, and salhes forth into the fairy land of poetry. There is something extremely lanciful in all this, and it is interesting, as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the simple manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to the mind. In the course of his poem, he more than once be- wails the peculiar hardness of his fate, thus doomed to lonely and inactive life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world, in which the meanest animal indulges unrestrained. There is a sweetness, however, in his very complaints ; they are the lamentations of an amiable and social spirit, at being denied the indulgence of its kind and gener- ous 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 effusions of morbid minds, sickening under miseries of their own creating, and venting their bitterness upon an unoffending world. James speaks of his privations with acute sensibility ; but having mentioned them, passes on, as if his manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. When such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, however brief, we are aware how great must be the suffering ihat extorts the murmur. We sympathize with James, a romantic, active, and ac- complished 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 arti- fice, we might almost have suspected that these low- erings of gloomy reflection were meant as prepara- tive to the brightest scene of his story, and to con- trast with that effulgence of light and loveliness, that exhilarating accompaniment of bird, and song, and foliage, and flower, and all the revel of the year, with which he ushers in the lady of his heart. It is this scene in particular which throws all the magic of romance about the old castle keep. He had risen, he says, at day-break, according to custom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow. " Bewailing in his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy and remedy, " for, tired of thought, and wo-begone," he had wandered to the window to in- dulge the captive's miserable solace, of gazing wist- fully 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 haw- thorn hedges. Now was there made fast by the tower's walk 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, swete juniper. Growing so faire 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 green twistist set The lytel swete nyghtingales, and sung So loud and clere, the hymnis consecrate Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, That all the garden and the wallis rung Kyght of their song- It was the month of May, when every thing was in bloom, and he interprets the song of the night- ingale 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 reveries, which fill the youth- ful 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 ecstacy 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 folk, and such prosperitee. Is It of him, as we in books do find ; May he oure hertes settenj and unbynd : Hath he upon oure hertes such maistrye? Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? * Lyfy person. + Twistis, small boughs or twigs. % Setten^ incline. Note. — The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 24 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. For giff he be of so Rrete excellence Th*t he of every wight hath care and charge, What have I Rilt • to him, or done otTcncc, That I am thral'd and birdis go at large? In the midst of his musinfj. as he casts his eyes downward, he beholds " the fairest and the freshest young floure " that ever he had seen. It is the lovelv Lady Jane, walking in the garden to enjoy the beauty of that " fresh May morrowe." Break- ing thus suddenly ujwn his sight in a 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 sovereign of his ideal world. There is in this charming scene an evident re- semblance to the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale, where Palamon and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they sec 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 pict- uresque and minute manner of his master, and be- ing, doubtless, taken from the life, is a perfect por- trait of a beauty of that day. He dwells -.vith the fondness of a lover on every article of her apparel, from the net of pearl, splendent with emeralds and sapphires, that confined her golden hair, even to the "goodlychai.ecf small orfeverye "t about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of tire burning upon her white bosom. Her dress of white tissue was looped up, to enable her to walk with more freedom. She was accompanied by two female attendants, and about her sported a little hound decorated with bells, probably the small Italian ho-ind, 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, beauty with humble port, Bountce, richcssc, and womanly feature. Cod belter knows than my pen can report. Wisdom, Lirgesse.J estate, $ 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 Kuts an end to this transient riot of the heart. W'ith er 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 unattain- able beauty. Through tne long and wearv day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when evening ap- proaches and Phoebus, as he beautifully expresses it, had " li.ad farewt-11 to every leaf and Hower," he still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon the cold stont-, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until gr.adualty lulled by the mute melan- choly of the twilight hour, he lapses, " half-sleeping, half swoon," into a vision, whi"h occupies the re- mainder of the poem, and in which is alU-gorically sh.adowed out the history of his passion. When he wakes from his tr;m- 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 clatter- ing of pots and the sound of " harpe and sawtrie," to the din of carts and the accurst dinging of the dustman's bell ; and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain of some syren frotn Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The only relict of it is a boar's head, carved in relief stone, which formerly served as the sign, but, at present, is built into the parting line of two houses which stand on the site of the re- nowned old tavern. For the history of this little einpire of good fellow- ship, I was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who had been born and brought up on the spot, and w.is looked up to. as the" indisputable 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 glxss door opposite afforded a distant peep of the street, through a vista of. soap and tallow candles ; the two views, which comprised m all probability, her prospects in life, and the little world m 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 .Monu- ment, was, doubtless, in her opinion, to be acc|uainl- ed with the history of the universe. Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal, communicative disposition, which 1 have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies, knowing in the concerns of their neighbourhood. Her information, however, did not extend far back into antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of the Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol, until the great fire of London, when it was unfortunately i)urnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and continued to llourish under the old name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck w^ith remorse for double scores, bad measures, and other iniquities which are incident to the sinful race of publicans, endeavoured to make his peace with Heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's church, Crooked-lane, toward the support- ing of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meet- ings were regularly held there ; but it was observed that the old Boar never held up his head under church government. He gradually declined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years since. The tavern was then turned into shops ; but she 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 determi- nation ; so, having informed myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legendary lore, and furnished an important incident in the history of her life. It cost me some difficulty, and much curious in- quiry, to ferret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore Crooked-lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, and dark passages, with which this old city is perforated, like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At length I traced him to a corner of a small court, surround- ed 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 twinkling in his eye, and if encouraged, would now and then venture a small pleasantry ; such as a man of his low estate might venture to make in the company of high church wardens, and other mighty men of the earth. I found him in company with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels; discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and settling the af- fairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale; for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate on any weighty matter, without the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their understandings. I arrived at the moment when they had finished their ale and their argument, and were about to repair to the church to put it in order ; so, having made known my wishes, I received their gracious permission to accompany them. The church of St. Michael's, Crooked-lane, stand- ing a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many fishmongers of renown ; and as ever)- profession has its galaxy of glorj', and its constellation of great men. I presume the monument of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with as much reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the monument of a Marlbor- ough or Turenne. I cannot but turn aside, while thus jpcaking of il- lustrious men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crook- ed-lane, contains also the ashes of that doughty cliam- THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 31 pion, William Walworth, Knight, who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smith- field ; 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 re- nowned as the most pacific of all potentates.* Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, imme- diately under 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 un- ruly, howling and whistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirling weathercocks, so that the liv- ing were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted by the well-known call of "waiter," from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was singing a stave from the " mirrie garland of Captain Death ;" to the discom- fiture 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 bye-corners of this old metropolis are very much infested with perturbed spirits ; and every one must have heard of the Cock-lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower, which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of their wits. Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally prompt with his "anon, anon, sir," and to have transcended his predecessor in honesty ; for Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack; whereas, honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his meas- ure.! The v/orthy dignitaries of the church, however, did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of the tapster : the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up among full hogsheads ; and the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a significant wink, and a dubious shake ot the head. Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord IVIayors, yet disappointed me in the great object of * The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this worthy, which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great con- flagration. Hereunder lyth a man of fame, William Walworth cnllyd by name ; Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, And twise Lord Maior, as in books appeare ; Who, with courage stout and manly inyght, Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight, For which act done, and trew entent, The Kyng made him knyght incontinent ; And gave him armes, as here you see, To declare his fact and chivaldrie : He left this lyfF the year 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 W.alworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was named my quest, the picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the church of St. Michael's. "Marry and amen!" said I, "here endeth my research ! " So I was giving the matter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be curious in 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 meetings were held at the Boar's Head. These were deposited in the parish club-room, which had been transferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the neighbourhood. A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12, Mile-lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the " bully-rock " of the establishment. It is one of those little taverns, which abound in the heart of the citv, 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 di- vided their day equally, for it was but just one o'clock. At the lower end ot the room was a clear coal fire, before which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glis- tened along the mantelpiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in this medley of kitchen, 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 bespeaks the superintendence of a notable English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling them- selves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered into a little misshapen back room, having at least nine corners. It was lighted by a sky-light, furnished with anti- quated leathern chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently appropriated to particular customers, and I found a shabby gentle- man, in a red nose, and oil-cloth hat, seated in one corner, meditating on a half-empty pot of porter. The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air of profound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substitute for that paragon of hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opportunity to oblige ; and hurry- ing up stairs to the archives of her house, where the precious vessels of the parish club were deposit- ed, she returned, smiling and courtesying with them in her hands. The first she presented me was a japanned iron 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's London. t 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 defied The charms of wine, and every one beside. O reader, if to justice thou 'rt inclined. Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots. Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, Pray copy Bob, in measure and attendance. 32 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. tobacco-box, of jijifjantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestn- had smoked at their stated meetings, since time immemorial ; antl which was never suf- fered to be profaned by vultjar hands, or used on common occasions. 1 received it with becoming reverence ; but what was my delight, at beholding on its cover the identical painting of whicii I was in quest ! There was displayed the outside of the Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was to be seen the whole convivial group, at table, in full revel, pictured with that wonderful fidelity and force, with which the portraits of renowned generals and com- modores are illustrated on tobacco boxes, for the benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should l)e any mistake, the cunning limner had warily in- scril^ed the names of Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliterated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was " repaired and beautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such is' a faithful descrip- tion of this august and venerable relic, and I ques- tion whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round Table the long-sought sangreal, with more exultation. While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze. Dame Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the interest it excited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which also belonged to the vestrj-, and was descended from the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of having been the gift of Francis Wythers, Knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being considered very " antvke." This last opinion was strengthened bv the shabby gentle- man with the red nose, and oil-cloth hat, arid whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph, He suddenly aroused from his meditation on the pot of porter, and cast- ing a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, " Ay, ay, the head don't ache now that made that there article." The great importance attached to this memento of ancient revelry by modern churchwardens, at first puzzled me ; but there is nothing sharpens the appre- liension so much as antiquarian research ; for 1 im- mediately perceived that this could be no other than the identical " parcel-gilt goblet " on which Falstaff made his loving, but faithless vow to Dame Quickly ; and which would, of course, be treasured up with care among the regalia of her domains, as a testi- mony of that solemn contract.* 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 vestr)'men who have seated themselves thus quietly on the stools jf the ancient roysters of Eastcheap, .and, like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honour of Shakspeare. These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should not b«; as curious in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbours, one and all, about Kastcheap. believe that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, whicli they give as transmitted down from their forefathers; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair- my Dolphin Chamber, .it the round t.-»blc, by a se.i-coal fire on JVe' of Huntinjjdon, who, besides a learned history o» England, wrote a treatise on the contempt of the world, which the world has revenged by forgetting him ? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical composition ? Of his three great heroic poems, one is lost for ever, ex- | cepting a mere fragment ; the others are known only to a few of the curious in literature; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely disap- peared. What is in current u:e of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life.'— of William of Malmsbury; of Simeon of Durham : of Benedict of Peterborough ; of John Hanvill of St. Albans ; of " " Prithee, friend," cried the quarto in a testy tone, "how old do you think me? You are talking of authors that lived long before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that they in a manner expatriated themselves, and deserved to be forgot- ten ; * 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 fi.xed ; and, indeed, 1 was considered a model of pure and elegant En- glish." [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 cr)- you mercy," said I, " for mistaking your age ; but it matters little ; almost all the w .iters of your time have likewise passed into forgetfulness ; and De Wordt's publications are mere literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stability of language, too, on which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon.f Even now, many talk of Spenser's 'well of pure English undefiled.' as 'if the language ever sprang from a well or fountain-head, and was not ralher a mere confluence of various tongues, perpetually subject to changes and inter- mixtures. It is this which has made English liter- ature so extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thougiu can be commil- tcd 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 exulta- tion of the most popular writer. He finds the lan- guage in which he has embarked his fame gralually altermg, and subject to the dilaj)idations of time and the cajjrice 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 •In Ijlin and French h.nth many sAucrainc witic* h.id ercat delyte to cndylc. and l.avc many n..1,lc thinps fulfildc, h„l ccrtcs there ben M.me that »pe.iken their jH>isyc in French, uf which •peche the Frenchmen have a» good a fanlasye as we have in hearing of Frenchmen:* bnghibe. Chaiter's Testament o/ Love. + Holin»hrd in hi. Chronicle, observes, " afterw.-,rds, aUn by di leeni travcll o(( .cffry Ch.n.cer and John Cowrie in the time of l.ydKate, monkc of Heme, our said toonc was hroucht in -.n rv^^'o^JTI^ ""'-'^'-d'"^ 'h»« it never cme' unto the 7„hn I '^n ul" ""'■''»'» ",'"? "[ y""" Klizabcth. wherein lohn Jewell. Huhop of .Sarum, John Fox. and sundrie Icirncd and excellent wr.te.s. have f-.lly accomplished the ornaturc of the wme. to their grcaX pcuie and immortal commcnd.ition " 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 jiurity, will, in the course of years, grow antiquated and ob- solete, until it shall become almost as unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic inscriptions, said to exist in the deserts of Tartar)'. I declare," added I, with some emotion, "when r 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, prank- ed out in all the splendour of military array, and re- flected 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 super- seded all the good old authors. I suppose nothing is read now-a-da\s but Sir Philip vSidney's Arcaclia, Sackville's stately plays and Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the ' unparalleld 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 pre- dicted by his admirers,* and which, in truth, was full of noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sack- ville has strutted into obscurity ; and even Lyly, though his writings were once the delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, have likewise gone down with all their writings and their controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding liter- ature has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that some indus- trious diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification of the curious. " For my part," I continued, " I consifler this mu- tability of language a wise i)recaution of. Providence for the benefit of the world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason from analogy: we daily be- hold the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their successors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of a blessing : the earth would groan with rank and excessive vege- tation, and its surface become a tangled wilderness. In like manner, the works of genius and learning de- cline and make way for subsequent i)roductions. 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. Au- thorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, pursued * " I^ivc ever swccte booWe ; the simple im.nge of his Rcntlc 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 daintyost flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and the intellcctunl virtues, the .irme of l!ellona in the field, the tongue of Suada in the chamber, the spirite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellency in print. Harvey's Pierce's Supererogation. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 35 chiefly by monks in tlie leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries. To these circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing that we have not been in- undated by the intellect of antiquity ; that the foun- tains of thought have not been broken up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the in- ventions of paper and the press have put an end to all these restraints : they have made every one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. The consequences are alarming. The stream of literature has swollen into a torrent — augmented into a river — expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library ; but what would you say to libraries, such as actually exist, containing three or four hun- dred thousand volumes ; legions of authors at the same time busy ; and a press going on with fearfully increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number ? Unless some unforeseen mortality should break out among the progeny of the jMuse, now that she has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be suf- ficient. Criticism may do much ; it increases with the increase of literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks on population spoken of by econ- omists. All possible encouragement, therefore, should be given to the growth of critics, good or bad. But 1 fear all will be in vam ; let criticism do what it may, writers will write, printers will print, and the world will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will soon be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of passable in- formation at the present day reads scarcely any thing but reviews, and before long a man of erudi- tion will be little better than a mere walking cata- logue." " My ver>' good sir," said the little quarto, yawn- ing most drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupt- ing you, but I perceive you are rather given to prose. 1 would ask the fate of an author who was making some noise just as I left the world. His reputation, however, was considered quite temporary. The learned shook their heads at him, for he was a poor, hall-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 expe- rienced a duration beyond the ordinary term of En- glish literature. There arise authors now and then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, because they have rooted themselves in the unchang- ing principles of human nature. They are lil-'e gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream, which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them froin being swept away by the overflowing current, and hold up many a neighbour- ing plant, and. perhaps, worthless weed, to per- petuity. Such is the case with Shakspeare, whom we behold, defying the encroachments of time, re- taining 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 clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant that upholds them." Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until at length he broke out into a plethoric fit of laughter that had well nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpulency. " Mighty well ! " cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, " mighty well ! and so vou 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. 1 confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rude- ness, which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flourished in a less polished age. I deter- mined, 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 commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. 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 pict- ures of human life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which inclose within a small com- pass the wealth of the language— its family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a portable form to pos- terity. The setting may occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer ; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dulness, filled with monkish legends and academical controversies ! What bogs of theo- logical speculations ! What dreary wastes of meta- physics ! 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 intelligence from age to age."* I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a parting word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was si- lent ; the clasps were closed ; and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two or three times since, and have en- deavoured 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-dreatns to which I am subject, I have never, to this moment, been able to discover. • Thorow earth, and waters deepe, The pen by skill doth passe : And featly nyps the worldes abuse, And shoes us in a glasse, The vertu and the vice Of every wight alyve ; The honey combe that bee doth make. Is not so sweet in hyve, As are the golden leves Th.it drops from poet's head ; Which doth surmount our common talke, As farre as dross doth lead. Churchyard. 36 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. RURAL FUNERALS. Here's a few flowen ! but about midnight more : The hrrb* that h.nc on them cold dew o' the night Are strewing* fiti'st for graves You were a* tlowers now withered : even so These herb'Icts shall, which we upon you strow. CVMBEl-INE. Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural life which still linger in some parts of En- ^'land, are those of strewinjj llowers before the funerals and planting them at the graves of departed friends. These, it is said, are the remains of some of the riles of the primitive church ; but they are of still higher antiquity, having been obsened 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 Ixrcn able to throng in, and trample out all the curi- ous and interesting traces of the olden time. In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom al- luded to in one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : White his shroud as the mountain snow, L.arded 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 obsen-ed in some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a female who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet of white tloweis is borne be- fore the corpse by a young girl, nearest in age, size, and resemblance, anfl 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 em- blems 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 arc become conquerors." This, I am informed, is obser\-ed in some of the northern counties, particu- larly in Nortliumberland, and it has a pleasing, though tnelancholy effect, to hear, of a still evening, in some lomly country scene, the mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling frum a distance, and to see the train slowly moving along the landscape. Thus, thm, and thus, we compass round Thy harmless and unh.tunled ground. And M we sing thy dirge, we will . . L - . The D.-»ffodin And other llowcn lay upon 'I'lie altar of our love, tliy stone. Hehrick. There is also a solemn respect paid by the travel- ler to the passing funeral, in these sequestered places; for such spectacles, occurring among the quit I abodes of Nature, sink deep into the soul. As the mourning train approaches, he pauses, uncovered to let It go by; he then follows silentlv in the rear ' sometimes quite to the grave, at othc'r times for a few hundred yards, end 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 peace- ful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that some little respect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury-. describing the " faire and happy milk- maid." observes, •' thus lives she, and all her care is, that she may die in the spring time, to have store of flosvers stucke upon her winding-sheet." The poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a nation, con- tinually advert to this fond solicitude about the grave. In "The Maid's Tragedy," by Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, describing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted girl. When she sees a bank Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell Her servants, what a pretty place it were To bury lovers in ; and make her maids Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. The custom of decorating graves was once univer- sally prevalent : osiers w-ere 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, whose roots being buried in dis- honour, rise again in glory." This usage has now- become extremely rare in England ; but it may still be met with in the churchyards of retired villages, among the Welsh mountains ; and I recollect an in- stance of it at the small town of Ruthven, which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of Ciewyd. 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 gTaves which had been deco- rated 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 ijuite perished. They were afterwards to be supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens ; which on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tombstones. There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrangement of these rustic offerings, that had something in it truly poetical. The rose was some- times blended with the lily, to form a general em- blem of frail mortality. " This sweet flower," said Evelyn, " borne on a branch set with thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory life, which, making so fair a show for a time, is not yet without its tliorns and crosses." The nature and colour of the flowers, and of the ribands with which they were tied, had often a particular refer- ence 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 he framed Hy Art and Nature's skill, Of sundry-coloured flowers. In token of good will. And sundry-coloured ribands On it 1 will bestow ; But chiefly blacke and yellowe With her to grave shall go. I'll deck her tomb with flowers The rarest ever seen : And with my tears as showers 1 green. nd with mv tears as show I'll keep them fresh and j THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 37 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 intermingled, to be- speak the grief of the survivors. The red rose was occasionally used, in remembrance of such as had been remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in gen- eral were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Eve- lyn tells us that the custom was not altogether ex- tinct in his time, near his dwelling in the county of Surrey, " where the maidens yearly planted and decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes." And Camden likewise remarks, in his Biittania : " Here is also a certain custom, ob- served time out of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especially by the young men and maids who have lost their loves ; so that this churchyard is now full of them." When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they were of the most melancholy col- ours. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq , (published in 1651,) is the following stanza : Yet strew Upon my dismall grave Such offeiings as you have, Forsaken cypresse and 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 have been disappointed in love. Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew. Maidens willow branches wear, Say I died true. My love was false, but I was firm, From my hour of birth, Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth. The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity of sentiment, and the unaffected elegance of thought, which pervaded the whole of these funeral observances. Thus, it was an especial precaution, that none but sweet-scented evergreens and flowers should be employed. The intention seems to have been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding 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 imagination shrinks from contem- plating; and we seek still to think of the form we have loved, with those refined associations which it awakened when blooming before us in youth and beauty. " Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes of his virgin sister, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring. Herrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner embalms the dead in the recol- lections of the living. Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all Paradise : May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence Fat frankincense. Let balme and cassia send their scent From out thy maiden monument. May all shie maids at wonted hours Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ! May virgins, when they come to mourn Male incense burn Upon thine altar! then return And leave thee iieeping in thy urn. I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British poets, who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, and delighted frequently to allude to them ; but I have already quoted more than is necessary. I cannot, however, refrain from giving a passage from Shakspeare, even though it should ap- pear trite, which illustrates the emblematical mean- ing often conveyed in these floral tributes, and at 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, ril sweeten thy sad grave ; thou "ihaltnot 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 monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower while the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave as affection is binding the osier round the sod ; but pathos expires under the slow 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 insig- nificant villages. But it seems as if poetical custom always shuns the walks of cultivated society. In proportion as people grow polite, they cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry, but they have learnt to check its free impulses, to distrust its sallying emotions, and to supply its most affecting and pict- uresque usages, by studied form and pompous cere- monial. 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 mourning, and a great talk in the neighbourhood, and when the dales are finished, they shall be, and they shall be remembered no more." The associate in the gay and crowded city is soon forgotten ; the hurrying succession of new intimates and new pleas- ures effaces him from our minds, and the very scenes and circles in which he moved are incessantly fluc- tuating. But funerals in the country are solemnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider space in the village circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in every ear ; it steals with its per- vading melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape. The fixed and unchanging features of the country, also, perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed them ; who was the companion of our most retired walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea is associated with every charm of Nature : we hear his voice in the echo which he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit haunts the grove which he once frequented ; we think of him in the wild upland solitude, or amidst the pen- sive beauty of the valley. In the freshness of joyous morning, we remember his beaming smiles and bounding gayety ; and when sober evening returns, with its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet-souled melancholy. Each lonely place shall him restore, For him the tear be duly shed. Beloved, till life can charm no more. And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the deceased in the country, is, that the grave is 38 WORKS OF WASHINGTOxV IRVING. more immediately in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer; it meets their eyes when their hearts are softened I)y the exercise of de- votion ; they linger al>out it on the Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures and present loves, and to sit down among the solemn mementos of the past. In North Wales, the peas- antry kneel and pray over the graves of their de- ceased friends for several Sundays after the inter- ment ; 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 perfonned by the nearest relatives and friends; no menials nor hirelings are employed, and if a neigh- bour yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult to offer compensation. I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, be- cause, as it is one of the last, so is it one of the ho- liest offices of love. The grave is the ordeal of true aflfection. It is there that the divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive im- pulse of mere animal attachment. The latter must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the pres- ence of its object ; but the love that is seated in the soul can live on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline with the charms which excited them, and turn with shudder- ing and 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 sunivor. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the I 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 conso- lation that must be bought by forgetfulness ?—No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the no- blest 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 recol- lection—when the sudden anguish and the convul- sive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness— who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety. or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom ; yet who would ex- change 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 hvmg. Oh, the grave !-the grave !— It buries everv' error— covers every defect— extinguishes every re- sentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even uf 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 meditation ! There it is that we call up in long re- view 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 attend- ance — its mute, watchful assiduities. Thi» last tes- timonies 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 unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never — never — never return to be soothed by thy contrition ! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee — if thou art a lover and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul — then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear — more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew th:; 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 intend- ed to give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but merely to furnish a few hints and quotations illustrative of particular rites, to be appended, by way of note, to another paper, which has been withheld. The article swelled insensibly into its present form, and this is mentioned as an apology lor so brief and casual a notice of these usages, after they have been amply and learnedly in- vestigated in other works. I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this custom of adorning graves with flowers, prevails in other countries besides England. Indeed, in some it is much more general, and is observed even by the rich and fashionable; but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, and to degenerate into affectation. Bright, in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, and recesses formed for retirement, with seats placed among bowers of green-house plants ; and that the graves generally are covered with the gayest flowers of the season. He gives a casual pict- ure of final 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. " \Vhen I was at Berlin," says he, " I followed the celebrated Iffland to the grave. Mingled w^ith some pomp, you might trace much real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my attention was attracted by a young woman who THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 39 stood on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf, which she anxiously protected from the feet of the passing- crowd. It was the tomb of her parent ; and the figure of this affectionate daughter presented a monument more striking than the most costly work of art." I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decora- tion 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 Luzerne, 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 foot- paths. The whole force of the republic did not ex- ceed six hundred fighting men ; and a few miles of circumference, scooped out, as it were, from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its territory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the rest of the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a small church, with a bury- ing ground adjoining. At the heads of the graves were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some were affixed miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently at- tempts at likenesses of the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, others tresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused with in- terest at this scene ; I felt that I was at the source of poetical description, for these were the beautiful, but unaffected offerings of the heart, which poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more populous place, I should have suspected them to have been suggest- ed by factitious sentiment, derived from books ; but the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; there was not a novel nor a love poem in the village ; and I question whether any peasant of the place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of poetical devotion, and that he was practically a poet. THE INN KITCHEN. Shall I not take mine ease in mine Fahtaff. During a journey that I once made through the Netherlands, I had arrived one evening at tlie Pomme d'Or, 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 summoned mine host, and requested something to read ; he brought me the whole literary stock of his household, a Dutch family bible, an almanac in the same language, and a num- ber of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, reading old news and stale criti- cisms, 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 attendants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round a great burnished stove, that might have been mistaken for an altar, at which they were worshipping. It was covered with various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness ; among which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group, bringing out many odd features in strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners ; except where they settled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected back from well-scoured utensils that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her ears, and a neck- lace 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 pota- tion. I found their mirth was occasioned by anec- dotes 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 I 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 traveller's tales, some very extravagant, and most very dull. All of them, however, have faded from my treacher- ous 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 cor- pulent 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 countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a pleasant twinkling eye. His hair was light, and curled from under an old green velvet travelling-cap, stuck on one side of his head. He was interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests, or the remarks of his auditors ; and paused, now and then, to replenish his pipe ; at which times he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke, for the buxom kitchen maid. I wish my 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 e'cuine de rner, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel — his head cocked on one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he related the following story : THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. A TRAVELLER S TALE. He that s\ipper 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 Oden- wald, a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies not far from the confluence of the Maine and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years since. *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. 40 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. the Castle of the Baron Von Lmdshort. 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 1 have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look down uj.on a neighbouring country. The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellenbogen,*and inherited the relics of the property, and all the pride, of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors had much impaired the f.imily possessions, yet the Baron still endeavoured to keep up some show of former state. The times were peaceable, and the (German nobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagle's nests among the mount- ains, and had built more convenient residences 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 happened between their great-great-grandfathers. The Baron had but one child, a daughter; but Nature, when she grants but one child, always com- pensates 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 superin- tendence 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 knowl- edge necessary to the education of a fine lady. Un- der their instructions, she became a miracle of ac- complishments. By the time she was eighteen she could embroider to admiration, and had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestiy, with such strength of expression in their countenances, that they looked like so many souls in purgatory. She could read without great dilTiculty, and had spelled her way through several church legends, and almost all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made consid^rrable proficiency in writing, could sign her own name without missing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could read it without spectacles. She e.xcelled in making little good-for- nothing lady-like knicknacks 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 Minnie-lieders by heart. Her .aunts, too, having been great fiirts and co- quettes in their younger days, were admirably calcu- lated to be vigilant guardians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a super- annuated coquette. She was rarely suffered out of their sight ; never went bevond the domains of the castle, unless well attended,' or rather well watched ; had continual lectures read to her about strict deco- rum and implicit oljedience ; and, as to the men — pah ! she was taught to hold them at such distance and distrust, that, unless properly authorized, she wou'd not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world— no, not if he were even dvinjr 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 •/. <•., Ca-t's Elbow— the n.imc of a family of those p.irts, x»ery powerful in former times. The .ippcUation, we .nrc t.ld was (iiven in compjimcnl to a pceiless dame of the family, celebrated :lor a 6nc aria. 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 enrich- etl him with abundance of poor relations. They, one and all, |)ossessed the affectionate disposition com- mon 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 commemorated by these good people at the Baron's expense ; and when they were filled with good cheer, they would declare that there was nothing on earth so delightful as these family meet- ings, 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 mount- ain and valley in Gennany abounds. The faith of his guests even exceeded his own : they listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be astonished, even though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute mon- arch of his little territory, and happy, above all tilings, in the persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age. At the time of which my story treats, there was a great family-gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost importance : — it was to receive the des- tined bridegroom of the Baron's daughter. A ne- gotiation had been carried on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the marriage of their children. The preliminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed with- out seeing each other, and the time w-as appointed for the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from the army for the pur])ose, and was actually on his way to the Baron's to receive his bride. Missives had even been re- ceived from him, from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the day and hour when he might be expected to arrive. The castle w^as in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. The two aunts had su]X'rintended her toilet, and quarrelled the whole morning about every article of her dress. The young lady had taken advantage of their con- test to follow the bent of her own taste ; and fortu- nately it was a good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could desire; and the fiutterof 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 g-oing on in her little heart. The aunts were con- tinually 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 dejiort herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive the expected lover. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 41 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 serv- ants from their work to exhort them to be diligent, and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a blue-bottle fly of a warm summer's day. In the mean time, the fatted calf had been killed ; the forests had rung with the clamour of the hunts- men ; the kitchen was crowded with good cheer ; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhei)i-wein and Fcr7ic-iudn, and even the great Heidelburgh tun had been laid under contribution. Every thing was ready to receive the distinguished guest with Sans iind 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 down- ward rays upon the rich forests of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of the mountains. The I3aron 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 be- held them ; the sound of horns came floating from the valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes : a number of horsemen were seen far below, slowly ad- vancing 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 perplexity, 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 uncertainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for him, as certainly as a dinner, at the end of his jour- ney. 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 chivahy, who was now returning from the army. His father's castle was not far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, although a hereditary feud rendered the families hostile, and strangers to each other. In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the Count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions. As the route of the friends lay in the same direc- tion, they agreed to perform the rest of their journey together ; and that they might do it more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the Count having given directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him. They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military scenes and adventures ; but the Count was apt to be a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride, and the felicity that awaited him. In this way they had entered among the mountains cf 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 with robbers as its castles by spectres ; and, at this time, the former were particularly nu- merous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wan- dering about the country. It will not appear extra- ordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst of the forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered when the Count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the Count had received a mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully con- veyed 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 instantly to the castle of Landshort, and ex- plain the fatal cause of his not keeping his appoint- ment 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. " Un- less this is done," said he, " I shall not sleep quietly in my grave ! " He repeated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so im- pressive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust en- deavoured 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 ac- knowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium — raved about his bride — his engagements — his plighted word ; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the castle of Landshort, and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh, and a soldier's tear on the untimely fate of his comrade ; and then pon- dered 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 tid- ings fatal to their hopes. Still there were certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far- famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world ; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his character, that made him fond of all singular adventure. Previous to his departure, he made all due arrange- ments with the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious relatives ; and the mourning retinue of the Count took charge of his remains. It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were im- patient for their guest, and still more for their din- ner ; and to the worthy little Baron, whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower. Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The Baron descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats were al- ready overdone ; the cook in an agony ; and the whole household had the look of a garrison that had been reduced by famine. The Baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were seated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder from the walls. The Baron hastened to receive his future son-in-law. The drawbridge had been let down, and the stran- 42 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. ger was before the gate. He was a tall gallant cava- lier, mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The liaron was a lit- tle mortified that he should have come in this simple, solitan- style. His dignity for a moment was rufHed, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for the important occasion, and the important family with which he was to be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the conclusion that it must have been youthful impatience which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his attend- ants. '•I am sorr)'," ."^aid the stranger, "to break in upon you thus unseasonably — " Here the IJaron interrupted him with a world of compliments and greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy and his eloquence. The strangir 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 ; siie made an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger, and was cast again to the ground. The words died away ; but there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek, that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. The late hour at which the guest had arrived, left no time for parley. The i.'aron was peremptory, and deferred all particular conversation until the morn- ing, 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 Katzencllenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the Held and in the chase. Hacked croslets, 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 immediately over the head of the youthful bridegroom. The cavalier took but little -notice of the company or the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the ban- quet, but seemed absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low tone, that could not be overheard— for the language of love is never loud; but where is the female ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover } There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his manner, that apneared t(j have a powerful effect upon the voung lady. Her colour came and went, as she listened with detp 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 ol tender happiness. It was evident that the young couple were completelv enamoured. The aunts who were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, de- clared that they had fallen in love with each other at tirst sight. The fexst went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light purses and mountain air. The liaron told his best and longest stories, and never had he told tiiem 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 dignilied to utter any joke but a dull one : it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent : Hoch-heimer ; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were said by poorer and keener I wits, that would not bear repeating, except on simi- I lar occasions ; many sly speeches whispered in I ladies' ears, that almost convulsed them with sup- pressed 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 revelr}', the stranger guest main- tained a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced, and, strange as it may ap- pear, even the Baron's jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. At limes 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 conversation with the bride became more and more earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame. All this could not escape the notice of the com- pany. Their gayety was chilled by the unaccounta- ble gloom of the bridegroom ; their spirits were in- fected ; 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 conversa- tion, which were at length succeeded by wild tales, and supernatural legends. One dismal stor\' pro- duced another still more dismal, and the Baron nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the history of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair Leonora — a dreadful, but true story, I which has since been put into excellent verse, and is I 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 grad- ually 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 hnished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. The Baron was perfectly thunderstruck. " 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 re- peated 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 ab- solutely 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 THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 43 archway was dimly lig-hted 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 g"oin,?. I have a solemn, an indispensable engagement — " "Why," said the Baron, "cannot you send some ©ne 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 ten-fold 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 buned — the grave is waiting for me — I must keep my appoint- ment ! " He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, 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. 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 w'hich the good people of Germany have been so grievously harassed since 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, however, drew on him the indignation of the whole company, and es- pecially 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 enter- tained, 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 distress. They wan- dered about the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoul- ders, at the troubles of so good a man ; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had even embraced him — and such a husband ! if the veiy 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 recounting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the ver)' midst of it. The chamber was remote, and over- looked a small garden. The niece lay pensively gaz- ing at the beams of the rising moon, as they trem- bled on the leaves of an aspen tree before the lattice. The castle clock had just told midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up irom the garden. She rose hastily from her bed, and stepped lightly to the win- dow. 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 some- thing, 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 refractoiy, 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 melan- choly pleasure left her on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. How long the good old lady would have observed this 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 in- stance of female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week ; when she was suddenly absolved from all fiirther restraint, by intelligence brought to the breakfast-table one morning that the young lady was not to be found. Her room was empty — the bed had not been slept in — the window was open — and the bird had flown ! The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was received, can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations paused for a moment from the indefatigable labours of the trencher ; when the aunt, who had at tirst 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 corrob- orated the opinion, for they had heard the clatter- ing of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about mid- night, 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 probabil- ity ; 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 Katzenel- lenbogen ! His only daughter had either been wrapt away to the grave, or he was to have some wood- demon for a son-in-law, and, perchance, a troop of goblin grand-children. As usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse, and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The Baron himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen ap- proaching 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 44 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. feel embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her companion— the Spectre Briilejjroom I The Baron was astounded. He lt)oke(l at liis dau,!,'hter. then at the Spectre, and ahnost doubled the evidence of his serses. The latter, too, was wonderfully im- proved in his appearance, since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set ofl a noble fiK'ure of manly symmetry. He was no lon},a-r pale and melancholy. His tme countenance was Hushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye. The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavaher (for in truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starktnfaust. He related his adventure with the young Count. He told how he had hastened to the casile to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the IJaron had interrupted him in everv attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride had completely captivated him. and that to p.-iss a few hours near her, he had tacitly suffered the mistake lo 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 — liad 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 lo\ ed 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 some- thing, it must be acknowledged, that did not ex- actly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed upon him of his be- ing a dead man ; but several old friends present, who had ser\ed in the wars, assured him that every stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cava- lier 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 rela- tions overwhelmed this new member of the family with loving kindness ; he was so gallant, so gener- ous—and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were some- what scandalized that their system of strict seclusion, and passive obedience, should be so badly exempli- fied, but attributed it all to their negligence in not having the windows grated. One of them was par- ticularly 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 storj' ends. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. When I behold, with deep astonishment. To famous Westminster how there rcsorte. Living in brasse or stony monument, ■J"he princes and the worthies of all sortc ; I)rie not I see reformde nobilitie. Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, And looke upon offenseless majesty. Xakcd of pomp or earthly domination ? And how a play-game of a painted stone Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, Whome all the world which late they stood upon, Could not content nor quench their appetites, l-ife is a frost of cold felicitie, And death the thaw of all our vanitie. Ckristolero's Epigravis, by T. B. 1598. On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter part of autumn, when the shad- ows of morning and evening almost mingle to- gether, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about West- minster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and as 1 passed its threshold, it seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity, and los- ing myself among the shades of former ages. I entered from the inner court of Westminster school, through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one of the neighbouring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains, prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloister still retains something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. Tlie gray walls are discoloured by damps, and crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the death's heads, and other funeral 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 tow- ering into the azure heaven. As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled picture of glory and decay, and some- times endeavouring to decipher the inscriptions on tiie tombstones, which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eyes were attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the foot- steps of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots ; the epitaphs were en- tirely effaced ; the names alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later times ; (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 11 76.) I remained some little while, musing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of lime, 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 SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 45 the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking clown upon the gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberat- ing 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, 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 mag- nitude 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 handy-work. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mysteri- ous awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb ; while every footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sen- sible 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 pro- vokes 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 forgetfulness, 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 oc- cupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monuments are generally simple ; for the lives of literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakspeare and Addison have stat- ues erected to their memories ; but the greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscrip- tions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these me- morials, I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey remain longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splen- did 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 com- panionship between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of history, which is continually growing faint and ob- scure ; but the intercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his re- nown ; 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 wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of languag-e. t roni Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn, I met with some illustrious name, or the cognizance of some powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies : some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together; warriors in 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 populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been suddenly transmuted into stone. I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a knight in complete armour. A large buck- ler 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 mili- tary enthusiasts, who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits form the connect- ing link between fact and fiction — between the his- toiy and the fair}' tale. There is something extremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, deco- rated 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 imagination is apt to kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fictions, the chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over tlie 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 visionaiy. 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 over- wrought 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 1 do not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and honour- able 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, ap- pears 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 unneces- sary 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. 46 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. While wandering about these "[loomy vaults and ; silent aisles, stutlying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence from without occasionally | reaches the ear:— the rumblinjj of the passing- equi- | page; thf murmur of the multitude ; or perhaps the \ light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around ; and it has a strange eflect ui)nn the feelings, thus to hear the surges of active life burning along and beating against the ven,' wails 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 loiter- j trs about the abbey grew less and less frequent ; I the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers ; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white suqilices, 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. Cireat gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluc- tant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architectiin-, and th(- 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 mar- tyrs. 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 ihc fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. Along the sides of the chape! are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic ar- chitecture. On the i^innacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords ; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendour of gold and purjile 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 sum|)tuous toinb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing. There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this strange mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems of living and aspiring ambition, close be- side mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the miml with a deeper feeling of loneli- ness, 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, an«l 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 ; interrunteil 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 inscribcfl on the banners, they were those of men scattered tar and wide about the world ; some tossing upon dist.uU seas ; some under arms in dis- tant 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 pre- sent a touching instance of the equality of tlie grave, which brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the bitterest ene- mies together. In one is the sepulchre of the haugh- ty Elizabeth; in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day, but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the litter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre con- tinually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival, A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Marv 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. 1 was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, re- volving in my mind the chequered and disastrous story of poor Maiy. The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the deser- tion 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 tre.id 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 re- doubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge bil- lows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With what poinp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony tlirough 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. — .^nd 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 al)out 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 ujwn the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What solemn swee])ing con- cords ! It grows more and more dense and power- ful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls— the ear is stunned — the senses are over- whelmed. 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 swell- ing 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 arose, and prepared to le.ave the abbey. As I descended the fliglit of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye was caught by the I 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 THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 47 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 moulderinj^ in " their beds of darkness." Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gotliic ag-e. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an ef- fect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the be- ginning and the end of human pomp and power ; here it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think that these in- congruous mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness.'' — to show it, even in the moment of its ])roudest exaltation, the neglect 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 dis- graces of the toml), 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 grovel- ling servility which they pay to the living. The cof- fin of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funeral orna- ments ; 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 hom- age of mankind. Some are plundered ; some muti- lated ; 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 al- ready wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; the mar- ble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light ; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morn- ing'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 contemjilating, but lound 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 sepul- chres but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the em])tiness of renown,, and the certainty of oblivion? It is, indeed, the empire of Death ; his great shadowy palace ; where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle ;i boast, after all, is the im- mortality 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 forgot- ten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yester- day out of our recollection ; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. "Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, "find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades into fable ; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy ; the inscription moulders from the tab- let ; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sancl — and their epitaphs, but characters wnMc.n in the dust .'' What is the .security of the tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The remains ot 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 insure this pile, which now tow- ers 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 rub- bish 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 shat- tered 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 his- tory is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. CHRISTMAS. But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of his good, gray, old head and beard left ? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of him. Hue and Ckv 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 nei^'hbours 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 linger- ingsof the holyday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to dra.v 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 dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holyday revel, from which it has derived so many of its themes— as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. Sir Thomas Br 48 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. There is a tone of sol.mn and sacred feeling that^ been fond of those festivals and holydays which blends with our convivialitv, and lifts the spirit to a ; a.q^reeably interrupt the stillness of country life ; and state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The ser- 1 they were in former days particularly observant of vices of the church about this season are extremely the religious and social rights of Chrislnias. It is tenderandinspiring:thev dwell on the beautiful story I inspiring to read even the dry details which some of the origin of our faith.'and the pastoral scenes that , antiquaries have given of the quaint humours, the accompanied its announcement : they gradually in- burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to crease in fenour and pathos during'the season of | mirth and good fellowship, with which this festival Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, morning tiiat brought peace and good-will to men. and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing generous How of joy and kindness. The old halls organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, I of castles and manor-houses resounded with the and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample harmony. ' boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive sea- days of yore, that this festiv.il, which commemorates j sen with green decorations of bay and holly — the the announcement of the religion of peace and love, | cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, in- has been made the season for gathering together of; viting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the family connexions, and drawing closer again those j gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the bands of kindred hearts, which the cares and pie ures and sorrows of the world are continually operat- ing 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 mementos of childhood. There is something in the very season of the year, that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other limes, we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny land- scape, and we " live abroad and every where." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breath- ing 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 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 dreari- ness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they cir- cumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated ; our friendly sympa- thies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living kindness which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms ; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of do- mestic 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 arti- ficial 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 broarler 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, wh.at 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, Irom the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every class of society, have always g evening with legendary jokes, and oft-told Christmas tales. One of the least pleasing effects of modern refine- ment, is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holyday customs. It has completely taken off the sharp touchipgs and spirited reliefs of these em- bellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and cere- monials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the slierris 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, \vhich have furnished poetry with its richest mate- rials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of cliaracters and manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broad- er, 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 peculi- arities, its homebred feelings, its honest fireside de- lights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassail- ings, have passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor-h.ouses in which they were celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken galler}-, and ihc tapestried parlour, but are unfitted lor the light showy saloons and gay draw- ing-rooms of the modern villa. Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honours. Christmas is still a period of delightful ex- citement in England. It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused which holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The preparations making on every side for the social boatd that is again to unite friends and kindred — the jirescnts of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feelings — the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness — all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, lireaks upon the midwatches of a winter night w^th the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been aw^aken- ed by them in that still and solemn hour " when deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied th^m into another celestial choir, announcing peace and good- THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gi 49 will to mankind. How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns everything to melody and beauty ! The very crow- ing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country, " telling the nightwatches to his feathery dames," was thought by the common people to announce the approach of the sacred festival : " Some say that ever 'gainst that Wherein our Saviour'sbirth was celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long: And then, they say, no spirit dares stir a!, road ; 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 regenerated feeling — the season for kindling not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the steril waste of years, and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of home- dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit — as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the fresh- ness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though for me no social hearth may blaze, no hos- pitable 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 countenance bright with smiles, and g^low- ing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmit- ting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his lone- liness when all around is joyful, may have his mo- ments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas. THE STAGE-COACH. Omnebenfe Sine poena Tempus est ludendi Venit hora Absque morft Libros deponendi. Old Holyday School Song. In the preceding paper, I have made some general observations 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 invite my reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holyday 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 man- sions 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 impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked school-boys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom healtfi and manly spirit which I have observed in the chil- dren of this countiy. 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 weeks' emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of the anticipations of the meeting with the family and household, down to the very cat and dog ; and of the joy they were to give their little sisters, by the presents with which their pockets were cram- med : but the meeting to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was with Ban- tam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot ! how he could run ! and then such leaps as he would take — there was not a hedge in the whole country that he could not clear. They were under the particular guardianship ot the coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed 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 but- ton-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 un- acceptable to my untravelled readers, to have a sketch that may serve as a general representation of this very numerous and important class of function- aries, 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 mot- tled 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 frequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still farther increased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed low-crowned hat, a huge roll of coloured handkerchief 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 country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright colour, striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half-way up his legs. All this costume is maintained with much pre_- cision ; he has a pride in having his clothes of ex- cellent materials, and, notwithstanding 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 de- pendence ; and he seems to have a good understand- ing with every bright-eyed country lass. The mo- ment 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;. WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. his (lutv bein.c: merely to drive them 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-vard with an air of the most absolute lordli- ness. Here he is generally surrounded by an ad- miring throng of hostlers, 'stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those na:v.eless hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of battening on the drijipings of the kitchen and the leakage of the taivroom. 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 carriage. Even' ragamuffin that has a coat to his back! thrusts fiis hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embno Coachev. . Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw- cheerfulness in every countenance throughout the journey. A Stage-Coach, however, carries anima- tion always with it, and puis tiie 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 mo- ment can hardly take leave of the group that accom- panies them. In the mean time, the coachman has 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 billetdoux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the village, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on ever)' 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 par- pose of seeing company pass : but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by ; the cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing 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 tothe country, for it seemed to me as if every body was in good looks and I good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of j the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages ; the grocers, butchers, and fruiterers' shops were i thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in or- der; and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright red berries, began to apjiear 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 twiive days a multi- tude of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies anrl broth. Now or never must music be in tunc, 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 pair of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the contention of Holly and Ivv. whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards bene- fit 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-look- ing servant in livery, waiting for them ; he was ac- companied by a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable liantam. 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 bus- tling 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 ; ail 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 after- wards, to water the horses; and on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat coun- try-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. 1 leaned out of the coach-window-, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight. In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw, on one side, the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of si)acio'JS dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly polished, and dec- orated here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspend- ed from the ceiling; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fire-place, 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 tankardsof ale seemed mounting guard. Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, whilst others sat smoking and gos- siping over their ale on two high-backed oaken set- tles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurry- ing l)ackwards and forwards, under the directions of a fresh bustling landlady ; but still seizing an oc- casional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene completely realized Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of mid-winter : Now trees their leafy hats do b.ire To reverence Winter's silver hair ; A handsome hostess, merry host, A pot of ale and now a toast. Tobacco and a good coal fire, Are things this sea.son doth require.* Poor Robin's Almanack, 1694. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 51 I had not been long at the inn, when a post-chaise drove up to the door. A young gentleman stepped 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 Brace- bridge, a sprightly good-humoured 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 rec- ollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd advent- ures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn, was impossible ; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should give him a day or two at his father's coun- try-seat, to which he was going to pass the holydays, and which lay at a few miles' distance. " It is bet- ter than eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and 1 can assure you of a hearty welcome, in something of the old-fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, and 1 must confess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity and so- cial 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 Bracebridges. CHRISTMAS EVE. Saint Francis and Saint Renedight 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, weazles, 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 father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides himself upon keeping up something of old English hospitality. He is a toler- able 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, how- ever, from early years, took honest Peacham * for his text-book, instead of Chesterfield ; he determined in his own mind, that there was no condition more truly honourable and enviable than that of a coun- try gentleman on his paternal lands, and, therefore, passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural games and holyday observances, and is deeply read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed, his favourite range of read- ing 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 succes- sors. 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. * Peacham's Complete Gentleman, 1622, As he lives at some distance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, without any rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of in- dulging the bent of his own humour without molesta- tion. Being representative 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 inmiemorial. I think it best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, to prepare you for any little eccentricities that might otherwise appear absurd." We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy magnificei.t old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns that supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoin- ing was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which re- sounded through the still frosty air, and was an- swered by the distant barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a little primitive dame, dressed very much in antique taste, with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under a cap of snowy white- ness. She came curtseying forth with many expres- sions of simple joy at seeing her young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the house, keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall ; they could not do without him, as he was the best hand at a song and story in the household. My friend proposed that we should alight, and walk 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 glit- tered as she rolled through the deep vault of a cloud- less sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, which here and there spark- led as the moonbeams caught a frosty crystal ; and at a distance might be seen a thin transparent va- pour, stealing up from the low grounds, and threat- ening gradually to shroud the landscape. My companion looked round him with transport : — " How often," said he, " have I scampered up this avenue, on returning home on school vacations ! How often have I played under these trees when a boy ! I feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as we look up to those v/ho have cherished us in child- hood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting our holydays, and having us around him on family festivals. He used to direct and superintend our games with the strictness that some parents do the studies of their children. He was very particular that we should play the old English games according to their original form ; and consulted old books for precedent and authority for every ' merrie disport ; ' yet, I assure you, there never was pedantry so de- lightful. It was the policy of the good old gentle- rnan to make his children feel that home was the happiest place in the world, and I value this deli- cious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a par- ent 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. 52 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. " The little does and all. Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me ! cried Bracebriilge, 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. 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 ver)- ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow window's jutting out and overrun with i\T, from among the foliage 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 returned with that monarch at the Restoration. The grounds about the house were laid out in the old formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy stone ballus- trades, ornamented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I w-as told, was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete linery in all its original state. He admired this fash- ion in gardening ; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted imitation of nature and modern gardening had sprung up with modern republican notions, but did not suit a monarchial government — it smacked of the levelling system. I could not help smiling at this introduction of politics into garden- ing, 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 tather meddle with politics ; and he believed 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 occasion- ally attacked by modern landscai)e 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 servants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, and even en- couraged, by the 'Squire, throughout the twelve days of Christmas, provided every thing was done con- tormably to ancient usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare. i)ot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob ajjple, and snajvdragon ; 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 house-niaids.* So intent were the servants upon their sports, that we had to ring re|>eatedly before we could make our- selves heard. On our arrival being announced, the 'Squire came out to receive us, accompanied by his two other sons ; one a young oflicer 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 curl- ing lightly rounil an open florid countenance ; m which a physiognomist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. The family meeting was warm and affectionate; as the evening was far advanced, the 'Squire would • The mwiletoe is tti.l hung up in farm-houses and kitchens, at -:,l ..'"^ ' ?"«* «>'^y°""« mc" have the privilege of kissing the R.rU under .t. P uck.ne each t.me a berry from tTie bush. When lh« bemci are all plucked, the privilege ceases. not permit us to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, which was as- sembled in a large old-fashioned hall. It was com- posed of different branches of a numerous family connexion, where there w-ere the usual proportions of old uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming country cousins, hali-flcdged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding- school hoydens. They were variously occupied ; some at a round game of cards ; others conversing round 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 car- ried off to slumi)cr through a peaceful night. While the mutual greetings were going on be- tween young Bracebridge 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, and the 'Squire had evidently endeavoured to restore it to something of 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 workmanship 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 parlour and hall. The grate had been removed fcom the wide over- whelming 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 ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly up in his master's face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There is an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality, which cannot be described, but is imme- diately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease. ♦ The yule cloff\f. a ereat log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, brought into the nouse with great ceremony, on Christmxs eve, laid in the firc-placi, and lighted with the brand of last year's clog. While it lajtcd, there was great drinking, singing, and tell ing of talcs. Sometimes it was accompanied by Christmas candles ; but in the cottages, the only light was from the ruddy blaic of the great wood fire. 'I'he yule clog was to burn all nignt : 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, merric boys. The Christmas Log to the firing ; While my good dame she Kids all be free, And drink to your hearts desiring. The yule clog is still burnt in many f.irm-houses and kitchens in England, particularly in the north ; and there are several super- stitions 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 Christ- mas f.re. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. I had not been seated many minutes by the com- fortable 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 panels of which shone with wax, and around which were several family portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Beside the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly polished beaufet among the family plate. The table was abundantly spread with substantial fare ; but the 'Squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk with rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the feast ; and finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance. The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humours of an eccentric personage, whom Mr. Bracebridge always 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 waggery of ex- pression that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite mer- riment by harpings upon old themes ; which, unfor- tunately, my ignorance of the family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight, during supper, to keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of the company, who laughed at every thing he said or did, and at every turn of his countenance. 1 could not wonder at it ; for he must have been a miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket- handkerchief; and cut an orange into such a lu- dicrous caricature, that the young folks were ready to die with laughing. I was let briefly into his history by Frank Brace- bridge. He was an old bachelor, of a small inde- pendent income, which, by careful management, was sufficient for all his wants. He revolved through the family system like a vagrant comet in its orbit, some- times visiting one branch, and sometimes another quite remote, as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive connexions and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping, buoyant disposition, always en- joying the present moment ; and his frequent change of scene and company prevented his acquiring those rusty, unaccommodating habits, with which old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy', history, 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 considered rather a young fellow, and he was master of the revels among the children ; so that there was not a more popular being in the sphere in which he moved, than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late years, he had resided almost entirely with the 'Squire, to whom he 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 beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than Master Simon was called on for a good old Christmas song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, ex- cepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty : Now Christmas Is, come, Let us beat up the drum, And c\\\ all our neighbours together ; And when they appear, Let us make such a cheer. As will keep out the wind and the weather, &c. The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance comforting himself with some of the 'Squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of hang- er-on, I was told, of the establishment, and though ostensibly a resident of the village, was oftener to be found in the 'Squire's kitchen than his own home ; the old gentleman being fond of the sound of " Harp in hall." The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one : some of the older folks joined in it, and the 'Squire himself figured down several couple with a partner with whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connecting link between the old times and the new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplish- ments, 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 romping girl from boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and de- feated 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 tease his aunts and cousins ; yet, like all madcap young- sters, 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 beauti- ful blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of the evening, I suspected there was a little kindness grow- ing up between them ; and, indeed, the young sol- dier 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 ? The mo-ment 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 wvas studied, began the little French air of the Troub- adour. 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 " Night-Piece to Julia :" 54 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. Her eyes ihe glow-worm lend thee, The shooting st.irs attend thee. And the elves also. Whose little eves rIow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee; Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ; Uut on, on thy way, Not making a stay. Since ghost there is none to aflfright 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'll pour into thee. The song might or might not have been intended in compliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called ; she, however, was certainly un- conscious of any such application ; for she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon the floor ; her fiice was suffused, it is true, with a beau- tiful blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the ex- ercise of the dance : indeed, so great was her indif- ference, 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 my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow ; and had it not been the season when " no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels about the hearth. My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponderous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days ol the giants. The room v/as panelled, with cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely intermingled, and a row of black-looking portrait's stared mournfully at me from the walls The bed was of rich, though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow-window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed to break forth in the air just below the window: I listened, 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 moonbeams fell through the upper part of the casement, partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed to accord with quiet and moonlight. I listened and listened — they became mon: and more tender and remote, and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, and I (ell asleep. CHRISTMAS DAY. Dark and dull night flie hence away, And give the honour lo this day That sees December turn'd to .May. Why docs the chilling winter's morne Smile like a field beset with corn ? Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, Thus on a sudden ?— come and see The cause, why things thus fragrant be. Herrick. When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and nothing but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced me of their reality. While 1 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 iinagine. It con- sisted of a boy and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house, singing at every chamber door, but my sudden appearance frightened them into mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment playing on their lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance from under their eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they 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-lashioned hospi- tality. The window of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would have been a beautiful land- scape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it. and a tract of park beyond, with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging over it ; and a church, with its dark spire in strong relief against the clear cold sky. The house was surrounded with evergreens, according to the English custom, which would have given almost an appearance of summer; but the morning was extremely frosty ; the li ^ht vapour of the preceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A robin perched upon the top of a mountain ash. that hung its clusters of red berries just before my window, was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few querulous notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee on the terrace-walk below. 1 had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant ap- peared to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in the old wing ot the house, where I found the principal part of the family already assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large ])rayer-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 grai-ity and de- corum. The service was followed by a Christmas carol, THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 55 which Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favorite author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted to a church melody by Master Simon. As there were several good voices among the house- hold, the effect was extremely pleasing ; 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 eye glisten- ing, and his voice rambling out of all the bounds of tmie and tune : " Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless 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 through- out the year, either by iMr. Bracebridge or some member of the family. It was once almost univer- sally the case at the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is falling into neglect ; for the dullest ob- server must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those households, where the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the morn- ing 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 de- nominated 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 ad- mitted them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. After breakfast, I walked about the grounds with Frank Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was called by every body but the 'Squire. We were escorted by a number of gentlemen-like dogs, that seemed loungers about the establishment ; from the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-hound — the last of which was of a race that had been in the family time out of mind — they were all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to Master Simon's button- hole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in his hand. The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not but feel the force of the 'Squire's idea, that the formal terraces, heavily moulded ballus- trades, and clipped yew trees, carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. There appeared to be an unusual number of pea- cocks a1)out the place, and I was making some re- marks upon what I termed a flock of them that were basking under a sunny wall, when I was gently cor- rected in my phraseology by Master Simon, who told me that according to the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. " In the same way," added he, with a slight air of pedantry, " we say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." He went on to inform me that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird "both understanding and glory; for, being praised, he will presently set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in corners, till his tail come again as it was." I could not help smiling at this display of small 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 extremely careful to keep up the breed, partly because they belonged to chivalry, and were in great request at the stately banquets of the olden time ; and partly because they had a pomp and magnificence about them highly becoming 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 ballustrade. Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment at the parish church with the village choristers, who were to perform some music of his selection. There was something extremely agree- able in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of the little man ; and I confess I had been somewhat sur- prised at bis apt quotations from authors who cer- tainly were not in the range of every day reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank Brace- bridge, who told me with a smile that Master Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined to some half- a-dozen old authors, which the 'Squire had put into his hands, and which he read over and over, when- ever 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 Cockayne, Knight ; Isaac Walton's Angler, and two or three more such ancient wor- thies of the pen, were his standard authorities ; and, like all men who know but a few books, he looked up to them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the 'Squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among the choice spirits of the last century. His practical ap- plication of scraps of literature, however, had caused him to be looked upon as a prodigy of book-knowl- edge by all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sports- men of the neighbourhood. While we were talking, we heard the distant toll of the village bell, and I was told that the 'Squire was a little particular in having his household at church on a Christmas morning ; considering it a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing ; tor, as old Tusser 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 Bracebridge, " lean promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and established a musical club for their improvement ; he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to the directions of 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 mouth,' 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 pretty female singer being ex- ceedingly 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 stoni«, and stood near a village, about half a mile from the 56 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. park gate. Adjoining- it was a low snug parsonage, which scffmcd 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 pre- ceded us. I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinitv of a rich patron's table, but I was disap- pointed. 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 seem- ed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets that would have held the church bible and prayer-book : and his small legs seemed still smaller, from being planted in large shoes, decorated with enormous buckles. I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was a complete black- letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work printed in the Roman character. The 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 investigations into the festive rites and holyday cus- toms of foimer times ; and had been as zealous in the inquir}', as if he had been a boon companion ; but it was merely with that plodding spirit with which men of adust temperament follow up any track of study, merely because it is denominated learning; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old volumes so intensely, that they seemed to have been reflected into his countenance ; which, if the face be indeerl an index of the mind, might be com- pared to a title-page of black-letter. On reaching the church-porch, we found the par- son rebuking the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the greens with which the church was decorated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies ; and though it might be inno- cently 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 purj)oses. So tenacious was he on this point, that the poor sexton was obliged J.n strip down a great pari of the humble trophies of his taste, before the parson would consent to enter upon the ser\'ice of the day. The interior of the church was venerable, but simple ; on the walls were several mural monuments ol the Bracebridges, and just beside the altar, was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on which lay the effi- gy of a warrior in armour, with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it was one of the fainily who had signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the same whose picture hung over the fire-pl.ice in the hall. During service, .Master Simon stood up in the pew, and repealed the responses ver)- audibly; evincing that kind of ceremonious devotion punctually observ- ed by a gentleman of the old school, and a man of old family connexions. 1 observed, too, that he turned over the leaves of a folio prayer-book with somethmg of a flourish, possibly to' show off an enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers. and which had the look of a family relic. But he was evidently most solicitous about the musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis. The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among which 1 particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point ; and there was anotiicr, a short pursy man, stooping and labour- ing 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 gentle- men choristers 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 fid- dler now and then making uj) for lost time by travel- ling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clear- ing more bars than the keenest fox-hunter, to be in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation. Un- luckily there was a blunder at the very outset— the musicians became flurried ; Master Simon was in a fever; everything went on lamely and irregularly, until they came to a chorus beginning, " Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting company: all became discord and confu- sion ; 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 c|uavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it, not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; supporting the correctness of his opinions iiy the earliest usages of the church, and en- forcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of Saints and Fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one present seemed inclined to dispute ; but 1 soon found that 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 Parlia- ment.* The worthy parson lived but with times past, and knew but little of the present. Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retire- • From the" Flying E.iglc," a small Gazette, published Decem- ber 24th, i6i;2 — " The House spent much time this day about the business of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were prcscnled with a terrible remonstrance against Christ- mas day, grounded upon divine .Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16. i Cor. xv. 14.17; and in honour of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scriptures. John x.\. i. Rev. i. 10. Psalms, cxviii. 24. Lev. xx. iii. 7, II. Mark xv. 8. Psalms, Ixxziv. 10 ; in which Christmas is called THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 57 ment 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 mince-pie through- out the land ; when plum porridge was denounced as "mere popery," and roast beef as anti-christian ; and that Christmas had been brought in again tri- umphantly 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 wliom he had to combat ; he had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three other for- gotten champions of the Round Heads, on the subject of Christmas festivity; and concluded by urg-ing his hearers, in the most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the traditional customs of their fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful anniversary of the church. I have seldom known a sermon attended appar- ently with more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church, the congregation seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit so earnestly en- joined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking hands : and the children ran about crying, " Ule ! Ule ! " and repeating some uncouth rhymes,* which the parson, who had joined us, informed me, had been handed down from days of yore. The vil- lagers doffed their hats to the 'Squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the hall, to take something to keep out the cold of the weather ; and 1 heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which con- vinced me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas virtue of charity. On our way homeward, his heart seemed over- flowing with generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising ground which commanded something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic mer- riment now and then reached our ears ; the 'Squire paused for a few moments, and looked around with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the day was, of itself, sufficient to inspire philan- thropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the morning, the sun in his cloudless journey had ac- quired sufficient power to melt away the thin cover- ing of snow from every southern declivity, and to bring out the living green which adorns an English landscape even in mid-winter. Large tracts of smil- ing verdure, contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank, on which the broad rays rested, yielded its sil- ver rill of cold and limpid water, glittering through the dripping grass ; and sent up slight exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that hung just above the surface of the earth. There was something truly cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter ; it was, as the 'Squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, break- ing through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing eveiy heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indications of good cheer reek- ing from the chimneys of the comfortable farm- houses, and low thatched cottages. "I love," said he, " to see this day well kept by rich and poor ; it Anti-christ's masse, and those Masse-mongcrs and Papists who ob- serve 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." *"Ule! Ule! Three puddings in a pule ; Crack nuts and cry ule ! " is a great thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it were, the world all thrown open to you ; and I am almost disposed to join with poor Robin, m his malediction on every churlish enemy to this honest festival : " ' Those who at Christmas do repine. And would fain hence despatch him, May they with old Duke Humphry dine. Or else may 'Squire Ketch catch him.' " The 'Squire went on to lament the deplorable de- cay of the games and amusements which were once prevalent at this season among the lower orders, and countenanced by the higher; when the old halls of castles and manor-houses were throv/n open at day- light ; 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, and the promotion of them by the gentry made hirn fond of his lord. They made the times merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can truly say with one of our old poets, " I like them well — the curious preciseness And all-pretended gravity of those That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, Have thrust away much ancient honesty." "The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have almost lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their interests are separate. They have become too knowing, and begin to read news- papers, listen to alehouse politicians, and talk of re- form. I think one mode to keep them in good- humour in these hard times, would be for the nobil- ity and gentry to pass more time on their estates, mingle more among the country people, and set the merry old English games going again." Such was the good 'Squire's project for mitigating public discontent : and, indeed, he had once at- tempted to put his doctrine in practice, and a few years before had kept open house during the holy- days in the old style. The country people, however, did not understand how to play their parts in the scene of hospitality ; many uncouth circumstances occurred ; the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into the neighbourhood in one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year. Since then, he had con- tented himself v/ith inviting the decent part of the neighbouring peasantry to call at the Hall on Christ- mas day, and with distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, that they might make merry in their own dwellings. We had not been long home, when the sound of music was heard from a distance. A band of coun- try lads, without coats, their shirt-sleeves fancifully tied with ribands, their hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands, were seen advancing 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 curious and intricate dance, ad- vancing, retreating, and striking their clubs together. * "An English gentleman at the opening of the great day, i. e. on Christmas day "in the morning, had all his tenants and neigh- bours entered his hall by day-break. The strong beer was broached, and the blackjacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar, and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by day-break, or else two young men must take the maiden (z. e. the cook) by the arms and _ run her round the market place till she is shamed of her laziness."' — Routid about our Sea-Coal Fire. 68 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. keeping exact time to the music ; while one. whim- sically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept capering round the skins of the dance, and rattling a Christmas-box with many antic gesticulations. The 'Squire eved this fanciful exhibition with gpreat interest anil delight, and gave me a full ac- count 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 sword-dance of the ancients. " It was now," he said, " nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it in the neighbourhojd, and had en- couraged 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." After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The 'Squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received with awkward demon- strations of deference and regard. It is true. I per- ceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they were raising their tankards to their mouths, when the 'Squire's back was turned, making something of a grimace, and giving each other the wink ; but the moment they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly demure. \Vith Master Simon, however, they all seemed more at their ease. His varied occupations and amusements had made him well known throughout 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 bashtulness of the guests soon gave way be- fore good cheer and affability. There is somethin;^ genuine and affectionate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty and familiar- ity 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 in- creased, 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 com- panions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gratuitous laugh before they could well understand them. The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to 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 pan- dean pipes and tambourine ; a pretty coquettish housem.iid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several of the other servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport, the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and colouring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion. THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. Lo, now is come our jovful'st feast! l.et every man be jolly, Each roomc with yvie leaves is drest, And every post with holly. Now all our neighbours' chimney;s 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 'I bury 't in a Christmas pye, And evermore be merry. Withers' ytivcnilia. I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Bracebridge 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 in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice, His summons did obey ; Each servinK man, with dish in hand, Maiched bodly up, like our train bund, Presented, and away.* The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the 'Squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing crackling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, and the t]ame went sparkling and wreathing up the wide-mouthed chim- ney. The great picture of the crusader and his white horse had been profusely decorated with greens for tlie occasion ; and holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the helmet and weapons on the op- posite wall, which I understood were the arms of the same warrior. 1 must own, by-the-by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the painting and armour as having belonged to the crusader, they cer- tainly having the stamp of more recent days ; but I was told that the painting had been so considered time out of mind ; and that, as to the armour, it had been found in a lumber-room, and elevated to its present situation by the 'Squire, who at once deter- mined it to be tlie armour of the f^imily hero ; and as he was absolute authority on all such subjects in his own household, the matter had passed into current acceptation. A sideboard was set out just under this chivalric trophy, on which was a display of plate that might have vied (at least in variety) with Bel- shazzar's parade ot the vessels of the temple ; " fla- gons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ew- ers ; " the gorgeous utensils of good companionship that had gradually accumulated through many gen- erations of jovial housekeepers. Before these stood the two yule candles, beaming like two stars of the first magnitude ; other lights were distributed in branches, and the whole array glittered like a firma- ment 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 in- strument 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 Holbein's por- traits, or Albert Durer's prints. There is much an- tiquarian lore to be acquired ; much knowledge of the physiognomies of former times. Perhaps it may • Sir John Suckling. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 59 be from having continually before their eyes those rows of old family portraits, with which the man- sions of this country are stocked ; certain 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 evidently originated in a Gothic age, and been merely copied by succeeding generations ; and there was one little girl, in particular, of staid demeanour, with a high Roman nose, and an antique vinegar as- pect, who was a great favourite of the 'Squire's, be- ing, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of his ancestors who figured in the court of Henry VIII. • The parson said grace, which was not a short fa- miliar one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these unceremonious days ; but a long, courtly, well - worded one of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as if something was ex- pected ; 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 defero Reddens laudes Domino. The boar's head in hand bring I, With garlands gay and roseroary. 1 pray you all synge merily Qui estis in convivio. Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentricities, from being apprized of the peculiar hobby of mine host ; yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd a dish was introduced somewhat per- plexed me, until I gathered from the conversation of the 'Squire and the parson, that it was meant to rep- resent the bringing in of the boar's head — a dish formerly served up with much ceremony, and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great tables on Christmas day. " I like the old custom," said the 'Squire, " not merely because it is stately and pleas- ing in itself, but because it was observed at the col- lege 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 haunt- ed by such associations, and who was always more taken up with the text than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version of the carol ; which he af- firmed was different from that sung at college. He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commenta- tor, 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 objects, he lowered his tone as his number of auditors di- minished, until he concluded his remarks in an under voice, to a fat-headed 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 boar's head on Christmas day, is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was The table vvas literally loaded with good cheer, and presented an epitome of country abundance, in this season of overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted to " ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it ; being, as he added, " the standard of old English hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of expectation." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evidently some- thing traditional in their embellishments ; but about which, as I did not like to appear over-curious, I asked no questions. I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificent- ly decorated with peacocks' feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, which overshadowed a con- siderable tract of the table. This, the 'Squire con- fessed, with some little hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most au- thentical ; 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 fondness for odd and obsolete things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the other make-shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he was endeavouring to follow up, though at humble distance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the re- spect shown to his whims by his children and rela- tives ; 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 household, 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 workman- ship, which he placed before the 'Squire. Its appear- ance was hailed with acclamation ; being the Was- sail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas festivity. The contents had been prepared by the 'Squire himself ; 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 T, Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; And I pray >ou, 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. Our steward hath provided this In honour of the King of Bliss, Which on thisday to be served is In Reginensi Atrio. Caput apri defero, &c., &c., &c. * The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately enter- tainments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt ; at the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when Knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, " by cock and pie." The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast ; and Massinger, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extrava- gance with which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden times : ^len may talk of Country Christmasses. Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues: Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris ; i/ie carcases of three fat zvethcrs bruiied for sravy to make sauce for a single J>ea' cock ! 60 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. for it was a beverajje, in the skilful mixture of which he particularly prided himself: allt-jjin:,' that it was too abstruse and complex for the comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him ; being composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about the surface.* The old gentleman's whole countenance beanr.ed with a serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming round the board, for every one to follow his example according to the primitive style ; pronouncing it " the ancient fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met together."! There was much laughing and rallying, as the honest emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by the ladies. But 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 : Tlie brown bowle, The merr>' brown bowle. As it goes round about-a, Fill Still, Let the world say what it will, And drink your till all out-:i. 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 la ugh -a. $ 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 Si- mon about some gay widow, with whom he was ac- cused (if having a flirtation. This attack was com- menced by the ladies ; but it was continued through- out the dinner by the fat-headed 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 banter- ing in i)rctty much the same terms ; winking hard at me with both eyes, whenever he gave Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. The latter, in- deed, 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 fme woman and drove her own curricle. The dinner-time passed away in this flow of inno- cent hilarity, and though the old hall may have re- sounded in its time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it ever witnessed niore honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure • The Wassail Dowl was sometimes composed of .ilc instead of wine ; with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and ro.istcd crabs • in this way the nut-brown bevcr.igc is still prepared in some old families, and round the hearth of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and it is celebrated by Herrick in his Twelfth Night : Next crownc the bowle full With gentle Lamb's Wool, Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, With store of ale too ; And thus ve must doe To m.-ike the Wassaile a swinger. ■'^," J''? '="''^°'" °'' drinking nut of the same cup gave pl.ice to each l;..^ving his cup. Whrn the slcw.-»rd came to the doore with the \S .i-sscl. he was to cry three times. I^asse/, It^asse/, li^atsfl. and then the chappcll (chaplain) was to answer with a song "— A rchiroliigia. "' % From Poor Robin's Almanack. around him ; and how truly is a kind heart a fount- ain 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, became still more animated : many good things were broached which had been thought of during dinner, but which would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and though I cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit produce much less laugh- ter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent in- gredient, 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 companionship equal to that, where the jokes are rather small, and the laughter aijundant. The 'Squire told several long stories of early col- lege pranks and adventures, in som.e of which the parson had been a sharer; though in looking at the latter, it required some effort of imagination to figure such a little dark anatomy of a man, into the perpe- trator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures of what men may be made by their different lots in life : the 'Squire had left the university to live lustily on his paternal domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor parson, on the contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and shadows of his study. Still there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly glimmer- ing 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 1 could decipher his physiognomy, I very 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 wanner complexion, and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song aljout 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 of Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck in the middle, every body recollect- ing 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 sit- ting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this juncture, we were summoned to the drawing-room, and I suspect, at the private instigation of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a proper love of decorum. After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 61 given up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by the Ox- onian and Master Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of chil- dren, 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 blind-man'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 frolic face in a glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was the chief tormentor ; and from the slyness with which Master Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was convenient. When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the company seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had been brought from the library for his particular accommodation. From this venerable piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, he was dealing forth strange accounts of the popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, with v.hich he had become acquainted in the course of his antiquarian researches. I am half inclined to think that the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men are very apt to be, who live a recluse and studious life in a seques- tered part of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled with the marvellous and super- natural. He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighbouring 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 regard- ed 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 churchyard, had seen it through the windows of the church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over which the spectre kept watch ; and there was a story current of a sexton, in old times, who 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 un- believers that were shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led across the churchyard. From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader appeared to be the favourite hero of ghost * At Christmasse there was in the Kinges house, wheresoever hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie dispiortes, and the like had ye in the house of every nobleman of honor ; or good worshippe, were he spirituall or temporall.— Sxovr. 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 re- marked 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 beeit born and brought up in the family, and was a great gossip among the maid-servants, affirmed, that in her young days she had often heard say, that on Midsummer eve, when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies, Decome 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 the dairy-maids to pass between two bars of the great park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. All these superstitions I found had been very much countenanced by the 'Squire, who, though not superstitious himself, was veiy fond of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin tale of the neigh- bouring gossips with infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high favour on account of her talent for the marvellous. He was himself a great reader of old legends and romances, and often lamented that he could not believe in them ; for a superstitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairy land. Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds from the hall, in which were mingled something like the clang of rude min- strelsy, 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 al- most 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 in- stant effect. The old housekeeper had been con- sulted ; 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 froin 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 Christ- mas," quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that might have served for a village steeple, and must indubitably have figured in the days of the Covenanters. From under this, his nose curved boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom that seemed the very trophy of a December blast. He was accompanied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as " Dame Mince Pie," in the venerable magnificence of faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked heart, and high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sporting dress of Kendal green, and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, natural to a young gallant in presence of * ^f asquings 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 dis- guisings. I strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from Ben Jonson's Masque of Christmas. 62 WORKS OF WASIIINCnON IRVINC his mistress. The fair Julia hunfj on liis arm in a pretty rustic (ht-ss, as " Maid Marian." The rest of thr train had lut-n nitlain()r|)lioscd in various ways; tlx- ^irls truss«-d up in the fiiuTy of the an- cient btllcs of thr Hrai-ehri(l},'f hnc, and the slrip- linjjs bewhiskcrcd with liurnt rork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, h lUL'injj sleeves, and full-l:()ttonied wife's, to represent tlie characters of Koasl lieef, rium l'u(h!inj,', and other worthies celebrated in an( ient nias(|iiin},'^s. The whole was under the con- trol of the Oxonian, in the a|)i)ropriate character of Misrule ; and I observed that he exercised rather a mischiy thee of ihe |..iit; r«i>e in their k'>wii« liy the peer, in their innnlle., aiul hy the l.id limg train., the niotinn whe l)c.»LMtk."-//;\./.„^ tf/ ,!/„/. sure that my sagest deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others ? Hut in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is my own disap|)ointment. If, however, 1 can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy he.irt of one nioment of sorrow — if I can now and then i)enetiate through the gathering lilm of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of luiiiian n.iture, .ind m.ike my reader more in good humour with his fellow beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain. [The follnwinp modicum of local history was lately put into my hands l)y an odd-looking old ^eiillenian ill a siiiiill Ijiown wig and siuiUcoloured coal, with wiioin 1 became aciiuainted in the course of one of my tours of observation throujjfli tlie centre of that great wilderness, the (Jity. I confess that 1 was a little dubious at first, wheiiier it was not one of those apoc- lyplial tales often passed od" upon inipiirin^ travel- lers like myself; and which have brought our general eliaiacter lor veracity into sucli unmerited reproach. On making proper in(|uiries, however, 1 have re- ceived the most satisfactory assurances of the author's probity ; and, indeeil, iiave been told that he is actu- ally engaged in a full and i)articular account of the very interesting regioiv in wliich lie resiiles, of which the following may bc^considered merely us a loie- taste.] LITTLE BRITAIN. Wh.Tt I write is most true • ♦ • • I have a whole l>ooke of cases lyiiii; l>y mc, which if I should selte foorth. some grave aiiiitients (within the hcariiii; uf lluA' bell) would be out uf cliurity with mc. — N ASlllC. In the centre of the great City of London lies a small neighbourhood, consisting of a cluster of nar- row streets and courts, of very venerable and debili- tated houses, which goes by the name of Ll I'i'l.l". HKirAlN. Christ Church school anil St. Hartholo- mew's hospital bound it on the west ; Smithheld and Long lane on the north ; Aldersgate-street, like an arm of the se.i. divides it from the eastern part of the city; whilst the yawning gulf of Hull-and-Miuith- street sejiarates it from HuUher lane, and the regions of New-dale. Over this little territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of .St. I'aul's, swell- ing above the inlervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave-Maria lane, looks down with ;m air of motherly protection. This ([uarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As London increased, however, rank and f.ishion rolled off to the west, and trade creeping on at their heels, took ])ossession of their deserted abodes. For some time. Little Hrit.iin bec.ime the great mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolihc race of booksellers : these also gradually deserted it, and emigrating beyond the great strait of New-{"iate-stieet, settled down in I'aternoster Row and St. I'aul's Church-yard ; where they con- tinue to increase and multiply, even at the present day. Hut though thus fallen into decline, Little Hritain still bears traces of its foriner splendour. There are several houses, ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are inagnificenlly enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes ; and fruits and (lowers, whit h it would perplex a naturalist to classify. There are also, in Alders- THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 63 gate-street, certain remains of what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but which have in latter days been subdivided into several tenements. Mere may oi'len be found the family of a petty trades- man, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing among the relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling time- stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cor- nices, and enormous marble hre-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 antiquity. These have their gable-ends to the street; great bow-windows, with diamond panes set in lead ; gro- tesque carvings ; and low-arched doorways.* In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed several quiet years of existence, com- fortably lodged in the second floor of one of the smallest, but oldest edifices. My sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small panels, and set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular resjject for three or four high-backed, claw-fooled chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen better days, and have doubtless figured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me to keep together, and to look down with sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbours ; as 1 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 genera- tions; mingled with scraps of very indifferent gentle- man-like poetry, written in characters which I can scarcely decipher ; and which extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an ijLlle personage, with no apparent occupation, and pay 'my bill regularly every week, I am looked upon as the only independent gentleman of the neigh- bourhood ; and being curious to learn the internal state of a community so apparently shut up within itself, 1 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 London as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great preservation many of the holyday games and customs of yore. The inhabitants most re- ligiously eat pancakes on Shrove-Tuesday ; hot-cross- buns on Good-Friday, and roast goose at Michael- mas ; they send love-letters on Valentine's Day ; burn the Pope on the Fifth of November, and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. Roast beef and plum-pudding are also held in superstitious veneration, and port and sherry main- tain their grounds as the only true English wines — all others being considered vile outlandish beverages. Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world: such as the great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls ; the figures that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock ; the • Monument ; the lions in the Tower; and the wooden giants in (luildhall. They still believe in dreams and tortunetelling ; and an old woman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth-street makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered un- comfortable by comets and eclipses ; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure * It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has included in his general title of Little Rritain, many of those little lanes and courts that belong immediately lo Cloth Fair. sign of a death in the pLice. There are even many ghost stories current, particularly concerning the old mansion-houses; in several of which it is said strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full-bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up and down the great waste chambers, on moonlight nights ; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses. Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of the most important of the former is a tall dry old gentleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverous coun- tenance, full of cavities and projections ; with a brown circle round each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is much thought of by the old wom- en, who consider him as a kind of conjuror, because he has two or three stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much given to pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic erup- tions ; 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 puts both soul and body into an uproar. He is a great believer in omens and predictions ; and has the prophecies of Rt)bert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make so much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day ; and he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his customers and disciples, until they were nearly frightened out of their wits. He has lately got hold of a popular legend or proph- ecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying current among the ancient Sybils, who treasure up these things, that when the grass- hopper on the top of the Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place. This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church ; and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his workshop. •' Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may go star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under our own eyes, which sur- passes all the signs and calculations of astrologers." 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 meet- ings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes at Manchester — the great plot in Cato-street ; — and, above all, the Queen had returned to England ! All 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 associ- ated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea- monsters, bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title-page of tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the minds of the people in Lit- tle Britain. They shake their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they never ex- pected any good to come of taking down that stee- ple, which, in old times, told nothing l)ut glad tid- ings, as the history of Whittington and his cat bears witness. w WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 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 standing and importance ; and his renown extends through Huggin lane, and Lad lane, and even unto Aldcrnianbur)'. His opinion is very much taken in the affairs of "state, having read the Sunday papers for the last half centur)', together with the Gentle- man's Magazine, Rapin's History of England, and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with in- valuable ma.xims, which have borne the test of time and use for centuries. It is his firm opinion that "it is a moral impossible," so long as England is true to herself, that any thing can shake her : and he has much to say on the subject of the national debt ; which, some how or other, he proves to be a great national bulwark and blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having become rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure and see the world. He has therefore made several excursions to Hamp- stead, Highgate, and other neighbouring towns, where he has passed whole afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis through a telescope, and endeavouring to descry the steeple of St. liartholo- mew'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 ex- pedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of these new gimcracks the steam-boats, and indeed thinks himself too advanced in life to undertake sea- voyages. Little Britain has occasionally its factions and di- visions, and party spirit ran very high at one time, in consequence of two rival " Burial Societies " being set up in the place. One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse-Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger ; the other at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary : it is needless to say, that the latter was the most nourishing. I have passed an evening or two at each, and have acquired much valuable information as to the best mode of being buried ; the comparative merits of churchyards ; together with divers hints on the sub- ject of patent iron coffins. I have heard the ques- tion discussed in all its bearings, as to the legality of prohibiting the latter on account of their dura- bility. The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily died away of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely solicitous of funeral honours, and ot 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 wiiole neighbour- hood. It meets once a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a jollv publican of the name of Wag- staff, anfl 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 wavfarer ; such as " Truman. Hanbury and Co.'s Entire." "Wine, Rum, and Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom. Rum, and Compounds, &c." This, indeed, has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus. from time immemorial. It has always been in the family of the W.agstaffs. so that it-; his- tory is tolerably preserved by the i)rcsent landlord. It was much frequented bv the gallants and cava- lieros of the reign of Eii/abeth, and was looked 'into now and then Tjy the wits of Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff principally prides himself upon, is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his noc- turnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ances- tors 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 all 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 be- fore him, and he has inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from generation to generation as heir-looms. He is a dapper little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red face with a moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind. At the opening of every club night, he is called in to sing his " Confession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl from Gammer Gurton's needle. He sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as he received it from his father's lips ; for it had 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 singing it before the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Little Britain was in all its glory.* It would do one's heart good to hear on a club- night the shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the choral bursts of half-a-dozen discordant voices, which issue from this jovial man- sion. At such times the street is lined with listen- ers, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into a confectioner's window, or snuffing up the stt^-ims of a cook-shop. * 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 orthog- raphy. 1 would observe, that the whole club always join in the chorus with a fcaful thumping on the table and clattering of pewtei pots. I cannot eate but lytle meate, My stomacke is not ^ood. But sure I thinke that I can drinke With him that weares a hood. Though I go bare take ye no care, 1 nothing am a colde, I stuff my skyn so full within, Of joly good ale and olde. Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, Both foot and hand go colde, But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe, Whether it be new or oldc. I h.tve no rost, but a nut brown teste And a crab laid in the fyre ; A little brcade shall do me steade. Much brcade I not desyre. No frost nor snow, nor winde I trowe, Can hurt me if I wolde, I am so wrapt and throwly lapt Of joly good ale and olde. Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c. And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, Loveth well good ale to seckc. Full oft drynkcs she, tyll ye may see The teares run down her cheeke. Then doth shec trowle to me the bowle, Even as a maultc-worme sholde. And saylh, sweete harte, I tooke my parte Of this joly good ale and olde. Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare,&c. Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, Even as goode fellowcs sholde doe. They shall not mysse to have the blissc. Good ale doth bring men to. And all poor soules that have scowred bowles, Or have them lustily trolde, God save the lyves of them and their wives. Whether they be yonge or oldc. Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 65 There are two annual events which produce great stir and sensation in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholomew's Fair, and the Lord Mayor's day. During the time of the Fair, which is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gossiping and gadding about. The late quiet streets of 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 decorum 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 ; Signior Polito ; the Fire-Eater ; the celebrated Mr. Paap ; and the Irish Giant. The children, too, lavish all their holy- day 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 hu- man 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 ask- ing 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. M:ijesty itself is not safe ! Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an effectual barrier against all internal foes ; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord P.Layor has but to throw himself into the Tower, call in the train bands, and put the standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid defiance to the world ! Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its own opinions. Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart to this great fungus me- tropolis. I have pleased myself with considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy John Bu'lism were garnered up, like seed-corn, to renew the national character, when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony that prevailed throughout it ; for though there might now and then be a few clashes of opinion between the adherents of the cheesemonger and the apothecar}', 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 Coverly. Once a year also the neighbours would gather together, and go on a gypsy party to Epping Forest. It would have done any man's heart good to see the merriment that took place here, as we banqueted on the grass under the trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wagstaff and the merry undertaker ! After dinner, too, the young folks would play at blindman's-buff and hide-and- seek ; and it was amusing to see them tangljd among the briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now and then squeak from among the bushes. The elder folks would gather round the cheesemonger and the apothecary, to hear them talk politics ; for they gen- erally brought out a newspaper in their pockets, to pass away time in the country. They would now and then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument ; but their disputes were always adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella-maker in a double chin, who, never exactly comprehending the subject, inan- aged, some how or other, to decide in lavour of both parties. All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innovation creep in ; factions arise ; and families now and then spring up, whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into confusion. Thus in latter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners threeitened with total subver- sion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. The family of the Lambs had long been among the most thriving and popular in the 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 honourof being alady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore three tower- ing ostrich feathers on her head. The family never got over it ; they were immediately smitten with a passion for high life ; set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the errand-boy's hat, and have been the talk and detestation of the whole neighbourhood ever since. They could no longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or blindman's-buff; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain ; and they took to reading novels, talking bad French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother, too, who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts ; and he confounded the worthy folks exceed- ingly 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 toward the west. There were seve- ral 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 forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar with the smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the rattling and jing- ling of hackney-coaches. The gossips of the neigh- bourhood might be seen popping their night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by ; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that kept a look-out from a house just opposite the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticized every one that knocked at the door. This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole neighbourhood declared they would have GG WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. nothing more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements with her quahty acquaintance, would give hule luimdrum tea junketings to some of her old cronies. " quite," as she would say, " in a friendly way ; " and it is equally true that her invitations were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted with the music of the .Miss Lambs, who would condescend to thrum an Irish meloily 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 con- sciences, and averted the reproaches of their confed- erates, by canvassing at the next gossiping convoca- tion 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 f^ishionable, 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 w-as in vain that the daughters always spoke of him as the " old gentleman," addressed him as " papa," in tones of infinite softness, and endeavoured to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there was no keeping down the butcher. His 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 per- sisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at two o'clock, and having a " bit of sausage with his tea." He was doomed, however, to share the unpopu- larity of his family. He found his old comrades gradually growing ccld and civil to him ; no longer laughing; at his jokes ; and now and then throwing out a lling at " some people," and a hint about "quality binding." 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 circumstances, at length prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon pipe and tankard at Wagstaff 's ; to sit after dinner by him- self, and take his pint of port— a liquor he detested — and to nod in his chair, in solitary and dismal gen- tility. The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux ; and talking and laughing so loud, that it distressed the nerves of every good lady within hear- ing. They even went so far as to attempt patron- age, and actually induced a French dancing-master to set up in the neighliourhood ; 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 liddle and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such precipitation, that he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. I had nattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this fiery indignation on the part of the commu- nity was merely the overflowing of their zeal for goofl old English manners, and their horror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent contempt they were so vociferous in expressing, for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But 1 grieve to say, that I .soon perceived the infection had taken hold ; and that my neighbours, after condemning, were be- Gnning to follow their example. I overheard my ndlady importuning her husband to let their daugh- ters have one quarter at Frtnch 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. ])arading about Little Britain. I still had my hopes that all this folly would grad- ually die away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neighbourhood ; might die, or might run aw\ay with attorneys' apprentices ; and that quiet and sim- plicity might be again restored to the community. But unluckily a rival power arose. An opulent oil- man died, arid left a widow with a large jointure, anil 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 aspirings. Their ambition being now no longer re- strained broke out into a blaze, and they openly took the field against the family of the butcher. It is true that the Lambs, having had the first start, had nat- urally an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances, but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, and of twice as fine colours. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be be- hindhand ; and though they might not boast of as good company, yet they had double the number, and were twice as merry. The whole community has at length divided itself into fashionable factions, under the banners of these two families. The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely discarded ; there is no such thing as getting up an honest count r>--dance ; and on my attempting to kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly re- pulsed ; the Miss Lambs having pronounced it "shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the most fashionable part of Little Britain ; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross- Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears ; and what will be the result would puzzle the apothecary 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 be- fore, rather an idle good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only gentleman by profes- sion in the place. I stand therefore in high favour w^ith both parties, and have to hear all their cabinet councils and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have committed myself most horribly with both parties, by abusing their oi)ponents. 1 might manage to recon- cile this to my conscience, which is a truly accom- modating one, but I cannot to my apprehensions — if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconcilia- tion, and compare notes, I am ruined ! I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and am actually looking out for some other nest in this great city, where old English manners are still kept up; where French is neither eaten, j drank, danced, nor spoken ; and where there are no I 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, I though a sorrowful adieu to my present ai)ode — and I leave the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trot- [ ters, to divide the distracted empire of Little Britain'. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. G7 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspedre would dream ; The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, For hallowed the turf is which pillowed 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 something 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 ad- vanced 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 tire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a com- pla.ent 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, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I under- stood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as a pillow companion, 1 went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspeare, the Jubilee, and David Garrick. The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which we sometimes have in early spring; for it was about the middle of March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way ; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; and a mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life into nature, and v/ooing eveiy 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 de- light 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 in- stance 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 poach- ing exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box ; which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh ; the sword also with which he played Hamlet ; and the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! There was an ample supply also of Shak- speare 's mulberry-tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross ; of which there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. The most favourite object of curiosity, however, is Shakspeare's chair. It stands in the chimney-nook of a small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching the slowly-revolving spit, with all the longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, listening to the crones and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth church^^ard tales and legendary anec- dotes of the troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the custom of every one who visits the house to sit : whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard, I am at a loss to say ; I merely mention the fact ; and mine hostess privately assured me, that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be new-bottomed at least once in three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the his- tory of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian en- chanter ; 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 very willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men ; and would advise all travel- lers who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to us whether these stories be true or false so long as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality ? There is nothing like resolute good-humoured credu- lity 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, un- luckily for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own composition, which set all belief in her con- sanguinity at defiance. From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embow- ered point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and retired : the river runs murmuring at the foot of the churchyard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously inter- laced, so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown with grass; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half-covered with moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have built their nests ainong the cor- nices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a con- tinual flutter and chirping ; and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty gray spire. In the course of my rambles I met with the gray- headed 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 ex- ception that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, look- ing out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows ; G8 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. and was a jncture of that neatness, order, and com- fort, which perv.ule the humblest dwellings in this country. A low white-washed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served fur parlour, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glit- tered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and polisheil, lay the family bible and prayer-book, and the drawer contained the family libi'ary. com|X)sed of about half a score of well- thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that impor- tant article of cottage furniture, ticked on the oppo- site 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 lire-place, as usual, was wide and deep enough to admit a gos- sip knot within its jambs. In one corner sat the old man's grand-daughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner was a superannu- ated crony, whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his companion from childhood. They had played together in in- fmcy; they had worked together in manhood ; they were now tottering about and gossiping away the evening of life ; and in a short time they will prob- ably be buried together in the neighbouring church- yard. It is not often that we see two streams of ex- istence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side; it is only in such quiet "bosom scenes" of life that they are to be met with. I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard from these ancient chroniclers; but they had nothing new to impart. The long intenal, dur- ing which Shakspeare's writings lay in comparative neglect, has spread its shadow over history ; and it is his good or evil lot, that scarcely any thing re- mains to his biographers but a scanty liandfull of conjectures. The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpenters, on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the pnme mover of the fete, who superintended the ar- rangements, 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 mulberry-tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary conception. I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspeare house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her valuable and inexhaust- ible collection of relics, particularly her remains of the mulberr)-tree ; and the old sexton even ex- pressed a doubt as to Shakspeare having been born in her house. 1 soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb; tlie latter having comparatively but few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the ver)- 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 hmes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly orna- mented with carved doors of massive oak. The in- terior is spacious, and the architecture and embel- lishments superior to those of most country churches. There are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang funeral es- cutcheons, and banners dropping i)iecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakspeare is in the chan- cel. 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 extremely awful. If they are indeed his own. they show that' solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds : Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare To dig the dust inclosed here. Blessed be he that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones. Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely arched forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he was as much characterized among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age at the time of his decease — fifty-three years ; an untimely death for the world : for what fruit might not have been expected from the golden au- tumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissitudes of lite, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favour ! The inscription on the tombstone has not ])een without its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contem- plated. A few years since also, as some labourers 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 the remains so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collect- or of relics, should be tempted to comnut depreda- tions, the old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished, and the aper- ture 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 some- thing, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shak- speare. Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favour- ite daughter Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, is a full-length etTigy of his old friend John Combe, of usurious memory ; on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on any thing that is not connected with Shakspeare. His idea pervades the place — the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence: other traces of him maybe false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the sounding pave- ment, there was something intense and thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shak- speare 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 of- fence of deer-stealing. In this hairbrained ex])loit j we are told that he was taken prisoner, and carried 1 to the keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in I doleful captivity. When brought into the presence I of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have been I galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 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 incensed him, that he appHed to a lawyer at Warwick to put the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer-stalker. Shakspeare did not wait to brave the united puissance of a Knight of the Shire and a country attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon, and his paternal trade ; wandered away to London ; became a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an actor ; and, finally, wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber, and the world gained an immortal poet. He retained, 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 lucesf in the quarterings. Various attempts have been made by his biogra- phers to soften and explain away this early trans- gression of the poet ; but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his situation and turn of mmd. Shakspeare, when young, had doubt- less all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, un- disciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic tem- perament has naturally something in it of the vaga- bond. 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 dra- matic 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 and anomalous characters ; that he as- sociated 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 adventurous.]: The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly interesting from being connected with this whimsical but eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house stood at * The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : A parliament member, a justice of peace, At home a poor scartcrow, at London an asse, If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. He thinks himself great ; Yet an asse in his state, We allow by his ears with but asses to mate. If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it. + The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon, about Charlecot. X A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in his youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his " Pictur- esque 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 yeomanrj' 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, .\mong 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 will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was stag- gered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet little more than three miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from which Shakspeare must have derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. The country was yet naked and leafless ; but En- glish scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of the weather was sur- prising in its quickening effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm breath steal- ing 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 re- viving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. The co'ld snow-drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before the cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves and budding hedges ; the robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain ; and the lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind Shakspeare's exquisite little song in Cymbeline : Hark ! hark ! the lark at heav'n'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 ! Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground : every thing is associated with the idea of Shakspeare. Every old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boyhood, where he had ac- quired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and man- ners, and heard those legendary tales and wild super- stitions which he has woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a popu- lar 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."* My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and windings through a wide and fertile valley : sometimes glittering from among willows, 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 st .nding, and goes by the name of Shakspeare's tree. In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drunk with Piping Pebworth. Dancmg Marston, Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, Drudging 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 is famous for the poverty of its soil." * Scot, in his " Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these fire-side fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull- Leggars, 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-good-fellow, the sporne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hellwaine. the fier drake, the puckie, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowes." 70 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. which fringed its borders; sometimes disappearing among groves, or beneath green baniis ; and some- times rambling out into full view, and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundar)-, whilst all the soft interven- ing landscape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the Avon. After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off into a foot-jjath, which led along the bor- ders of fields and under hedge-rows to a private gate of the park; there was a stile, however, for the ben- efit of the pedestrian ; there being a public right of way through the grounds. 1 delight in these hospita- ble estates, in which ever)' one has a kind of property — at least as far as the foot-path is concerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and what is more, to the better 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 lu.xuriously under the siiade, as the lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of paying for it, and keeping it in order. I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant statue ; and a vagrant deer stalk- ing like a shadow across the opening. There is something about these stately old avenues that has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of long duration, and of having had their origin in a period of time with which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They be- token also the long-settled dignity, and proudly con- centrated independence of an ancient family ; and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend ob- ser\-e, when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that " money could do much with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there was no such thing as suddenly building up an avenue of oaks." It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the ad- joining park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shakspearc's com- mentators have supposed he derived his noble for- est meditations of Jacciues, 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 ol the beauty and majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into reverie and rapture ; vague but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon it ; and we :evel 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 rind 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 voluptuarj' : Under the Rrccn-wood tree, Who loves to lie with me. And tune his merry throat Unto the sweet bird's note, Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. 1 I had now come in sight of the house. It is a i large building of brick, with stone quoins, and is in [the Gothic style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having j been built in the first year of her reign. The exte- rior 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, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbican ; being a kind of outpost, and flanked by towers; though evidently for mere ornament, instead of defence. The front of the house is completely in the old style ; with stone shafted casements, a great bow-window of heavy stonework, and a portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just at the foot of a gently sloping liank, which sweeps down from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon its bor- ders ; and swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable old man- sion, 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. ^^ShaltouK 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 solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court-yard was locked ; there was no show of servants bustling about the place ; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life that I met with, was a white cat, stealing with wary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some nefarious expedi- tion. 1 must not omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain tiiat 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. 1 was courte- ously received by a worthy old housekeeper, 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 ole oaken staircase ; and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still retains much of the appearance it must have had in the days of Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty ; and at one end is a gallery, in which stands an organ. The w'eapons and trophies of the chase, which for- merly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family portraits. There is a wide hospitable fire-place, 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 em- blazoned in stainetl glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many generations, some Ijeing dated in 1558. I was delighted to observe in the quarterings the three white luces by which the char- acter of Sir Thomas was first identified with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. scene. of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the Jus- tice 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 sup- pose 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 abu^e Robert Shallow, Esq. ''Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. '''Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. '"''Slender. Ay, and rataloruiu too, and a gentleman born, mas- ter parson; who writes himself Artnigero 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 i? not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is no fear of Got in a riot : the council, hear you. shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot ; take your vizaments in that. "Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it ! " Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir Peter Lely of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and 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 com- rades had killed the deer. The lands thus lost have 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 fire-place, containing like- nesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who in- habited the hall in the latter part of Shakspeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vindictive 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 meet with the stately elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country 'Squire of former days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural domains ; and in which it might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in av/ful state, when the recreant Shak- * Bishop Earle. speaking of the country gentleman of his tirne, 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 nobility, 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 .VIr. Hastings, remarks, "he kept all sorts of hounds that run, buck, fo.x, hare, otter, and badger ; and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels." speare was brought before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased my- self 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 was brought in, forlorn and chapfallen, in the custody of game-keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of country clowns, I fancied bright faces of curious house-maids 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 thought that this poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority of a country 'Squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the de- light of princes ; the theme of all tongues and ages ; the dictator to the human mind ; and was to confer immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and ar- bour where the Justice treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence "to a last year's pippen of his own graffing, with a dish of carraways ; " but I had al- ready spent so much of the day in my rambling, that I was obliged to give up any farther 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 say we castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the present representative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shakspeare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow impor- tunate 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 ,-idmitted; there is no excuse shall serve; jou shall not be excused * * * * Some pigeons, Davy ; a couple of short-legged hens; a joint of mutton ; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell ' William Cook.'" I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually living among them. Every thing brought them as it were before my eyes ; and as the door of the dining-room opened, I almost expected 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 enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shakspeare I had been walking all day in a complete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetiy, which tinged every object with the hues of the rain- bow. 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 real- ity. I had heard Jacques soliloquize beneath his oak ; had beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring through the woodlands ; and, above all,. 72 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. had been once more present in spirit witli fat Jack Faistaff, and his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, down to the f,'entie Master Slender, and the sweet Anne Pajje. Ten thousand honours and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of lite with innocent illusions; who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures in my cheq- uered i)alh ; 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 re- turn, I paused to contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction which has kept his ashes undis- turbed 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 West- minster Abbey have been, compared with this rev- erend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneli- ness 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, alter 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 fail- ing head begin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the in- fant 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 youth- ful bard, when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should return to it covered with re- nown ; that his name should become the boast and glory of his native place ; that his ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were ti.xed in tearful contemplation, should one day be- come the beacon, towering amidst the gentle land- scape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. ' I appc.ll to any while man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not to e.it ; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him not."— .S>t^<-uld find him linked i ito his fellow man of civilized life bv more of those ■ f sympathies and affections than are usually ascribed to him. i It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged by the white men. They have been dispossessed of their hereditary possessions, by mer- cenary and frequently wanton warfare; and their characters have been traduced by bigoted and inter- ested writers. The colonist has often treated them like beasts of the forest ; and the author has endea- voured to justify him in his outrages. The former found it easier to exterminate than to civilize — the latter to vilify than to discriminate. The appella- tions 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 gxiilty, but because they were ignorant. The rights of the savage have seldom been prop- erly appreciated or respected by the white man. In peace, he has too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war, he has been regarded as a terocious animal, whose life or death was a question of mere precau- tion and convenience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own safety is endangered, and he is sheltered by impunity ; and little mercy is to be ex- pected from him when he feels the sting of the rep- tile, and is conscious of the power to destroy. The same prejudices which were indulged thus early, exist in common circulation at the present day. Certain learned societies have, it is true, with lauda- ble diligence, endeavoured to investigate and record the real characters and manners of the Indian tribes ; the American government, too, has wisely and hu- manely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and for- bearing spirit towards them, and to protect them from fraud and injustice.* The current opinion of the Indian character, however, is too apt to be formed iVom the miserable hordes which infest the frontiers, and hang on the skirts of the settlements. These are too commonly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, without being benefited by its civilization. That proud independence, which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed and daunted by the superior knowledge and power of their enlightened neighbours. Society has advanced upon them like one of those withering airs that will sometimes breathe desolation over a whole region of fertility. It has enervated their strength, multiplied their dis- eases, and superinduced upon their original barbarity the low vices of artificial life. It has given them a thousand supcrfiuous 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 un- trodden 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 vi- cinity of the settlements, and sunk into precarious and vagabond existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in savage life, corrodes their spirits and blights every free and noble quality of their natures. They become drunken. ♦The American povernment has been indefati.^able in its exer- tions to meliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them the arts of civilization, and civil and religions knowl- edge. To protect them from the frauds of the while 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 tlic express sanction of government. These precautions are strictly enforced. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 73 indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like vagrants about the settlements among- spacious dwellings, replete with elaborate comforts, which only render them sensible of the comparative wretchedness of their own condition. Lu.xury spreads its ample board before their eyes ; but they are ex- cluded from the banquet. Plenty revels over the fields ; but they are starving in the midst of its abundance : the whole wilderness has blossomed into a garden ; but they feel as reptiles that infest it. How different was their state, while yet the un- disputed lords of the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means of gratification within their reach. They saw every one round them sharing the same 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 historian 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 better content with their own, which some men esteem so meanly of" Such were the Indians, whilst in the pride and energy of their primitive natures ; they resemble 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 tem- per of true philosophy. They have not suffrciently considered the peculiar circumstances in which the Indians have been placed, and the peculiar princi- ples under which they have been educated. No being acts more rigidly from rule than the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated according to some general maxims early implanted in his mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, but few ; but then he 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 In- dians is their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness with which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to hostilities. The in- tercourse of the white men with the Indians, how- ever, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, and insulting. They seldom treat them with that confidence and frankness which are indispensable to real friendship ; nor is sufficient caution observed not to offend against those feelings of pride or super- stition, which often prompt the Indian to hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest. The solitary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sen- sibilities are not diffused over so wide a surface as those of the white man ; but they run in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his affections, his superstitions, are all directed towards fewer objects ; but the wounds inflicted on them are proportiona- bly severe, and furnish motives of hostility which we cannot sufficiently appreciate. Where a com- munity is also limited m number, and forms one great patriarchal famil}-, as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of the whole ; and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instan- taneously diffused. One council-fire is sufficient for the discussion and arrangement of a plan of hostili- ties. Here all the fighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator 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 charac- ter, is extant in an old record of the early settle- ment of Massachusetts. The planters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead at Passon- agessit, and had plundered the grave of the Sa- chem'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 accurate tradition, have crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, Vjuried perhaps in woods, where the bones of their tribe were anciently deposited ; and there have passed hours in silent meditation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been violated, gathered his men together, and addressed them in the following beau- tifully simple and pathetic harangue ; a curious speci- men of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial piety in a savage. " When last the glorious light of all the sky was underneath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, methought I saw a vis- ion, at which my spirit was much troubled ; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, ' Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take revenge of those wild people, who have defaced my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and honourable customs .'' See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the common people, de- faced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth com- plain, and implores thy aid against this thievish peo- ple, who have newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to get some strength, and recollected my spirits that were fled, and determined to demand your counsel and assistance." I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and generous motives, which our inattention to Indian character and cus- toms prevents our properly appreciating. Another ground of violent outcry against the In- dians, is their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in policy and partly in supersti- tion. 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 fre- quently engaged in warfare ; and many an instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, that had long been formidable to its neighbours, has been broken up and driven away, by the capture and massacre of its principal fighting men. There was a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor to be merciless ; not so much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for future security. The Indians had also the superstitious belief, frequent among bar- barous nations, and prevalent also among the an- cients, that the manes of their friends who had fallen in battle, were soothed by the blood of tho WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. captives. The prisoners, however, who are not thus sacritictd, are adopted into their families in the place of the slain, and are treated with the confidence and affection of relatives and friends ; nay, so hos- pitable and tender is their entertainment, that when the alternative is offered them, they will often prefer to remain with their adopted brethren, rather than return to the home and the friends of their youth. The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been heijj^htened since the colonization of the whites. What was fomierly a compliance with policy and superstition, has been exasperated into a gratifi- cation of vengeance. They cannot but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the gradual destroyers of their race. They go forth to battle, smarting with injuries and indignities which they have individually suffered, and they are driven to madness and despair by the wide-spreading deso- lation, and the overwhelming ruin of European war- fare. 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 modera- tion and magnanimity towards those who have left them nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacherous, because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to open force ; but in this they are fully justified by their rude code of 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 subtilty than open valour, owing to his physical weakness in comparison with other animals. They are endowed with natural weapons of defence : with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons; but man has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his encounters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; and when he perversely turns his hostility against his fellow man, he at first continues the same subtle mode of warlare. 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 induces us to despise the suggestions of prudence, and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the offspring of society, and produced by education. It is honourable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those yearn- ings 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 hv various means. It has been the theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet and minstrel have de- lighted 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 gorgeous pageants have been its reward: monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and opulence its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation's gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially excited, courage has risen to an extraordinar)- 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. j But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance I of danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a con- tinual exhibition of it. He lives in a state of per- ; petual hostility and risk. Peril and adventure are ' congenial to his nature ; or rather seem necessary- to t arouse his faculties and to give an interest to his existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, he is always prepared for fight, and lives with his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in fearful singleness through the solitudes of ocean, — as the bird mingles among clouds and storms, and wings its way, a mere i speck, across the pathless fields of air ; so the Indian i holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions may vie in distance and danger with the i)iigriinage 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 in- land seas, are no obstacles to his wanderings : in his light canoe of bark, he sports like a feather on their waves, and darts with the swiftness of an arrow down the roaring rapids of the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers of the chase ; he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the panther, and the buffaloe ; and sleeps among the thunders of the cataract. No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which he sustains its crudest afflic- tion. Indeed, we here behold him rising 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 surrounding foes, and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in taunting his persecutors, and -ijrovoking their ingenuity of torture ; and as the devouring flames prey on his \ery vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his last song of triumph, breath- ing the defiance of an unconquered heart, and in- voking 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 occasionally to be met with in the rude annals of the eastern prov- inces, 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 homely narratives of the Indian wars in New-England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried into the tribe of the I'equod In- dians. Humanity shrinks from the cold-blooded de- tail 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 I attempting to escape, " all being despatched and ended in the course of an hour." After a series of similar transactions, " our soldiers," as the hlstoiiaii piously ol)ser\'es, " being resolved by God's assist- ance to make a final destruction of them." the un- happy savages being hunted from their homes and fort- resses, 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. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 75 Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair ; with hearts bursting with grief at the de- struction of their tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death to submission. As the night drew on, they were surrounded in their dismal retreat, so as to render escape impracti- cable. Thus situated, their enemy " plied them with shot all the time, by which means many were killed and buried in the mire." In the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day, some few broke through the besiegers and escaped into the woods : " the rest were left to the conquerors, of which many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit still and be shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore for mercy. When the day broke upon this handful! of forlorn, but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, \ve are told, entering the swamp, "saw several heaps of them sitting close together, upon whom they dis- charged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol- bullets at a time ; putting the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of them ; so as, besides those that were found dead, many more were killed and sunk into the mire, and never were minded more by friend or foe." Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, without admiring the stern resolution, the unbend- ing pride, the loftiness of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of human nature? When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, they found the senators clothed in their robes and seated with stern tranquillity in their curule chairs ; in this manner they suffered death without resistance or even supplication. Such conduct was, in them, ap- plauded 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 en- throned in state, from virtue naked and destitute, and perishing obscurely in a wilderness ! But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The eastern tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests that sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of them in the thickly-settled states of New-England, excepting here and there the Indian name of a village or a stream. And such must sooner or later be the fate of those other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and have occasionally been inveigled from their forests to 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 Massachu- setts and Connecticut, and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson; of that gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the Susquehanna ; and of those various nations that flourished about the Potowmac and the Rappahanoc, and that peo- pled 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 forgetful- ness ; and " the places that now know them will know them no more for ever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of them should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the poet, to people in imagination his glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he venture upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness ; should he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled ; driven from their native abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers ; hunted like wild beasts about the earth ; and sent 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 retreat 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, froni his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier, The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear— A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. Campbell. It is to be regretted that those early writers who treated of the discovery and settlement of America, have not given us more particular and candid ac- counts of the remarkable characters that flourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have reached us are full of peculiarity and interest ; they furnish us with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in a comparatively primitive state, and what he owes to civilization. There is something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon these wild and unexplored tracts of human nature ; in witnessing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment ; and perceiving those generous and ro- mantic qualities which have been artificially culti- vated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude magnificence. In civilizecl life, where the happiness, and indeed ahnost the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his fellow men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and peculiar traits of native character are refined away, or softened down by- the levelling influence of what is termed good breeding; and he practises so many petty deceptions, and af- fects so many generous sentiments, for the purposes of popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real, from his artificial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints and refine- ments of polished life, and, in a great degree, a soli- tary 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 de- lighted 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 ex- plore 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 re- corded, with great bitterness, the outrages of the In- dians, and their wars with the settlers of New-En- gland. It is painful to perceive, even from these par- tial narratives, how the footsteps of civilization may be traced in the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the colonists were moved to hostility by the lust of conquest ; how merciless and exterminating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, 76 WORKS OF WASHINX/rON IRVING. how many intillectual beings were hunted from the earth — how many brave and noble hearts, of Nat- ure's sterlinj^' coinage, were broken down and tram- pled in the dust ! Such was the fate of Philip OF PoKANOKET, an Indian warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a number of cotem- porary Sachems, who reigned over the Pecjuods, the Narrhag.msets, the Wampano.igs, and tlie other eastern tribes, at the time of the tirst settlement of New-Eiighmd : a band of native untaught heroes ; who made the most generous struggle of which hu- man nature is capable ; fighting to the last gasp in the cause of their countr)', without a hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of po- etr)', and fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, like gigantic shad- ows, in the dim twilight of tradition.* When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New World, from the religious persecu- tions of the Old, their situation was to the last de- gree 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 excite- ment of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situa- tion 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 numi)er of the strangers, and ex])L-lling them from his territories into which they had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a generous friendship, and extended to- wards them the rites of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to their settlement of New- Plymouth, attended by a mere handfuU of followers ; entered into a solemn league of peace and amity ; sold i them a portion of the soil, and promised to secure for them the good-will of his savage allies. What- ever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. He continued a firm and magnan- imous friend of the white men ; suffering them to extend their possessions, and to strengthen them- selves in the land ; and betraying no jealousy of their increasing power and prosperity. Shortly before his death, he came once more to'New-Plymouth, with his son .Alexander, for the purpose of renewing the covenant of i)eace.and of securing it to his posterity. At this conlerence, he endeavoured to protect the religion of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries ; and stipulated that no farther attempt should be made to draw off his people from their ancient faith ; but, \'md\ns the English obsti- nately opposed to any such condition, he mildly re- lincjuished the demand. /Mmost 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 res- idence of a principal settler, recommending mutual kindness and contidenee ; and entreatingthat the same love and amity which had existed between the white men and himself, might be continued after- wards with his children. The good old Sachem died in jjcace, and was happily gathered to his fathers be- fore sorrow came upon his tribe; his children re- ^ • While correcting the proof-sheets of this .-irticle, the author is inJormed. that .1 celebrated English poet has nearly finished a he- roic poem on the story of Philip of Pok.inoket. mained behind to experience the ingratitude of white men. His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his hereditary rights ^.n(\ dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial conduct of the strangers, excited his indignation ; and he beheld with uneasiness their exterminating wars with the neighbouring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of plotting with the Narrhngansets to rise against the English and drive thetn from the land. It is impossible to say whether this accusation was warranted by facts, or was grounded on mere suspicions. It is evident, how- ever, by the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel con- scious of the rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treatment of the natives. They despatched an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring him before their 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 sovereign dignity, so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud savage, as to throw him into a raging fever ; he was permitted to return home on condition of sending his son as a pledge for his re-appearance ; but the blow he had received was fatal, and before he reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit. The successor of Alexander was Metamocet, or King Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on ac- count of his lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him an object of great jeal- ousy and apprehension, and he was accused of hav- ing always cherished a secret and implacable hostil- ity towards the whites. Such may very probably, and very naturally, have been the case. He consid- ered them as originally but mere intruders into the country, who had presumed upon indulgence, and were extending an influence baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race of his countrymen melting Ijefore them from the face of the earth ; their terri- tories 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 In- dian purchases, in the early periods of colonization ? The Eurojieans always made thrifty bargains, through their superior adroitness in traflk ; and they gained vast accessions of territory, by easily- provoked hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements of law, by which an injury may be gradually and legally in- flicted. Leading facts are all by which he judges ; and it was enough for Philip to know, that before the intrusion of the Europeans his countrymen were lords of the soil, and that now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. But whatever may have been his feelings of gen- eral hostility, and bis 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 indefi- nite, began to acquire form and substance ; 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 • Now Bristol, Rhode Island. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 77 oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to assij^ni the proper credit due to these early accusa- tions ag-ainst 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 impor- tance to every idle tale. Informers 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 rene- gado Indian, whose natural cunning had been quick- ened by a partial education which he had received among the settlers. He changed his faith and his allegiance two or three times, with a facility that evinced the looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as Philip's confidential secre- tary and counsellor, and had enjoyed his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the clouds of adversity were gathering round his patron, he aban- doned 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 sev- eral of his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing was proved against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too far to retract ; they had previously determined that Philip was a dangerous neighbour ; they had publicly evinced their distrust ; and had done enough to insure his hostility: accord- ing, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in tliese cases, his destruction had become necessary to their security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was shortly after found dead in a pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. Three In- dians, one of whom was a friend and counsellor of Philip, were apprehended and tried, and, on the tes- timony of one very questionalile witness, were con- demned and executed as murderers. This treatment of his subjects and ignominious punishment of his friend, outraged the pride and ex- asperated 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 farther 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, exculpat- ing himself from a charge of conspiracy, and receiv- ing assurances of amity, had been perfidiously des- patched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gath- ered his fighting men about him ; persuaded all strangers that he could, to join his cause ; sent the women and children to the Narrhagansets for safety ; and wherever he appeared, was continually sur- rounded by armed warriors. When the two parties were thus in a state of dis- trust and irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous, and committed various petty depredations. In one of their maraud- ings, a warrior was fired upon and killed by a set- tler. This was the signal for open hostilities ; the Indians pressed to revenge the death of their com- rade, and the alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth colony. In the early chronicles of these dark and melan- choly times, we meet with many indications of the diseased state of the public mind. The gloom of re- ligious abstraction, and the wildness of their situa- tion, 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 arm of an Indian bow appeared in the air at New-Plym- outh, which was looked upon by the inhabitants as a " prodigious apparition." At Hadley, North- ampton, and other towns in their neighbourhood, "was heard the report of a great piece of ordnance, with the shaking of the earth and a considerable echo."* Others were alarmed on a still sunshiny morning, by the discharge of guns and muskets ; bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the air, seeming to pass away to the westward ; others fancied that they heard the gal- loping of horses over their heads ; and certain mon- strous births which took place about the time, filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebod- ings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to natural phenomena ; to the northern lights which occur vividly in those latitudes ; the meteors which explode in the air ; the casual rushing of a blast through the top branches of the for- est ; the crash of falling trees or disrupted rocks ; and to those other uncouth sounds and echoes, which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These may have startled some melancholy imag- inations, may have been exaggerated by the love for the 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 civilized men and savages. On the part of the whites, it was conducted witli superior skill and success ; but with a wastefulness of the blood, and a disregard of the natural rights of their antagonists : on the part of the Indians it was waged with the desperation of men fearless of death, and who had nothing to expect from peace, but humiliation, dependence, and decay. The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy clergyman of the time ; who dwells with horror and 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 capa- cious mind, and, had it not been prematurely discov- ered, might have been overwhelming in its conse- quences. 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 fer- tility in expedients ; a contempt of suffering and hard- ship ; and an unconquerable resolution, that com- mand 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 *The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 78 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. were almost impen-ious to anrthinj; but a wild beast | or an Indian. Here he <,'-athercd together his forces, , like the storm accumulating? its stores of mischief in the bosom of the thunder-cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There were now and then indications of these impending ravages, that filled the minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension. The report of a distant gun would pel haps 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 inquiry until he again emerged at some far distant quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his strong-holds were the great swamps or morasses, which extend in some parts of New-England ; composed of loose bogs of deep black mud ; perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds, rendered them almost impracticable to the white man, though the Indian could thread their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great swamp of Pocas- set 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 re- cesses, where they might perish in fens and miry pits, or be shot down by lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance to the neck, and began to build a fort, with the thought of starving out the Ice ; 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. In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehension. The mystery in which he was envel- oped 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 ru- mours and alarms. Philip seemed almost possessed of ubiquity; for, in whatever part of the widely ex- tended frontier an irruption from the forest took place, Philip was said to be its leader. Many super- stitious notions also were circulated concerning him. He was said to deal in necromancy, and to be attend- ed 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 credu- lity, or to act upon that of their followers: and the influence of the projihet and the dreamer over Indian superstiii(.n has been fully evidenced in recent in- stances of savage warfare. At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocassei, his fortunes were in a desperate condition His forces had been thinned bv 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 honour- able 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 coun- tenance and support. This at once drew upon him the hostility of the English ; and it was determined to strike a signal blow, that should involve both the Sachems in one common ruin. A great force was, therefore, gathered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and was sent into the Narrhaganset country in the depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, could be trav- ersed with comparative facility, and would no longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians. Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the greater part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, the women and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress ; where he and Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their forces. This fortress, deemed by the Indians impregnable, was situated upon a rising mound or kind of island, of five or six acres, in the midst of a swamp; it was constructed with a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed in Indian fortification, and indicative of the martial genius of these two chieftains. Guided by a renegado Indian, the English pene- trated, through December snows, to this strong-hold, 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 storm- ing the fortress, sword in hand. The assault was renewed with greater success. A lodgement 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 vete- rans were cut to pieces ; and after a long and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, with a handtuil of sur- viving warriors, retreated from the fort, and took refuge in the thickets of the surrounding forest. The victors set fire to the wigwams and ihe fort ; the whole was soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, the women and the children, perished in the fiames. 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 dwellings, and heard the agonizing cries of their wives and offspring. "Theburningof the wigwams," says a cotemporary writer, " the shrieks and cries of the women and children, and the yelling of the war- riors, exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, so that it greatly moved some of the soldiers." The same writer cautiously adds, " they were in vntck doubt then, and afterwards seriously inquired, whether burning their enemies alive could be consistent with humanity, and the benevolent principles of the gos- pel."* The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of particular mention : the last scene of his life is one of the noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. Broken down in his power and resources by this I signal defeat, yet faithful to his ally and to the hap- ! less cause which he had espoused, he rejected all ' overtures of peace, offered on condition of betraying ♦MS. of the Rev. W. Rugglc; THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. Philip and his followers, and declared that " he would fight it out to the last man, rather than be- come a servant to the English." His home being- destroyed ; his country harassed and laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors ; he was obliged to wander away to the banks of the Connecticut ; where he formed a rallying point to the whole body of western Indians, and laid waste several of the En- glish settlements. Early in the spring, he departed on a hazardous expedition, with only thirty chosen men, to pene- trate to Seaconck, in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed-corn to plant for the sustenance of his troops. This little band of adventurers had passed safely through the Pequod country, and were in the centre of the 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 En- glish and Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past their chieftain, without stop- ping to inform him of the danger. Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. He then sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and affright, told him that the whole British army was at hand. Canonchet saw there was no choice but im- mediate flight. He attempted to escape round the hill, but was perceived and hotly pursued by the hos- tile Indians, and a few of the fleetest of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him to be Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This accident so struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards confessed, " his heart and his bowels turned within him, and he became like a rotten stick, void of strength." To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized by a Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he made no resistance, though a man of great vigour of body and boldness of heart. But on being made prisoner, the whole pride of his spirit arose within him ; and from that moment, we find, in the anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of elevated and prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of the English who first came up with him, and who had not attained his twenty- second year, the proud-hearted warrior, look- ing with lofty contempt upon his youthful counte- nance, replied, " You are a child — you cannot under- stand matters of war — let your brother or your chief come — him will I answer." Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on condition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he rejected them with disdain, and re- fused 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 par- ings 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 Canon- chet was an Indian ; a being towards whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no compas- sion — he was condemned to die. The last words of his that are recorded, are worthy the greatness of his soul. When sentence of death was passed upon him, he observed, " that he liked it well, for he should die before his heart was soft, or he had spoken any thing unworthy of himself." His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for he was shot at Ston- ingham, by three young Sachems of his ov/n rank. The defeat of the Narrhaganset fortress, and the death of Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by stirring up the Mohawks to take arms ; but though possessed of the native tal- ents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the superior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill began to subdue the res- olution of the neighbouring tribes. The unfortu- nate 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 cap- tured ; his chosen friends were swept away from be- fore 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 gradu- ually carried on, his misery was not prevented, but augmented thereby ; being himself made acquainted with the sense and experimental feeling of the cap- tivity 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 sacri- ficing him they might purchase dishonourable safety. Through treachery, a number of his faithful adher- ents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was among them at the time, and attempt- ed to make her escape by crossing a neighbouring river : either exhausted by swimming, or starved with cold and hunger, she was found dead and naked near the water side. But persecution ceased not at the grave: even death, the refuge of _ the wretched, where the wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no protection to this outcast female, whose great crime was affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. Her corpse was the object of unmanly and dastardly vengeance ; the head was severed from the body and set upon a pole, and was thus exposed, at Taunton, to the view of her captive subjects. They immediately 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 lamenta- tions." However Philip had borne up against the compli- cated miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despondency. It is said that " he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had success in any of his designs." The spring of hope was broken — the 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 followers, 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 80 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family, and friend. Tliere needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous situation, than that furnished by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favour of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. " Philip," he says, " like a savage wild beast, having been hunted by the English forces througli the woods above a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death came by divine permis- sion to execute vengeance upon him." Even at this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence over his blasted for- tunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. De- feated, but not dismayed — crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce satisfac- tion 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 sub- mission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers, who proposed an ex- pedient 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 fur)^ and despair. Before he was aware of their approach, they had begun to surround him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet ; all resistance was vain ; he rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt 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 unfortu- nate King Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonoured when dead. If, however, we con- sider even the prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty character, sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate and respect for his memor\'. We rind, 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 friend- ship. The captivity of his "beloved wife and only son " is mentioned with exultation, as causing him poignant misery: the death of any near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensi- bilities ; 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 be- reavetl him of all farther comfort. He was a patriot, attached to his native soil— a prince true to his sub- jects, and indignant of their wrongs— a soldier, diring in battle, finn in adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had es'poused. Proud of heart, and with an untameable love of natural liberty, be 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 luxur>- of the settle- ments. With heroic qualities and bold achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior, and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the histo- rian ; he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native l.nnd, and went down, like a lonelv 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 fong, made by an aged old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks. And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. Like an old courtier, iS:c. Old Song. There is no species of humour in which the En- glish more excel, than that which consists in carica- turing and giving ludicrous appellations or nick- names. In this way they have whimsically desig- nated, 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 famil- iar, that they hav'e embodied their national oddities in the figure of a sturdv, corpulent old fellow, v>ith a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most private foi- bles in a laughable point of view ; and have been so successful in their delineation, that there is scarcely a being in actual existence more absolutely present to the public mind, than that eccentric personage, John Pull. Perhaps the continual contemplation of the char-" acter thus drawn of them, has contributed to fix it upon the nation ; and thus to give reality to \vhat at first may have been painted in a great measure from the imagination. Men are apt to acquire peculiari- ties that are continually ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem wonderfully capti- vated with the beau ideal which they have formed of John Bull, and endc;avour to act up to the broad car- icature that is perpetually before their eyes. Unluck- ily, they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or grossness ; and this I have especially noticed among those truly home- bred and genuine sons of the soil who have never migrated beyond the sound of Bow-bclls. 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 Hies into an unreasonable burst of pas- sion about trifies, he observes that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his passion is over in a moment, and he bears no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insensibility to foreign refinements, he thanks Heaven for his ignorance — he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and knicknacks. His very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay extravagantly for absurdities, s excused under the plea of munificence — for John is always more generous than wise. Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will con- trive to argue every fault into a merit, and will frank- ly 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 THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 81 themselves to each other ; and a stranger who wishes to study English peculiarities, may gather much val- uable information from the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the carica- ture-shops. Still, however, he is one of those fertile humorists, that are continually throwing out new portraits, and presenting different aspects from dif- ferent points of view ; and, often as he has been de- scribed, 1 cannot resist the temptation to give a slight sketcli of him, such as he has met my eye. John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter-of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich prose. There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humour more than in wit ; is jolly rather than gay ; melancholy rather than morose ; can easi- ly 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 pro- pensity to be somev/hat too ready. He is a busy- minded personage, who thinks not merely for him- self and family, but for all the country round, and is most generally disposed to be every body's cham- pion. He is continually volunteering his services to settle his neighbours' affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter of consequence without asking his advice ; though he seldom en- gages in any friendly office of the kind without fin- ishing 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 sci- ence 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 neigh- bours, 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 coun- try, that no event can take place, without infringing some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in his little domain, with these filaments stretching forth in every direction, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old spider, who has woven his web over a whole chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling his repose, and 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 contention. It is one of his peculiari- ties, however, that he only relishes the beginning of an affray ; he always goes into a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling even when victorious ; and though no one fights with more obstinacy to carry a contested point, yet, when the battle is over, and he comes to the reconciliation, he is so much taken up with the mere shaking of hands, that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all that they have been 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 a stout ship, which will weather the rough- est 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 6 bravely about at boxing-matches, horse-raceo, 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 reluc- tance ; paying to the uttermost farthing, but accom- panying eveiy guinea with a growl. With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful provider, and a hospitable house-keeper. His economy is of a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how he may afford to be extrava- gant ; 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 neigh- bours on the next. His domestic establishment is enormously expen- sive : not so much from any great outward parade, as from the great consumption of solid beef and pudding ; the vast number of followers he feeds and clothes ; and his singular disposition to pay hugely for small services. He is a most kind and indulgent master, and, provided his servants humour his pecul- iarities, flatter his vanity a little now and then, and do not peculate grossly on him before his face, they may manage him to perfection. Every thing that Uves on him seems to thrive and grow fat. His house servants are well paid, and pampered, and have little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and prance slowly before his state carriage ; and his house-dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will hardly bark at a house-breaker. His family mansion is an old castellated manor- house, gray with age, and of a most venerable, though weather-beaten, appearance. It has been built upon no regular plan, but is a vast accumula- tion of parts, erected in various tastes and ages. The centre bears evident traces of Saxon architect- ure, and is as solid as ponderous stone and old En- glish oak can make it. Like all the relics of that style, it is full of obscure passages, intricate mazes, and dusky chambers ; and though these have been partially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many places where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have been made to the original edifice from time to time, and great alterations have taken place ; towers and battlements have been erected during wars and tumults ; wings built in time of peace ; and out-houses, lodges, and 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 en- tire wing is taken up with the family chapel ; a reverend pile, that must once have been exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of having been al- tered and simplified at various periods, has still a look of solemn religious pomp. Its walls within are storied with the monuments of John's ancestors ; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions and well-lined chairs, where such of his family as are inclined to church services, may doze comfortably in the discharge of their duties. To keep up this chapel, has cost John much money ; but he is staunch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the circumstance that many dissent- ing 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 expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. 82 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. He is a most learned and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred Christian, who always l)acks the old gentleman in his opinions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the children when refrac- tory, 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 grum- bling. The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn magnificence of former times ; fitted up with rich, though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of massy, gorgeous old plate. The vast fire-places, ample kitchens, extensive cel- lars, and sumptuous bancjueting halls, — all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which the modem festivity at the manor-house is but a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of rooms ap- parently 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 thoroughly overhauled, and to have some of the useless parts pulled down, and the others strength- ened with their materials ; but the old gentleman always grows testy on this subject. He swears the house is an excellent house — that it is tight and weather-proof, and not to be shaken by tempests — that it has stood for several hundred years, and therefore, is not likely to tumble down now— that as to its being inconvenient, his family is accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be comfortable without them— that as to its unwieldy size and ir- regular construction, these result from' its being the growth of centuries, and being improved by the wisdom of every generation— that an old family, like his, requires a large house to dwell in ; new, upstart families may live in modern cottages and snug boxes, but an old English family should inhabit an old English manor-house. If you point out any part of the 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 dignity of an ancient and hon- ourable family, to be bounteous in its appomtmenls, and to l)e eaten up by dependants ; and so, partly from pride, and partly from kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter and mainte- nance to his superannuated servant^. The conseciuence is, that, like manv other venera- ble family establishments, his manor'is en:umbered by old retainers whom he cannot turn off, and an old style which he cannot lay down. His mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, and. with all its magnitude, is not a whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use in hnusing some useless personage. Groups of veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired heroes of the buttery and the larder, are seen lolling about its walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches at its doors. Every office and out-house is garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their families; for they are amazingly prolific, and when they die ofT, are sure to leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be pro- vided for. A mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldenng tumble-down tower, hut out pops, from some ciannv or loophole, 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 with- stand ; 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 pad- docks, where his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze undisturbed for the remainder of their existence — a worthy example of grateful recollec- tion, 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 quali- ties, 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 encumbrances, to a whimsical extent. His manor is infested by gangs of gipsies; yet he will not suffer them to be driven off, because they have infested the place time out of mind, and been regular poachers upon every gener- ation of the family. He will scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from the great trees that sur- round the house, lest it should molest tlie rooks, that have bred there for centuries. Owls have taken possession of the dovecote ; but they are hereditary owls, and must not be disturbed. Swallows have nearly choked up every chimney with their nests ; martins build in every frieze and cornice ; crows flutter about the towers, and perch on every weather- cock ; and old gray-headed rats may be seen in every quarter of the house, running in and out of their holes undau -.tedly in broad daylight. In short, I John has such a reverence for every thing that has j been long in the family, that he will not hear even of abuses being reformed, because they are good old family abuses. I All these whims and habits have concurred wo- fully to drain the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself on punctuality in money matters, and wishes to maintain his credit in the neighbourhood, they have caused him great perplexity in meeting his engagements. This, too, has been increased by the altercations and heartburnings which are con- tinually taking place in his family. His children have been brought up to different callings, and are of dilferent ways of thinking; and as they have always been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do not fail tc exercise the privilege most clam- orously in the present posture 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 state, whatever may be the cost ; others, who are more prudent and considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench his expenses, and to put his whole system of housekeeping on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their wholesome ad- vice has been completely defeated by the obstreper- ous conduct of one of his sons. This is a noisy rattle- pated fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects his business to freciuent ale-houses — is the orator of vil- lage clubs, and a complete oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants. No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention reform or retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes the words out of their mouths, and roars out for an overturn. When his tongue is once going, nothing can stop it. He rants about the room ; hectors the old man about his spend- thrift 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 • THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 83 send the fat chaplain packing and take a fielr!- preacher in his place — nay, that the whole family mansion shall be levelled with the ground, and a plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He rails at every social entertainment and family festiv- ity, and skulks away growling- to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives up to the door. Though constantly complaining of the emptiness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket- money m these tavern convocations, and even runs up scores for the liquor over which he preaches about his father's extravagance. It may readily be imagined how little such thwart- ing agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has become so irritable, from repeated crossings, that the mere mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter is too sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run so high, that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer who has served abroad, but is at present living at home, on half-pay. This last is sure to stand by the old gentleman, right or wrong; likes nothing so much as a racketing roistering 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 men- tioned. They all " hope that matters are not so bad with him as represented; but when a man's own children begin to rail at his extravagance, things must be badly managed. They understand he is mortgaged over head and ears, and is continually dabbling with money-lenders. He is certainly an open-handed old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too fast ; indeed, they never knew any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, revelling, and prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very 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 embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and smug rosy face, which he used to present, he has of late become as shrivelled and shrunk as a frostbitten 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 cud- gel, 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 whis- thng 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 j his house or to buy another estate ; and, with a vali- ant sw^agger and grasping of his cudgel, longs ex- ceedingly to have another bout at quarterstaff. Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's I situation, without strong feelings of interest. With all his odd humours and obstinate prejudices, he is a I sterling-hearted old blade. He may not be so won- ' derfully 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, home- bred, and unaffected. His very faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His extravagance ' savours of his generosity ; his quarrelsomeness, of I his courage ; his credulity, of his open faith ; his [ vanity, of his pride ; and his bluntness, of his sin- ' cerity. 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 i abounds with excrescences in proportion to the ' growth and grandeur of the timber ; and whose branches make a fearful groaning and murmuring in the least storm, from their very magnitude and i luxuriance. There is something, too, in the appear- ' ance of his old family mansion, that is extremely ' poetical and picturesque ; and, as long as it can be j 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 serv- I ice ; but many, I fear, are mere levellers, who, when they had once got to work with their mattocks on I the venerable edifice, would never stop until they ; had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried j themselves among the ruins. All that I wish, is, ' that John's present troubles may teach him more I prudence in future ; that he may cease to distress ' his mind about other people's affairs; that he may ! give up the fruitless attempt to promote the good cf his neighbours, and the peace and happiness of the world, by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at home ; gradually get his house into repair ; cultivate his rich estate according to his fancy ; hus- band his income — if he thinks proper ; bring his un- ruly 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. THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. May no wolf 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 counties of England, I had struck into one of those cross-roads that lead through the more se- cluded parts of the country, and stopped one after- noon at a village, the situation of which was beauti- fully 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 neighbour- ing scener}\ My ramble, as is usually the case v^ith travellers, soon led me to the church, which stood at a little distance from the village. Indeed, it was an object 84 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING of some curiosity, its old tower being completely overrun with hy, so that only here and there a jut- ting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fantastically carved ornament, peered through the verdant cover- ing. It was a lovely evening. Th» early part of the day had been dark and showery, but in the after- noon 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 melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a good Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his decline, an assurance that he will rise again in glory. 1 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 tjiose who were dead — and indulging in that kind of melancholy fancying, which has in it something sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and then, the stroke of a bell from the neighbouring tower fell on my ear ; its tones were in unison with the scene, and instead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings ; and it was some time before I recollected, that it must be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the tomb. Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village green ; it wound slowly along a lane ; was lost, and 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 before, bearing a chaplet of white flowers ; a token that the deceased was a young and unmar- ried 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. Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral senice : for who is so fortunate as never to have followed some one he has loved to the tomb ? but when performed over the remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the bloom of existence — what can be more affecting? At that simple, but most solemn consignment of the bodv to the grave— •' Earth to earth— ashes to ashes— dust to dust ! " the tears of the youthful companions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the assurance, that the dead are blessed which die in the Lord ; but the mother only thought of her child as a flower of the field, cut down and withered in the midst of its sweetness: she was like Rachel, ' mourning over her children, and would not be comforted."' On returning to the inn, I learnt the whole story of the deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been told. She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Her father had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in circumstances. This was an only child, and brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity ol rural life. She had been the pupil of the villnge pastor, the favourite lamb of his little flock. The good man watched over her edu- cation with paternal care ; it was limited, and suita- ble to the sphere in which she was to move ; for he only sought to make her an ornament to her station in lile, not to raise her above it. The tenderness and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption from all ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grace and delicacy of character that accorded with the fragile loveliness of her form. She ap- peared like some tender plant of the garden, bloom- I ing accidentally amid the hardier natives of the fields. The superiority of her charms was felt and ac- knowledged 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 greensward : nothing she does or seems, But smacks of something greater than herself; Too noble for this place.' The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still retains some vestiges of uid English cus- toms. 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 pro- moted by its present pastor ; who was a lover of old customs, and one of those simple Christians that think their mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good will among mankind. Under his auspices the INIay-pole stood from year to year in the centre of the village green ; on May-day it w^as dec- orated with garlands and streamers ; and a queen or lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, and distribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque situation of the village, and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes, would often attract the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on one May-day, w'as a young officer, whose regiment had been recently quartered in the neighbourhood. He was charmed with the nati\-e 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 beauti- ful 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 the voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every word, and look, and action — these form the true eloquence of love, and can always be felt and understood, but never described. Can we wcMider that they should readily win a heart, young, guile- less, and susceptible.'' As to her, she loved almost unconsciously ; she scarcely inquired what was the growing passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, or what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked not to the future. When pres- ent, his looks and words occupied her whole atten- tion ; when absent, she thought but of what had passed at their recent interview. She would wan- der with him through the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to see new beauties in nature ; he talked in the language of po- lite and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear the witcheries of romance and poetry. Perhaps there could not have been a passion, be- tween the sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant figure of her youthful admirer, and the THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 85 splendour of his military attire, might at first have charmed her eye ; but it was not these that had cap- tivated her heart. Her attachment had something in it of idolatry ; she looked up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt in his society the en- thusiasm of a mind naturally delicate and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen perception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinctions of rank and fortune, she thought nothing; it was the difference of intellect, of 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 down- cast look of mute delight, and her cheek would man- tle with enthusiasm ; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly with- drawn, and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative unworthiness. Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his pas- sion was mingled with feelings of a coarser nat- ure. He had begun the connexion 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 self- ish by a wandering and a dissipated life: it caught fire from the very dame it sought to kindle ; and be- fore he was aware of the nature of his situation, he became really in love. What was he to do? There were the old obsta- cles which so incessantly occur in these heedless at- tachments. His rank in life — the prejudices of titled connexions — his dependence upon a proud and un- yielding father— all forbad him to think of matri- mony : — but when he looked down upon this inno- cent being, so tender and confiding, there was a purity in her manners, a blamelessness in her life, and a bewitching modesty in her looks, that awed down every licentious feeling. In vain did he try to fortify himself, by a thousand heartless examples of men of fashion, and to chill the glow of generous sentiment, with that cold derisive levity with which he had heard them talk of female virtue ; whenever he came into her presence, she was still surrounded by that mysterious, but impassive charm of virgin purity, in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought can live. The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to the continent, completed the confusion of his mind. He remained for a short time in a state of the most painful irresolution ; he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until the day for marching was at hand ; when he gave her the intelligence in the course of an evening ramble. The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It broke in at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked upon it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with the guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom and kissed the tears from her soft cheek, nor did he meet with a repulse, for there are moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness, which hallow the caresses of affec- tion. He was naturally impetuous, and the sight of beauty apparently yielding in his arms, the confidence of his power over her, and the dread of losing her for ever, all conspired to overwhelm his better feelings — he ventured to propose that she should leave her home, and be the companion of his for- tunes. 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 proposals flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was withering. She did not weep — she did not break forth into reproaches — 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 clasp- ing 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 ten- derness. Yet, amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and village simplicity— the white cottage — the footpath along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm and lis- tening 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. Paintings and hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld from her window the march of the departing troops. She had seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in tri- umph, 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, melan- choly. 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 sorrov/ 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 spiritual, and, looking after her, would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding. She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had enter- tained resentment against her lover, it vv^as extin- guished. She was incapable of angry passions, and in a moment of saddened tenderness she penned him a farewell letter. It was couched in the simplest language, but touching from its very simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and did not con- ceal from him that his conduct was the cause. She even depicted the sufferings which she had ex- perienced ; 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, and 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 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 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 slie was seated between them one Sunday afternoon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and the soft air that stole in. brought with it the fragrance of the cluster- ing 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 the joys of heaven ; it seemed to have diffused com- fort and serenity through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village church — the bell had tolled for the evening service — the last villager was ''^og'"R i"to the porch — and every thing had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over some faces, had given to hers the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue eye. — Was she thinking of her faithless lover? — or were her thoughts wandering to that distant churchyard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered } Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horse- man galloped to the cottage — he dismounted before the wmdow— the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her chair: — it was her repentant lover ! He rushed into the house, and flew to clasp her to his bosom ; but her wasted form — her death- like countenance — so wan, yet so lovely in its deso- lation — smote him to the soul, and he threw himself in an agony at her feet. She was too laint to rise — she attempted to extend her trembling hand— her lips moved as if she spoke, but no worcl 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 con- scious have but little novelty to recommend them. In the present rage also for strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and insignificant, but they interested me strongly at the time ; and, taken in connection with the affecting ceremony which 1 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 bet- ter 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. Ever- greens, however, had been planted about the grave of the village favourite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. The church door was open, and I stepped in.— There hung the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral : the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen many monuments, where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sym- pathy 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 secm'd in love, The lusty sap began to move. Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines, And birds had drawn their valentines. The jealous trout that low did lie. Rose at a well dissembled fly. There stood my friend, with patient skill. Attending of his trembling quill. Sir H. Wotton. It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run away from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring life, from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I 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 com- pany with a knot of friends in America, and, more- over, 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 ful- ness of his equipments ; being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. He wore a broad - skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters ; a basket slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod ; a landing net, and a score of other inconveniences only to be found in the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of stare and wonder- ment 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 highlands of the Hudson — a most unfortunate place for the execution of those piscatory tactics which had been invented along the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was one of those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to fill the sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the trees threw their broad balancing sprays ; and lon<^- nameless weeds hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping with diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs ; and after this termagant career, would steal forth into open day with the most placid de- mure face imaginable ; as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after filling her home with uproar and ill-humour, come dimpling out of doors, swimming, and curtsying, and smiling upon all the world. How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such times, through some bosom of green meadow land, among the mountains; where the quiet was only interrupted by the occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among the clover, or the sound of a wood-cutter'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 1 had completely "satisfied the sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is something like poetry — a man must be bom to it. I hooked myself instead of the fish ; tangled my line Ln every tree ; lost my bait ; broke THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 87 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 fecHng that had bewitched me, and not the j^assion for angling. My companions, however, were more persevering in their delusion. 1 have them at this moment before my eyes, stealing along the border of the brook, where it lay open to the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising with hollow scream, as they break in upon his rarely-invaded haunt ; the king- tisher 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 off the stone or log on which he is sunning himself; and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and spreading an alarm throughout the watery world around. I recollect, also, that, after toiling and watching and creeping about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any success, in spite of all our admira- ble 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. But above all, I recollect the " good, honest, wholesome, hungry " repast, which we made under a beach-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 milk-maid, 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 Hows down from the Welsh hills and throws itself into the Dee, my atten- tion was attracted to a group seated on the margin. On approaching, I found it to consist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very much, but very carefully patched, betokening pover- ty, honestly come by, and decently maintained. His face bore the marks of former storms, but present fair weather ; its furrows had been worn into a habitual smile ; his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had altogether the good-humoured air of a constitutional philosopher, who was disposed to take the world as it went. One of his companions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to any gentleman's fish-pond in the neighbourhood in the darkest night. The other was a tall, awk- ward, country lad, with a lounging gait, and appar- ently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was busied examining the maw of a trout which he had just killed, to discover by its contents what insects were seasonable for bait ; and Vv'as lecturing on the subject to his companions, who appeared to listen with infinite deference. I have a kind feeling to- ward 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 the'r inoffensive fraternity. "Take goode hede," sayth this honest little tretyse, " that m going about your disportes ye open no man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall not use this foresaid crafti disport for no covetousness to the increasing 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 an- gler 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 skimming it lightly along a little rapid ; sometimes casting it into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank, in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile, he was giving instructions to his two disciples ; showing them the manner in which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, and play them along the surface of the stream. The scene brought to my mind the instructions of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The country around was of that pas- toral 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 in- ferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows. The day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and sunshiny ; with now and then a soft dropping shower, that sowed the whole earth with diamonds. I soon fell mto 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, par- ticularly in Savannah, where he had entered into trade, and had been ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He had afterwards experienced many ups and downs in life, until he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by a cannon-ball, at the battle of Camperdown. This was the only stroke of real good fortune he had ever experienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with some small paternal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his native village, where he lived quietly and independently, and de- voted the remainder of his life to the " noble art of angling." I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frank- ness 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 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 * From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more industiious and devout employment than it is generally considered. " For when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge, ye will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, which might let you of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinpe eflfectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydleness, which is a princi- pall cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is right well known." 8S WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. and mag^nanimity cnou<^h, 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, gentleman-like personages of the place. In taking him under his care, therefore, the old man had prob- ably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room, and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of ex- pense. There is certainly something in angling, if we could forget, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures indicted on worms and insects, that tends to produce a gentleness of spirit, and a pure serenity of mind. As the English are methodical even in their recreations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, it has been reduced among them to perfect rule and system. Indeed, it is an amusement peculiarly adapt- ed to the mild and cultivated scenery of England, where every roughness has lieen softened away from the landscape. It is delightful to saunter along those limpid streams which wander, like veins of silver, through the bosom of this beautiful country ; leading one through a diversity of small home scenery ; some- times winding through ornamented grounds ; some- limes brimming along through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled with sweet-smelling tlow- ers ; sometimes venturing in sight of villages and ham- lets ; 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 whistle of the peasant ; or perhaps the vagaiy of some hsh, leaping out of the still water, and skim- ming transiently about its glassy surface. " When I would beget content," says Izaak Walton, "and in- crease confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, 1 will walk the mead- ows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other little living creatures that are not only created, but fed, (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in him." I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the same innocent and happy spirit : Let me live h.irmlcssly, .-ind 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 Hleak, or Uace. And on the world and my creator think : While some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace ; And others spend their time in base excess Of wine, or worse, in war or wantonness. Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill, So I the fields and meadows green may view, And dailv 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 inquired after his place of abode, and happening to be in the neighbour- hood of the village a lew evenings afterwards. I had the curiosity to seek him out. I found him living in a small cottage, containing only one room, but a per- fect curiosity in its method and arrangement. It was on the skirts of the village, on a green bank, a little back from the road, with a small garden in front, stocked with kitchen-herbs, and adorned with a few ■flowers. The whole front of the cottage was over- run 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 ♦J. Davors. having been acquired on the berth-deck of a man-of- war. A hammock was slung from the ceiling, which in the day-time was lashed up so as to take but little room. From the centre of the chamber hung a model of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table, and a large sea-chest, formed the prin- cipal moveables. About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such as Admiral Hosier's Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom Bowling, intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, among which the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place. The man- telpiece was decorated with seashclls; over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of most bitter-looking naval commanders. H is implements for angling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the room. On a shelf was arranged his library, containing a work on angling, much worn ; a bible covered with canvas ; an odd volume or two of \'oy- ages ; a nautical almanac ; and a book of songs. His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated himself, in the course of one of his voyages ; and which uttered a variety of sea phrases, with the hoarse rattling tone of a veteran boatswain. The establishment reminded me of that of the re- nowned Robinson Crusoe ; it was kept in neat order, every thing being "stowed away" with the regu- larity of a ship of war ; and he informed me that he " scoured the deck every morning, and swept it be- tween meals." I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolutions in an iron ring, that swung in the centre of his cage. He had been angling all day, and gave me a history of his sport with as much minuteness as a general would talk over a campaign ; being particularly animated in relating the manner in which he had taken a large trout, which had completely tasked all his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the inn. How comforting it is to see a cheerful and content- ed 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 circum- stances ; for he had that inexhaustible good-nature, which is the most precious gift of Heaven ; spreading itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather. On inquiring farther about him, I learnt that he was a universal favourite in the village, and the oracle of the tap-room ; where he delighted the rus- tics with his songs, and, like Sinbad, astonished them with his stories of strange lands, and shipwrecks, and sea-fights. He was much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neighbourhood ; had taught several of them the art of angling; and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being principally pass- ed al)out the neighbouring streams, when the weather and season were favoural^le ; and at other times he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing tackle for the next campaign, or manut'acturing rods, nets, and flies, for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his particular request that when he died he should be buried in a green spot, which he could see from his seat in church, and which he had marked out ever since he was a boy, and had thought THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 89 of when far from home on the rag'ing sea, in danger of being food for the fishes — it was the spot where his father and mother had been buried. I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ; but 1 could not refrain from drawing the pict- ure of this worthy " brother of the angle ;" who lias 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 DIEDRICH 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 flushing round a summer sky. Castle of Indolence. In the bosom of one of those spacioi^s 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 w^here 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 gen- erally and properly known by the name of Tariy Town. This name was given it, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their hus- bands 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 quiet- est 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 tran- quillity. I 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 distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. From the listless repose of the place, and the pe- culiar character of its inhabitants, who are descend- ants 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 coun- try. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the settle- ment ; 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 Hud- son. 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 frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neigh- bourhood 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 valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church that is at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most au- thentic 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 day- break. Such is the general purport of this legendary su- perstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows ; and the spectre is known at all the country firesides, by the name of The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. It is remarkable, that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabit- ants 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 imaginative— to dream dreams, and see ap- paritions. I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New-York, that population, manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this 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 rid- ing quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbour, undisturbed by the rush of the pass- ing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its shel- tered bosom. In this by-place of nature there abode, in a re- mote period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he ex- pressed it, "tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the pur- 90 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. pose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which suppHes the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of fron- tier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The cog- nomen 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 a cornfield. His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs ; the windows i)artly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of copy- l)ooks. 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 eelpot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleas- ant 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 les- sons, might be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command ; or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious m.an, 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, tliat he was one of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of their subjects ; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity ; taking the burthen 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 consolatoiy to the smarting urchin, that " he wouUl remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live." When school hours were over, ho was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holyday 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 anaconda ; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed. With these he lived 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 con- sider the costs of schooling a grievous burthen, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter la- bours of their farms ; helped to make hay ; mended the fences ; took the horses to water ; drove the cows from pasture ; and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway, with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favour in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the children, particu- larly 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 witii 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 galler}', 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 make-shifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly der.ominated " by hook and by crook," the worthy ])edagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who un- derstood nothing of the labour of head-work, to have a wonderful easy life of it. The schoolmaster is generally a man of some im- portance in the female circle of a rural neighbour- hood ; being considered a kind of idle gentleman- like personage, of vastly superior taste and accom- plishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appear- ance, therefore, 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 sweetmeats, or, per- adventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays ! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees ; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill- pond ; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house ; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, more- over, 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 Math- er'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 shrewd- ness and simple credulity. His appetite for the mar- vellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; and both had been increased by his THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 91 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 dismiss- ed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that whim- pered by his school-house, and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of 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 farm-house where he happened to be quartered, eveiy sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination : 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 fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncom- mon brightness would stream across his path ; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; — and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, "in linked sweet- ness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and 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 Hol- low, as they sometimes called him. He would de- light them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut ; and would frighten them wofully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars, and with the alarming fact that the world did abso- lutely 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 trembling ray of light stream- ing across the waste fields from some distant win- dow ! — How often was he appalled by some shrub cov- ered with snow, which like a sheeted spectre beset his ver}' 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 tramping close behind him ! — and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howl- ing among the trees, in the idea that it was the gal- loping 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 *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. shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight 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 perplexity to mortal man, than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together; and that was — a woman. Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a 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-greai-grand mother 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 pa- ternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a per- fect 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 these, 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 strong-hold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, shel- tered, 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 spark- ling away through the grass, to a neighbouring brook, that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farm-house was avast barn, that might ha\e served for a church ; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm ; the flail was busily resound- ing within it from morning to night ; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and cooing, and bowing about the'ir 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 were 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 housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman ; clapping his bur- nished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart — sometimes tearing 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 92 WORKS OF WASHIN'GTON IRVING. liimsclf every roasting- pij:^ runnin£]f about, w'nh a pudding in its belly, and an apple in its mouth ; the pig-eons were snu-^ly 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 juicv 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 himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burthened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his imagina- tion expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented lo him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with Eots and kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld imself 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 com])lete. It was oiie of those sj)acious farm-houses, with high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers. The low projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in Ijad 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 wonderful Ichaljod entered the hall, v.hich formed the centre of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of w-ool, 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 ac- companying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch shells decorated the mantelpiece ; strings of various coloured birds' eggs were suspended above it ; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a comer cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well- mended china. From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only studv was how to gain the affec- tions of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difTiculties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had any thing but giants, en- chanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily con- quered adversaries, to contend with ; and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the castle-keep, where the lady of his heart was confined ; all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were for ever presenting new difficulties and impediments, and he had to encoun- ter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, 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, roystering blade, of the name of Abrahann, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the countr)- 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 arro- gance. 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 horse- manship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tar- tar. He was foremost at all races and cock-fights, and with the ascendancy w-hich bodily strength al- ways 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 overbearing rough- ness, there was a strong dash of waggish good- humour at bottom. He had three or four boon com- panions 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 merri- ment for miles round. In cold weather, he was dis- tinguished 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, whisk- ing about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at mid- night, with whoop and lialloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks, and the old dames, startled out of their sleeo, 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 aw-e, admiration, and good-will ; and when any madcap prank, or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not alto- gether 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 hin master was courting, or, as it is termed, " spark- ing," 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. THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 93 fie had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack— yielding-, but tough ; though he bent, he never broke ; and though he bowed be- neath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away — ^jerk ! — he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. To have taken the field openly against his rival, would have been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating man- ner. 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 ; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and like a reasonable man, and an excellent father, let her have her way in every thing. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage the poul- try ; 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. 1 profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been mat- ters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access ; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be cap- tured in a thousand different ways. It is a great tri- umph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for a man must battle for his fortress at eveiy door and window. He that wins a thousand com- mon hearts, is therefore entitled to some renown ; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones ; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his ad- vances, the interests of the former evidently de- clined : his horse was no longer seen tied at the pal- ings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the perceptor of Sleepy Hollow. Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and settled their pretensions to the lady, ac- cording to the mode of those most concise and sim- ple reasoners, the knights errant of yore — by single combat ; but Ichabod was too conscious of the supe- rior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him ; he had overheard the boast of Bones, that he would "double the schoolmaster up, and put him on a shelf; " and he was too wary to give him an op- portunity. There was something extremely provok- ing 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 domains ; smoked out his singing-school, by stopping up the chimney ; broke into the school- house at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned every thing topsy-turvy ; so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held their meet- ings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning 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, with- out producing any material effect on the relative situations of the contending powers. On a fine au- tumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat en- throned 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 des- potic 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 all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school-door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making, or " quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and having delivered his message with that air of im- portance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the 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 application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside, with- out 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 youngimps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early emancipation. The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half-hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and ar- ranging his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school-house. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had outlived almost every thing but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was 94 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. \ 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's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country. ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees 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 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 nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp i overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth elbow's suick out like grasshoppers' ; 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 trapping 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 Ichabol and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of Hans \'an Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad day- light. 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 ten- derer kind had been nipped by the frosts into bril- liant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighbouring stubble field. The small birds were taking their farewell ban- quets. In the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock- robin, the favourite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note, and the twittering l>lackbirds 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 underclothes, screaming and chat- tering, nodding, and bobbing, and bowing, and pre- tending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove. As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with 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 co- verts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins lying be- neath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun. and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies ; and anon he i)assed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odour of the bee- hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slap-jacks, well buttered, 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 throng- ed with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old fanners, a spare leathern-faced race, in home- spun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, with- ered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pin- cushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the out- side. 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 in- novations. 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 procure an eelskin 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 himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state 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 heap- ed-up platters of cakes of various and almost inde- scribable kinds, known only to experienced 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 ([uinces ; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy- piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of 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 and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate | a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. every dainty. Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts | He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart and " sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the . dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 95 cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating, as some men's do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling- his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendour. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school-house ; 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 expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to " fall to, and help themselves." And now the sound of the music from the com- mon room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray-headed negro, who had been the itnerant orchestra of the neighbourhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped away on two or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head ; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought St. 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 delight at the scene ; rolling their white eye-balls, 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 smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner. When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was at- tracted 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 drawling 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 kind 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 master of defence, parried a musket-ball with a small-svvord, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at the hilt ; in proof of which he was readv at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bring- ing 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 scarcely had time to finish 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-established Dutch communities. The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region ; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood in the neighbourhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having per- ished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favourite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patroling the country ; and it is said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard. 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 Chris- tian purity, beaming through the shades of retire- ment. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge ; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the day-time ; 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 frequently 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 horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. This story was immediately matched by a thrice 90 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the gallopinq^ Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed, that on returning one night from the neighbouring village of Sing-Sing, he had been over- taken 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 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 far- mers gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hol- low roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favourite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent | woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until they j gradually died away— and the late scene of noise \ and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only I 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 suc- cess. What passed at this interview I will not pre- tend 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 chapfallen— Oh, these women ! these women ! Could that girl ha\e been playing off any of her coquettish tricks .'—Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival ? — Heaven only knows, not I !— Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a henroost, rather than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously ' from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothv and clover. It was the very witching time of night that Icha- bod, heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued liis 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 dis- mal as himself. Far below him the Tappaan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of mid- night, he could even hear the barking of the watch- dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, ac- cidentally 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 melancholv clyrp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog from a neighbouring marsh, as if sleeping uncomlonably. and turning suddenlv in his bed. All the stories of ghosts and gobl'ins that he had heard in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker ; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighbourhood, and formed a kind of land- mark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred name- sake, and partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamentations, told concerning it. As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle ; he thought his whistle was answered : it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree : he paused, and ceased whistling ; but on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan — his teeth chattered, and. his knees smote against the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him. 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 cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge, was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of a school-boy who has to pass it alone after dark. As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all his resolu- tion, 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 bram- bles and alder-bushes. The schoolmaster now be- stowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forwards, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the darkshadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld some- thing huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller. The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done .' To THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 97 turn and fly was now too late ; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind ? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents — " Who are you ? " He received no reply. He repeated his de- mand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervour into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put it- self 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 mid- night companion, and bethought himself of the ad- venture 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 mysterious and appalling. It was soon fear- fully 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 his 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 start- ed full jump with him. Away, then, they dashed through thick and thin ; stones flying and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story ; and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskil- ful rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got half-way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavoured to hold it firm, but in vain ; and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terrorof 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 ; some- times slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's back- bone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder. An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering 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 thundered over the resounding planks ; he gained the opposite side, and now Ichabod cast a look be- hind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeav- oured to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash — he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gun- powder, 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 assembled at the school-house, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and alter diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church, was found the saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and 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 bun- dle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck ; a pair or two of worsted stockings ; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of psalm tunes full of dog's ears ; and a broken pitch- pipe. As to the books and furniture of the school- house, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New-En- gland Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune- telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted, by 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 same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter's pay tiut a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disappear- ance. 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 Brouwcr, of Bones, and a whole budget of others, were called to mind ; 98 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. and when they had cHligently considered them all, j and compared theTi witli the symptoms of the pres- ent case, they shook their lieads, and came to the conclusion, that Iciiabod had b:;cn carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him ; the school was removed to a different quarter of the Hollow, and another pedagogue reign- ed 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 re- ceived, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that he had left the neighbour- hood partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country ; had kept school and studied law at the same time ; had lieen admitted to the bar; turned politician; elec- tioneered ; 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 disap- pearance, conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly know- ing 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 neigh- bourhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe ; and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The school- house being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was re- ported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and the plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. POSTSCRIPT. FOUND IN THE HANDWRITINC. Ol" MR. KNICKE RKOCKER. The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in which I heard it related at a Corporation incciing of the ancient city of tlie Manliattoes,* at wliich were present many of its sagcst and most illus- trious burghers The narrator was a pleasant, shabb)-, gendemanly old fellow in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly liumorous face ; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor — lie made such efl'orts to be entertaining. Wlien 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 liis arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the lloor, as if turn- ing 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 die company had sub- sided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other • New-York. 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 refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of in- finite deference, and lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most log- ically to prove : — "That there is no situation in life but has its advan- tages and pleasures — provided jve 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 pre- ferment in the state." The cautious old gentleman knit liis brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism ; while, meihought, the one in pepper and-salt eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed, that all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the extravagant — there were one or two points on which he had his doubts : " Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, " as to that mat- ter, I don't believe one-half of it mvself." D. K. L'ENVOY. Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, And speci.'illy let this be thy prayere, Unto them all that thee will read or hear. Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, Thee to correct, in any part or all. Chaucer's Bell Dame sans Mercie. In concluding a second volume of the Sketch- Book, the Author cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with which his first has been re- ceived, and of the liberal disposition that has been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by others, he has found to be a singularly gentle and good-natured race ; it is true that each has in turn objected to some one or two articles, and that these individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would amount almost to a total condemnation of his work ; but then he has been consoled by observing, that what one has particularly censured, another has as particularly praised : and thus, the encomiums being set off against the objections, he finds his work, upon the whole, commended far beyond its deserts. He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this kind favour by not following the counsel that has been liberally bestowed 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 pas.sed upon his first ; but he was soon brought to a stand by the con- trariety of excellent counsel. One kindly advised him to avoifl the ludicrous ; another, to shun the pathetic ; a third assured him that he was tolerable at description, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone ; while a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knack at turning a story, and was really enter- taining 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 THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent. 99 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 embarass- ed ; 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 some- thing to suit each reader, his end would be com- pletely 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 knicknacks, 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 bein'g tasted and relished by some one or other of the guests. With these considerations he ventures to serve up this second volume in the same heterogeneous way with his first ; simply requesting the reader, if he should find here and there something to please him, to rest assured that it was written expressly for in- telligent 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 accom- plished in the arts of authorship. His deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence arising from his peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in a strange land, and appearing before a public 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 con- fidence which are necessary to successful exertion. Still the kindness with which he is treated en- courages him to go on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier footing ; and thus he proceeds, half-venturing, half-shrinking, surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering at his own temerity. The Aliiambra A SERIES OF TALES AND SKETCHES OF THE MOORS AND SPANIARDS. DEDICATION. TO DAVID WILKIE, ESQ., R.A. My dear Sir : — You may remember that, in the course of the rambles we once took together about some of the old cities of Spain, particularly Toledo and Seville, we frequently remarked the mixture of the Saracenic with the Gothic, remaining from the time of the Moors, and were more than once struck with incidents and scenes in the streets, that brought to mind passages in the "Arabian Nights." You then urged me to write something illustrative of these peculiarities; "something in the Haroun Alraschid style," that should have a dash of that Arabian spice which pervades every thing in Spain. I call this to mind to show you that you are, in some degree, re- sponsible for the present work; in which I have given a few " Arabesque " sketches and tales, taken from the life, or founded on local traditions, and mostly struck off during a residence in one of the most legendary and Morisco-Spanish places of the Peninsula. I inscribe this work to you, as a memorial of the pleasant scenes we have witnessed together, in that land of adventure, and as a testimony of an esteem for your worth, which can only be exceeded by ad- miration of your talents. Your friend and fellow traveller. The Author. THE JOURNEY. In the spring of 1829, the author of this work, whom curiosity had brought into Spain, made a rambling expedition from Seville to Granada, in company with a friend, a member of the Russian embassy at Madrid. Accident had thrown us to- gether from distant regions of the globe, and a simi- larity of taste led us to wander together among the romantic inountains of Andalusia. Should these pages meet his eye, wherever thrown by the duties of his station, whether mingling in the pageantry of courts or meditating on the truer glories of nature, may they recall the scenes of our adventurous com- panionship, and with them the remembrance of one, in whom neither time nor distance will obliterate the recollection of his gentleness and worth. And here, before setting forth, let me indulge in a few previous remarks on Spanish scenery and Spanish travelling. Many are apt to picture Spain in their imaginations as a soft southern region decked out with all the luxuriant charms of voluptuous Italy. On the contrary, though there are exceptions in some of the maritime provinces, yet, for the greater part, it is a stern, melancholy country, with rugged moun- tains and long, naked, sweeping plains, destitute of trees, and invariably silent and lonesome, partaking of the savage and solitary character of Africa. What adds to this silence and loneliness, is the absence of singing birds, a natural consequence of the want of groves and hedges. The vulture and the eagle are seen wheeling about the mountain cliffs and soaring over the plains, and groups of shy bustards stalk about the heaths, but the myriads of smaller birds, which animate the whole face of other countries, are met with in but few provinces of Spain, and in them chiefly among the orchards and gardens which sur- round the habitations of man. In the exterior provinces, the traveller occasionally traverses great tracts cultivated with grain as far as the eye can reach, waving at times with verdure, at other times naked and sun-burnt ; but he looks round in vain for the hand that has tilled the soil ; at length he perceives some village perched on a steep hill, or rugged crag, with mouldering battle- ments and ruined watch-tower ; a strong-hold, in old times, against civil war or Moorish inroad ; for the custom among the peasantry of congregating together for mutual protection, is still kept up in most parts of Spain, in consequence of the marau- ding of roving freebooters. But though a great part of Spain is deficient in the garniture of groves and forests, and the softer charms of ornamental cultivation, yet its scenery has something of a high and loity character to compen- sate the want. It partakes something of the attri- butes of its people, and I think that I better under- stand the proud, hardy, frugal and abstemious Span- iard, his manly defiance of hardships, and contempt of effeminate indulgences, since I have seen the coun- try he inhabits. There is something, too, in the sternly simple features of the Spanish landscape, that impresses on the soul a feeling of sublimity. The immense plains of the Castiles and La Mancha, extending as far as the eye can reach, derive an interest from their very nakedness and immensity, and have something of the solemn grandeur of the ocean. In ranging over these boundless wastes, the eye catches sight, here and there, of a straggling herd of cattle attended by a lonely iierdsman, motionless as a statue, with his long slender pike tapering up like a lance into the air ; or beholds a long train of mules slowly moving along the waste like a train of camels in the desert, or a single herdsmen, armed with blunderbuss and stiletto, and prowling over the plain. Thus, the country, the habits, the very looks of the people, have something of the Arabian character. The general insecurity of the country is evinced in the universal use of weapons. The herdsman in the field, the shepherd in the plain has his inusket and his knife. The wealthy villager rarely ventures to the market-town without his trabucho ; and, per- haps, a servant on foot with a blunderbuss on his shoulder ; and the most petty journey is undertaken with the preparations of a warlike enterprise. (101) 102 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. The clangers of the road produce, also, a mode of ! travelling, resembling, on a diminutive scale, the ' caravans of the East. The arrieros or carriers, con- | gregate in troops, and set off in large and well- armi;d trains on appointed days, while individual ' travellers swell their number and contribute to their strength. In this primitive way is the commerce of the country carried on. The muleteer is the general medium of traffic, and the legitimate wanderer of the land, traversing the Peninsula from the Pyrenees and the Asturias, to the Alpuxarras, the Serrania de Ronda, and even to the gates of Gibraltar. He lives frugally and hardily ; his alforjas (or saddle-bags,) of coarse cloth, hold his scanty stock of provisions ; a ' leathern bottle hanging at his saddle-bow, contains I wine or water for a supply across barren mountains ' and thirsty plains ; a mule cloth spread upon the ground is his bed at night, and his pack-saddle is his pillow. His low but clear-limbed and sinewy form betokens strength ; his complexion is dark and sun- burnt ; his eye resolute, but quiet in its expression, except when kindled by sudden emotion ; his de- meanour is frank, manly, and courteous, and he never passes you without a grave salutation — " Dios guarda a usted ! " — " Vay usted con Dios cabal- k-ro ! " — " God guard you ! " — " God be with you ! cavalier ! " As these men have often their whole fortune at stake upon the burden of their mules, they have their weapons at hand, slung to their saddles, and ready to be snatched down for desperate defence. But their united numbers render them secure against petty bands of marauders, and the solitary banda- lero, armed to the teeth, and mounted on his An- dalusian steed, hovers about them, like a pirate about a merchant convoy, without daring to make an assault. The Spanish muleteer has an inexhaustible stock of songs and ballads, with which to beguile his in- cessant way-faring. The airs are rude and simple, consisting of but few inflexions. These he chants forth with a loud voice, and long drawling cadence, seated sideways on his mule, who seems to listen with in- fmite gravity, and to keep time with his paces, to the tune. The couplets thus chanted are often old traditional romances about the Moors ; or some legend of a saint ; or some love ditty ; or, what is still nriore frequent, some ballad about a bold contra- bandista, or hardy bandalcro ; for the smuggler and the robber are poetical heroes among the common people of Spain. Often the song of the muleteer is composed at the instant, and relates to some local scene, or some incident of the journey. This talent of singing and improvising is frequent in Spain, and is said to have been inherited from the Moors. There is something wildly pleasing in listening to these ditties among the rude and lonely scenes they illus- trate, accompanied as they ar-, by the occasional jingle of the mule-bell. It has a most picturesque effect, also, to meet a train of muleteers in some mountain pass. First you hear the l)ells of the leading mules, breaking with their simple melody the stillness of the airy height; or, perhaps, the voice of the muleteer ad- monishing some tardy or wandering animal, or chanting, at the full stretch of his lungs, some tra- ditionary ballad. At length you see the mules slowly winding along the cragged (.'efile, sometimes de- scending precipitous cliffs, so as to present them- selves in full relief against the sky, sometimes toiling up the deep arid chasms below you. As they ap- proach, you descr>- their gay decorations of worsted tufts, tassels, and saddle-cloths ; while, as they pass by, the ever ready trabucho, slung lx;hind their packs and saddles, gives a hint of the insecurity of the roarl. The ancient kingdom of Granada, into which we are about to penetrate, is one of the most moun- tainous regions of Spain. Vast sierras or chains of mountains, destitute of shrub or tree, and mottled with variegated marbles and graniies, elevate their sun-burnt summits against a deep blue sky, yet in their rugged bosoms lie engulfed the nmst verdant and fertile valley, where the desert and the garden strive for mastery, and the very rock, as it were, com- pelled to yield the fig, the orange, and the citron, and to blossom with the myrtle and the rose. In the wild passes of these mountains, the sight of walled towns and villages built like eagles' nests among the cliffs, and surrounded by Moorish battle- ments, or of ruined watch-towers perched on lofty peaks, carry the mind back to the chivalrous days of Christian and Moslem warfare, and to the romantic struggle for the conquest of Granada. In traversing their lofty Sierras, the traveller is often obliged to alight and lead his horse up and down the steep and jagged ascents and descents, resembling the broken steps of a staircase. Sometimes the road winds along dizzy precipices, without parapet to guard him from the gulfs below, and then will plunge down steep and dark and dangerous declivities. Sometimes it struggles through rugged barrancos, or ravines, worn by water torrents ; the obscure paths of the Contra- bandista, while ever and anon, the ominous cross, the memento of robbery and murder, erected on a mound of stones at some lonely part of the road, admonishes the traveller that he is among the haunts of banditti ; perhaps, at that very moment, under the eye of some lurking handalero. Sometimes, in wind- ing through the narrow valleys, he is startled by a hoarse bellowing, and beholds above him, on some green fold of the mountain side, a herd of tierce An- dalusian bulls, destined for the combat of the arena. There is something awful in the contemplation of these terrific animals, clothed with tremendous strength, and ranging their native pastures, in un- tamed wildness : strangers almost to the lace of man. They know no one but the solitary herdsman who attends upon them, and even he at times dares not venture to approach them. The low bellowings of these bulls, and their menacing aspect as they look down from their rocky height, give additional wild- ness to the savage scenery around. I have been betrayed unconsciously into a longer disquisition than I had intended on the several fea- tures of Spanish travelling ; but there is a romance about all the recollections of the Peninsula that is dear to the imagination. It was on the first of May that my companion and myself set forth from Seville, on our route to Granada. We had made all due preparations for the nature of our journey, which lay through moun- tainous regions where the roads are little better than mere mule paths, and too frequently beset by robbers. The most valuable part of our luggage had been for- warded by the arrieros ; we retained merely clothing and necessaries for the journey, and money for the expenses of the road, with a suificient surplus of the latter to satisfy the expectations of robbers, should we be assailed, and to save ourselves from the rough treatment that awaits the too wary and emptyhanded traveller. A couple of stout hired steeds were pro- vided for ourselves, and a third for our .scanty luggage, and for the conveyance of a sturdy Biscayan lad of about twenty years of age, who was to guide us through the perplexed mazes of the mountain roads, to take care of our horses, to act occasionally as our valet, and at all times as our guard ; for he had a formidable trabucho, or carbine, to defend us from rateros, or solitary footpads, about which weapon he made much vain-glorious boast, though, to the dis- THE ALHAMBRA. 103 credit of his generalship, I must say, that it generally hung unloaded behind his saddle. He was, however, a faithful, cheery, kind-hearted creature, full of saws and proverbs as that miracle of squires, the renowned Sancho himself, whose name we bestowed upon him ; and, like a true Spaniard, though treated by us with companionable familiarity, he never for a moment in his utmost hilarity, outstripped the bounds of respect- ful decorum. Thus equipped and attended, we set out on our journey with a genuine disposition to be pleased : with such a disposition, what a country is Spain for a traveller, where the most miserable inn is as full of adventure as an enchanted castle, and every meal is in itself an achievement ! Let others repine at the lack of turnpike roads and sumptuous hotels, and all the elaborate comforts of a country cultivated into tameness and common-place, but give me the rude mountain scramble, the roving haphazard way-faring, the frank, hospitable, though half wild manners, that give such a true game flavour to romantic Spain ! Our first evening's entertainment had a relish of the kind. We arrived after sunset at a little town among the hills, after a fatiguing journey over a wide houseless plain, where we had been repeatedly drenched with showers. In the inn were quartered a party of Miguelistas, who were patrolling the coun- try in pursuit of robbers. The appearance of for- eigners like ourselves was unusual in this remote town. Mine host with two or three old gossipping comrades in brown cloaks studied our passports in a corner of the posada, while an Alguazil took notes by the dim light of a lamp. The passports were in foreign languages, and perplexed them, but our Squire Sancho assisted them in their studies, and magnified our importance with the grandiloquence of a Spaniard. In the mean time the magnificent distribution of a few cigars had won the hearts of all around us. In a little while the whole commu- nity seemed put in agitation to make us welcome. The Corregidor himself waited upon us, and a great rush-bottomed armed chair was ostentatiously bol- stered into our room by our landlady, for the accom- modation of that important personage. The com- mander of the patrol took supper with us : a surly, talking, laughing, swaggering Andaluz, who had made a campaign in South America, and recounted his exploits in love and war with much pomp of praise and vehemence of gesticulation, and myste- rious rolling of the eye. He told us he had a list of all the robbers in the country, and meant to ferret out every mother's son of them ; he offered us at the same time some of his soldiers as an escort " One is enough to protect you, Signors ; the robbers know me, and know my men ; the sight of one is enough to spread terror through a whole sierra." We thanked him for his offer, but assured him, in his own strain, that with the protection of our re- doubtable Squire Sancho, we were not afraid of all the ladrones of Andalusia. While we were supping with our Andalusian friend, we heard the notes of a guitar and the click of castanets, and presently, a chorus of voices, sing- ing a popular air. In fact, mine host had gathered together the amateur singers and musicians and the rustic belles of the neighbourhood, and on going forth, the court-yard of the inn presented a scene of true Spanish festivity. We took our seats with mine host and hostess and the commander of the patrol, under the archway of the court. The guitar passed from hand to hand, but a jovial shoemaker was the Orpheus of the place. He was a pleasant looking fellow with huge black whiskers and a rogu- ish eye. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows ; he touched the guitar with masterly skill, and sang little amorous ditties with an expressive leer at the women, with whom he was evidently a favourite. He afterwards danced a fandango with a buxom Andalusian damsel, to the great delight of the spec- tators. But none of the females present could com- pare with mine host's pretty daughter Josefa, who had slipped away and made her toilette for the occa- sion, and had adorned her head with roses ; and also distinguished herself in a bolero with a handsome young dragoon. We had ordered our host to let wine and refreshments circulate freely among the company, yet, though there was a motley assem- blage of soldiers, muleteers and villagers, no one exceeded the bounds of sober enjoyment. The scene was a study for a painter : the picturesque group of dancers ; the troopers in their half military dresses, the peasantry wrapped in their brown cloaks, nor must I omit to mention the old meagre Alguazil in a short black cloak, who took no notice of any thing going on, but sat in a corner diligently writing by the dim light of a huge copper lamp that might have figured in the days of Don Quixote. 1 am not writing a regular narrative, and do not pretend to give the \aried events of several days' rambling over hill and dale, and moor and moun- tain. We travelled in true contrabandista style, tak- ing every thing, rough and smooth, as we found it, and mingling with all classes and conditions in a kind of vagabond companionship. It is the true vvay to travel in Spain. Knowing the scanty larders of the inns, and the naked tracts of country the trav- eller has often to traverse, we had taken care, on starting, to have the alforjas, or saddle-bags, of our Squire well stocked with cold provisions, and his beta, or leathern bottle, which was of portly dimen- sions, filled to the neck with choice Valdepenas wine. As this was a munition for our campaign more im- portant than even his trabucho, we exhorted him to have an eye to it, and I will do him the justice to say that his namesake, the trencher-loving Sancho him- self, could not excel him as a provident purveyor. Though the alforjas and beta were repeatedly and vigorously assailed throughout the journey, they ap- peared to have a miraculous property of being never empty ; for our vigilant Squire took care to sack ever}' thing that remained from our evening repasts at the inns, to supply our next day's luncheon. What luxurious noontide repasts have we made on the green sward by the side of a brook or fountain under a shady tree, and then what delicious siestas on our cloaks spread out on the herbage ! We paused one day at noon, for a repast of the kind. It was in a pleasant little green meadow, sur- rounded by hills covered with olive trees. Our cloaks were spread on the grass under an elm tree, by the side of a babbling rivulet : our horses were tethered where they might crop the herbage, and Sancho produced his alforjas with an air of triumph. They contained the contributions of four days' jour- neying, but had been signally enriched by the for- aging of the previous evening, in a plenteous. inn at Antequera. Our Squire drew forth the heterogene- ous contents one by one, and they seemed to have no end. First came forth a shoulder of roasted kid, very little the worse for wear, then an entire par- tridge, then a great morsel of salted codfish wrapped in paper, then the residue of a ham, then the half of a pullet, together with several rolls of bread and a rabble route of oranges, figs, raisins, and walnuts. His beta also had been recruited with some excel- lent wine of Malaga. At every fresh apparition from 1 his larder, he could enjoy our ludicrous surprise, I throwing himself back on the grass and shouting ! with laughter. I Nothing pleased this simple-hearted varlet more 101 WORKS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. than to be compared, for his devotion to the trencher, to the renowned squire of Don Quixote. He was well versed in the history of the Don, and. like most of the common people of Spain, he tirmly believed it to be a true history. " All that, however, happened a long time ao^o, Signor," said he to me, one day, with an inquiring look. " A ver)' long time," was the reply. " I dare say, more than a thousand years.'" — still looking dubiously. " I dare say? not less." The squire was satisfied. As we were making our repast above described, and diverting ourselves with the simple drollery of our squire, a solitary beggar approached us, who had almost the look of a pilgrim. He was evidently very old, with a gray beard, and supported himself on a staff, yet age had not borne him down ; he was tall and erect, and had the wreck of a fine form. He wore a round Andalusian hat, a sheepskin jacket, and leathern breeches, gaiters, and sandals. His dress, though old and patched, was decent, his de- meanour manly, and he addressed us with that grave courtesy that is to be remarked in the lowest Span- iard. We were in a favourable mood for such a vis- itor, and in a freak of capricious charity gave him some silver, a loaf of fine wheaten bread, and a gob- let of our clioice wine of Malaga. He received them thankfully, but without any grovelling tribute of grat- itude. Tasting the wine, he held it up to the light, with a slight beam of surprise in his e>e ; then quaff- ing it off at a draught : " It is many years," said he, "since I have tasted such wine. It is a cordial to an old man's heart." Then looking at the beautiful wheaten loaf; " Bendita sea tal pan!" (blessed be such bread !) So saying, he put it in his wallet. We urged him to eat it on the spot. " No, Signors," re- plied he, " the wine I had to drink, or leave ; but the bread I must take home to share with my family." Our man Sancho sought our eye, and reading per- mission there, gave the old man some of the ample fragments of our repast ; on condition, however, that he should sit down and make a meal. He accord- ingly took his seat at some little distance from us, and began to cat, slowly, and with a sobriety and decorum that would have become a hidalgo. There was altogether a measured manner and a quiet self- possession about the old man that made me think he had seen better days ; his language, too, though simple, had occasionally something picturesque and almost poetical in the phraseology. I set him down for some broken-down cavalier. I was mistaken, it was nothing but the innate courtesy of a Spaniard, and the poetical turn of thought and language often to be found in the lowest classes of this clear-witted people. For fifty years, he told us, he had been a shepherd, but now he was out of employ, and desti- tute. " When I was a young man," said he, " noth- ing could harm or trouble me. I was always well, always gay ; but now I am seventy-nine years of age, and a beggar, and my heart begins to fail me." Still he was not a regular mendicant, it was not until recently that want harl driven him to this de- gradation, and he gave a touching picture of the struggle between hunger and pride, when abject des- titution first came upon him. He was returning from Malaga, without money ; he had not tasted food for some time. ?nd was crossing one of the great plains of Spain, where there were but few hab- itations. When almost dead with hunger, he ap- plied at the door of a venta, or country inn. " Per- dona usted per Dios hermano ! " (excuse us, brother, for God's sake !) was the reply ;— the usual mode in Spain of refusing a beggar. " 1 turned away," said he, " with shame greater than my hunger, for my heart was yet too proud. 1 came to a river with high banks and deep rapid current, and felt tempted to throw myself in; what should such an old worth- less wretched man as I live for ! But, when I was on the brink of the current, I thought on the blessed Virgin, and turned away. I travelled on until I saw a country-seat, at a little distance from the road, and entered the outer gate of the court-yard. The door was shut, but there were two young signoras at a window. I approached, and begged : ' Perdona usted per Dios hermano ! ' (excuse us, brother, for God's sake !) and the window closed. I crept out of the court-yard ; but hunger overcame me, and my heart gave way. I thought my hour was at hand. So I laid myself down at the gate, commended my- self to the holy Virgin, and covered my head to die. In a little while afterwards, the master of the house came home. Seeing me lying at his gate, he un- covered my head, had pity on my gray hairs, took me into his house and gave me food. So, Signors, you see that we should always put confidence in the protection of the Virgin." The old man was on his way to his native place Archidona, which was close by the summit of a steep and rugged mountain. He pointed to the ru- ins of its old Moorish castle. That castle, he said, was inhabited by a Moorish king at the time of the wars of Granada. Queen Isabella invaded it with a great army, but the king looked down from his cas- tle among the clouds, and laughed her to scorn. Upon this, the Virgin appeared to the queen, and guided her and her army up a mysterious path of the mountain, which had never before been known. When the Moor saw her coming, he was astonished, and springing w^ith his horse from a precipice, was dashed to pieces. The marks of his horse's hoofs, said the old man, are to be seen on the margin of the rock to this day. And see, Signors, yonder is the road by which the queen and her army mounted ; you see it like a riband up the mountain side ; but the miracle is, that, though it can be seen at a dis- tance, when you come near, it disappears. The ideal road to which he pointed, was evidently a sandy ra- vine of the mountain, which looked narrow and de- fined at a distance, but became broad and indistinct on an approach. As the old man's heart warmed with wine and wassail, he went on to tell us a story of the buried treasure left under the earth by the Moor- ish king. His own house was next to the founda- tions of the castle. The curate and notary dreamt three times of the treasure, and went to work at the place pointed out in their dreams. His own son-in- law heard the sound of their pick-axes and spades at night. What they found nobody knows ; they be- came suddenly rich, but kept their own secret. Thus the old man had once been next door to fortune, but was doomed never to get under the same roof. 1 have remarked that the stories of treasure buried by the Moors, which prevail throughout .Spain, are most current among the poorest people. It is thus kind nature consoles with shadows for the lack of substantials. The thirsty man dreams of fountains and roaring streams, the hungry man of ideal banquets, and the poor man of heaps of hidden gold ; nothing certainly is more magnificent than the imagination of a beggar. The last travelling sketch which I shall give is a curious scene at the little city of Loxa. This was a famous belligerent frontier post, in the time of the Moors, and repulsed Ferdinand from its walls. It was the strong-hold of old Ali Atar, the father-in-law of Boabdil, when that fiery veteran sallied forth with hi,-; son-in-law, on that disastrous inroad, that ended in the death of the chieftain, and the capture of the THE ALHAMBRA. 105 monarch. Loxa is wildly situated in a brol